The Stories That Haunt Us (2 page)

With hope and life draining from him, Doctor Cross became aware of a splashing sound. It sounded as if someone was walking through the nearby puddles, making their way toward him. “Is someone there?” he called out. There was no response, just the sounds coming closer. Suddenly, the vehicle was lifted off his shoulder. Doctor Cross rolled out from under the clutches of the car and gingerly stood up. He checked his shoulder and was relieved to find it wasn't broken. He looked around to thank the person who had come to his aid, but there was no one. He heard nothing, saw nothing. Puzzled, the doctor got into his vehicle and hurried to the Mummerys'.

Doctor Cross knew what Zelda Mummery's medical problem was but she would not go to the hospital; she preferred, instead, to rely on her own remedies.

“You have cancer, Zelda, and you have no choice but to go to a hospital for proper treatment and care.”

“No my potions will work. I just have to change the mix. Make em' stronger.”

“You need to go to a hospital.”

“I'll think about it,” she said finally. But the doctor was firm with the old woman. “You take one of these tablets every four hours and none of that hocus pocus magic of yours.”

The old woman looked at the doctor blankly, then beckoned him to lean in closer. He bent down and she whispered in his ear: “If it wasn't for my hocus pocus, you'd still be trapped under your car, dear doctor.”

The Ghosts of Old Zeke
and Molly Hill

W
hen I began researching stories for this book, I was told that a hotbed for ghosts and mysteries was Pubnico, Nova Scotia, and that there would also be an amazing number of fascinating storytellers there. My friend was right—I found an abundance of both.

The storyteller of this tale is Laurent d'Entremont, who has generously allowed me to include in my book his encounter with the ghosts of old Zeke and Molly Hill. Laurent's true ghost story appeared in the
Yarmouth Vanguard
on October 29, 1991:

It was in the fall of the year, when the frost was on the pumpkin, and the corn was in the shock. The geese honking above were announcing their departure, and like many geese, I was on my way to River Bridge, New Brunswick, to visit my sister, Olive, and her family. River Bridge is close to the Nova Scotia border and received its name from the lone covered bridge over the narrow but swift Avonlea river.

Being one who enjoys the great outdoors, I kept an eye out for birds and waterfowl close to the road, with a little luck of maybe seeing a deer or two. What really caught my attention, though, was in late afternoon, when I was about 20 miles from my destination, a Model A Ford roadster was stopped by the side of the road and had its hood opened. An old-timer in farmer's overalls was working on the engine. The car was over-heating because of a faulty fan belt, a common thing in the early days of motoring.

He introduced himself as Zeke Hill. His wife, Molly, was inside the car knitting what looked like a heavy pair of fishermen mittens.

Zeke spoke fondly about his car. “This is the only car I ever had. I bought her new in 1930 and kept her all these years. Like me she is getting up there, but ain't over the hill yet. Tomorrow old man Lovitt over in River Bridge will fix my leaky water pump and install a new fan belt. Be good as new again.”

A man who had kept the same car for over 40 years would make
a pretty good story
, I thought, as I parted company with old Zeke. The car had cooled down by then and roadside repairs would enable him to reach home.

Later, in River Bridge, I told my sister of my encounter with the Hills. She had never heard of Zeke or Molly Hill, but thought perhaps her husband Leonard knew them. He was away in Carraquet on business and would only be back the next day. Of course everybody knew old man Lovitt, who was quite the local character. Of my sister's three boys, Joseph, Lucien and François, it was François, the youngest, who shared my interest in old cars. He insisted that we visit Lovitt's garage in the morning.

We found old man Lovitt fiddling on some old relics of the past. The garage door was open, Lovitt was tall, straight as a rake handle and proud. The only thing which betrayed his age of four score plus one or two was his face, which was as weather beaten as the banks of the Petitcodiac.

“I understand that you have been running this place for 50 years” I ventured. “Yep, closer to 60.” He was quite willing to talk, like most people of his age. “My brother Caleb and I, we built this place during the hungry twenties, we did all the work just the two of us.”

Detecting my French accent, he asked where I was from. “West Pubnico,” I told him. “I've been there once,” he said. “Martha and me, we toured Nova Scotia about 20 years ago. We stayed overnight in Pubnico. Nice place.”

But when I asked him at what time Zeke Hill was coming over with his Model A, an expression came on his face as if he had just seen a ghost. His answer was a real shocker, “Zeke Hill ain't coming here or going anywhere else, he's been dead for 25 years.” “But I was talking with him yesterday,” I insisted.

“Someone has been playing a trick on you” he said, then he told me the story of Zeke Hill.

Zeke and Molly Hill lived on a small farm about two miles from town. They made a meagre living out of farming and Molly sold woolen mittens to the local fishermen.

They bought only one car, a Ford Model A, which they kept for many, many years. One day in late fall, Zeke was coming from town when a young boy on a bicycle drove right into his path. He swerved to avoid hitting the boy, lost control of the car and went over the bank into the river close to the bridge. He died in the accident. Molly moved away after that and died a few years later. Now the farm was abandoned and the buildings were falling apart.

Since a man who had been dead for 25 years was not likely to show up (again), I changed the subject and asked if he had any car parts left over from the early days. He looked around, all he could find was a Model A fan belt. “Here take it,” he said “I'll never use it now.”

As we left, François asked me if I had seen the tag attached to the fan belt? I had. My heart almost stopped when I read “for Zeke Hill” written on the tag.

We decided to take a run over to visit the abandoned farm as François knew where it was. Devoid of life for a long time, the farm was a lonely place: one of the barn doors was off its hinges, swallows had made their nests on the rafters for years and a blue sky could be seen through holes in the roof. François suggested that we leave the old fan belt there, “for the ghost of Zeke Hill”—after all, it did belong to him. I went along with it. We left the belt hanging on a wooden peg near the door.

I went back home in West Pubnico and more or less forget all about it. No one would believe me anyway. But the ghost of Zeke Hill was not through yet. The next spring I received a phone call from New Brunswick. It was my nephew François. He was excited and talking at about 200 miles a minute. He slowed down enough so that I could get the gist of what he was saying.

A few days after I had left River Bridge, François and a friend took a bicycle trip to the old farm and, much to their surprise, the fan belt had vanished from where we had left it.

He said there was more. Recently a construction crew working on the road had dug up the remains of an old car near the bridge. Old man Lovitt had identified it as Zeke Hill's car. There wasn't much of the car left, most everything was rusted or gone, except the fan belt, which appeared to be brand new.

The Ghost Road

T
he salesman slowed his car as he came around the sharp curve, then picked up speed to begin the long, steep climb up the mountain. Suddenly, he saw something up ahead.

In the middle of the road a man, a woman, and a child stood waving. The man was waving a lantern from side to side. Thoughts of what he should do filled the salesman's mind.
Should I stop to help?
Or should I just ignore them and not become involved? After all, they're
strangers, and maybe the man uses the woman and child as a ploy to get
unsuspecting strangers to stop. But how can I be so heartless as to refuse
to help a mother and child in need?
He came to a stop and watched warily as the family moved to his side of the car.

To be on the safe side, the man kept the doors locked, but lowered his window just enough to speak to the father. The father smiled weakly.

“We didn't make that sharp turn back there. The car is at the bottom of the river. We were lucky to get out alive. We were on our way home. I guess we were a little too anxious to be back after being away for so long. We live just over the mountain about five miles from here. If you could give us a lift it would be much appreciated.”

“Yes of course, please get in.”

The mother and child said nothing. The man noted that they were completely expressionless. It was as if they were in a stupor.
Well,
of course,
he thought
. They're still in shock
. The father on the other hand, was a talker. It took no time for the salesman to learn that the man had been born and raised on the mountain, and that he was a successful lumber mill operator and farmer. When they reached the farm gate, the salesman noticed a “for sale” sign nailed to the gate. He apologized but refused the man's invitation to stay overnight, telling him he had pressing matters to deal with.

Three days later the salesman was on the same road, driving the opposite way back to the city. When he reached the top of the mountain he stopped. He couldn't believe what he saw below him. Standing in the middle of the road was the family he had helped just days before. The father was waving a lantern from side to side, and on either side of him stood a woman and a child. It was then he understood. The family never did get out of the car when it went over the bank.

He pressed down on the gas and passed straight through the apparitions.

Chapter Two

One More
Haunted House

The Ghost of the Five Fishermen

A
h, historic Halifax, Nova Scotia—so full of history, so full of ghostly tales.

Stroll along Argyle Street to the World Trade Convention Centre, part of today's Halifax. Now take just a few steps more, and stop at the corner of Argyle and Carmichael streets. Here's where these ghostly tales begin.

First, a little history of the building itself. It was built in the early 1800s, when the Church of England decided the children of the poor needed a free education—with an emphasis on religion, of course. Anglican church members built a school on the corner of Argyle and Carmichael streets. To this day, you can see the pride that went into the construction of the building. The wall panelling is still rich and dark. Everything was built to last…and it has.

The school was such a success that eventually the building became too small for its purpose, so the school moved to bigger and better facilities and the building was sold to Anna Leonowens, who started a Victorian school of art. She was the governess to the King of Siam's children and her great adventure became a famous Broadway play and movie,
The King and I
. Eventually, Anna Leonowens had the same problem the church had: lack of space. She moved the art school to a larger facility. The building has changed hands quite a few time, but since the seventies, it has been home to the famous Five Fishermen restaurant.

I spent some time in the restaurant, getting a feel for the place. Leonard Currie, a senior staffer with a ghost story to share, tells me the spirit he came into contact with was very tall and mean.

“I was here alone one night, cleaning up, when I heard something fall to the floor. I went into the restaurant area to investigate and saw an ashtray on the floor. Remember, I was alone and the only way that ashtray could have ended up on the floor was if someone threw it there. Now, there was a mirror just above the table the ashtray would have been on, and when I was putting the ashtray back, I saw in that mirror the image of a stranger just over my shoulder, looking at me. He didn't move. He just stood there staring at me. Then he vanished, but not before I got a good look at him. The clothes he wore, including a long black coat, were definitely from another period.”

Currie recalls other incidents when glassware and utensils were suddenly airborne. One time, just before closing, the only two employees in the restaurant heard a heated argument between two men in another part of the restaurant. When they went to investigate, the arguing stopped abruptly and the room was empty. Leonard Currie also says that staff will often be busily working when a rush of cold air passes over them, as though someone has just walked quickly by.