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  OUT OF THE MIST

  22 Atlantic Canadian Ghost Stories

  Evergreen Writers Group

  Out of the Mist

  22 Atlantic Canadian Ghost Stories

  Copyright ©2014

  Stone Cellar Publications

  Halifax/Dartmouth, Nova Scotia

  June 2014

  Edited by Pamela Gifford

  Cover photo: Camp Hill Cemetery, Halifax, NS,

  by Phil Yeats

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  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  All stories contained in this volume have been published with permission of the authors.

  No portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any electronic system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise without written permission from the authors.

  Although some of the stories may be inspired by real events and may name a few historical people and facts, the majority of these stories are works of fiction. In most cases, names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either products of the authors’ imaginations or used in a fictitious manner. Except for several named historical characters long deceased, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  Preface

  Inspired by the tales of renowned folklorist Helen Creighton, a group of writers decided to try their hand at an anthology of ghost stories. Perhaps it’s the photograph of Ms. Creighton in her writing room, or the chill air in the old stone cellar where we meet, but we felt her presence hovering over us. We decided to call our group Evergreen Writers, in honor of the house and its famous inhabitant.

  Written over a period of 18 months, these stories point to other worlds, other times that lie just beyond the thin veil that separates us. Many take place in a house with a long history, whose descendants still speak of the strange events that happened there. Some stories are inspired by real events; others are entirely the author’s imagination.

  Whether you’re a visitor to Atlantic Canada or have always lived here, these stories will entertain you, mystify you and perhaps give you the shivers.

  The Evergreen Writers

  Appreciation

  The Evergreen Writers Group thanks our editor, Pamela Gifford, for her attentive care and suggestions.

  We also thank the Dartmouth Heritage Museum's Evergreen House and the Alderney Gate Branch, Halifax Regional Library, in whose pleasant meeting rooms we shared stories and made the many decisions leading to the publication of this volume. The resources provided by libraries and museums are deeply appreciated by writers everywhere.

  Table of Contents

  The Voices of Dawnbrook

  Manon Boudreau

  Avast There! Belay That!

  Maida Follini

  Gran-gran’s Ghost

  Maida Follini

  Who’s the Old Hag?

  Russell Barton

  The Skeleton without a Skull

  Maida Follini

  Fate

  Diane Losier

  The Séance

  Russell Barton

  Tim’s Dinner

  Phil Yeats

  Room 428

  Catherine A. MacKenzie

  The Ghosts’ Night Out, or Bats in the Belfry

  Maida Follini

  The Once and Future Ghost

  Janet McGinity

  The House on the Hill

  Janet Doleman

  The Dancing Tulip

  Wilma Stewart-White

  Graveyard Study

  Tom Robson

  The Ghost Truck of Russiantown

  Janet McGinity

  Changes

  Diane Losier

  My Booots!

  Tom Robson

  Making it Happen

  Art White

  In Good Company

  Janet Doleman

  Never Go Across to that Island

  Tom Robson

  Eternal Love

  Wilma Stewart-White

  Neptune’s Wraith

  Phil Yeats

  Authors’ Biographies

  The Voices of Dawnbrook

  Manon Boudreau

  The sweet scent of autumn leaves lies thick in the air, and I tug my jacket higher around my neck to ward off a chill. I sip on my coffee and stare at the property in front of me. Nearby on the mansion’s metal fence is perched a crow, its caws a raw greeting.

  What started as a research assignment for the Historical Journal of the Maritimes quickly grew into an obsession. There was something strange about the town of Chatham, New Brunswick. The census for the years 1880 to 1890 showed a child mortality rate 18 percent higher than any of the other surrounding communities.

  Some families lost more than one child, but only one family lost all of them. Dawnbrook Mansion, silent and empty now, was the home of Anne and Wilfred Fisher and their four children from 1886 to 1895. In the space of 18 short months, all four children died.

  I’m fevered at the thought of what awaits me inside the mansion. Desolate and grim, sitting in a field blighted by discarded beer cans and fast food wrappers, the building is a far cry from its former self. You can see a glimpse of its dusty beauty when you look closely at the frame, the bones of the building. Overgrown weeds and garbage hide what was once a stunning sight. But more than that, the history inside the house is like no other I’ve found.

  The head of the Maritime Historical Society, Edith Brylar, waves to me from the front porch. She is an elderly plump woman with big-frame eye glasses and a cap of curly grey hair.

  She fumbles with the key to the front door.

  “Hello, Catherine,” she says. “You found the place OK?”

  The door groans in protest as she pushes it open. I hurry towards the entrance as a nervous giggle escapes my lips, and I cough to cover it.

  “Yes, no problems on the road,” I tell her. “Thank you so much for meeting me.”

  She enters the mansion and motions for me to follow. Festooned with cobwebs and dust, the entrance is still an awe-inspiring sight. I can make out the spiral staircase and the remnants of a gilt picture hung over a broken-down pianoforte. Paired with the tall ceiling and the chandeliers, it suggests a former elegance.

  I carefully take a few steps in, cautious not to disturb even the dust. Edith leads me to what would have been the sitting room.

  “Throughout the home, you’ll find all the original woodwork still intact,” she tells me. “After the untimely passing of her first born, Mrs. Fisher fell into a deep depression. Her journals detailed the dark place she fell into after her son was found dead. Mr. Fisher had the wood imported from the Far East and as a show of love, built this room for Mrs. Fisher. It certainly is grand; however, it is only a mere attempt at redemption, if you ask me,” she adds, a note of bitterness in her tone.

  Built into each wall are library shelves, now naked of books. I can imagine Mrs. Fisher sitting at a carved mahogany desk, reading from one of her books, or perhaps catching up on correspondence. She would have received guests here, and discussed current affairs.

  “Redemption for what?” I ask her.

  “He was never arrested, but the rumours were that he was involved in the death of the children.” She gestures towards the extensive sh
elves, effectively changing the subject. “Quite a sight isn’t it?”

  My eyes light on a frame leaning against the bottom of the far wall. It is a painting. My body moves of its own accord towards it. It’s a painting of the mansion during its glory days. I’ve seen many photographs and they gave me much insight as to the state of the property in the 1890s, but this painting is something else.

  The artist captured such depth and raw energy. The landscape depicts the fountain and its surrounding bushes, trees and flowers, but it is drenched in sorrow. I gently rub the layer of dust off the lower right corner of the frame, and find the artist’s name and the date.

  Anne Fisher painted this during the month of June 1894, one month after Mary, the last of her four children, died. As beautiful as the property was, it must have been purgatory for her. The sheer madness of losing a child overwhelms me. It’s unnatural. Still holding the painting, I turn to Edith.

  “How did little Mary die?” I ask her. She lifts an eyebrow in surprise.

  “A broken neck. She fell from the large oak tree in the back of the property. No one saw how it happened. Mr. Fisher was the one who found her, just like he found the other three.”

  An uncontrollable shiver runs through my body.

  “If you don’t have any questions, let’s move on. The side veranda is just this way,” says Edith. “It’s in need of repair, but the view is lovely this time of year.”

  A noise overhead startles me. It sounds like an object is being dragged across the floor above me. I learned some time ago not to be unnerved by the creaking of old homes and buildings, so I brush off the noise. Old houses sag and shift on their foundations over time. The noises are part of that process.

  Edith leads me to the left side of the mansion. The veranda has suffered more damage than the other parts of the building. Being exposed to the elements for years has rotted the wood. It is partly enclosed, and was surely stunning at one point. But now it hardly seems to fit with the rest of the mansion. Edith cautions me not to go farther.

  “If you’ll notice the chairs at the far end corner,” she adds. “Mr. Fisher carved them himself. His tools are still in the outbuilding.”

  One of the chairs is smaller than the others. It’s the size of a toy.

  “Did Mr. Fisher make toys for his children as well?” I ask Edith.

  “We believe he did. We found wooden dolls’ furniture and doll-size bassinets in a playhouse outside, and a doll house in the girls’ room,” she answers.

  The dragging sound catches my attention again. “What do you think that noise is?”

  “Just the sounds of an old house,” she mutters. “The mansion needs repair. It will be added to the Registry of Historic Buildings shortly. Restoration can commence then,” she says, and stalks off. “Are you ready to see the ballroom?”

  I cast a look outside before turning. The temperature has dropped, and the sky is filled with clouds pregnant with rain. I snap pictures of the veranda from every angle, and also take a few of the small chair.

  “Sure,” I reply and chase after her.

  “All the bedrooms are upstairs. We can get to those afterwards,” Edith tells me. “I’m sure you have some interest in the nursery and children’s rooms.

  “How did Mr. Fisher die?” I ask.

  Edith pauses in the hall, and turns towards me. “He jumped from the second floor of this house. One of the maids, Evelyn Brylar, found him the next morning. She was his mistress.”

  I scribble some notes as she shares this information. On our way to the ballroom, we pass the great hall. It’s large enough to have served as an entertainment space. I snap pictures of the elaborate mouldings and frames.

  “The Fishers entertained here frequently,” mentions Edith.

  I pause to look at a collection of dolls lined up on a settee. I feel distressed at the sight of all these toys. How lamentable it must have been after the death of their owners.

  “How did the first three children pass away?” I ask.

  We enter the ballroom. I raise my camera to begin snapping photos. I feel like I’m eight again, watching Beauty and the Beast dance on the screen. Edith walks past me, and lays a hand on the mantel.

  “The firstborn was a boy, Wilfred, named after his father,” she begins.

  She runs her finger through the dust, then blows on it.

  “Mr. Fisher kept journals. Wilfred, Jr., seemed exceptional, if perhaps a bit spoiled. His mother doted on him,” she says. “She waited eight years to finally have a child. Who could blame her? In his journal, Mr. Fisher described feeling jealous of his son. He began his affair with Evelyn Brylar shortly after the boy turned a year old.”

  The dragging noise upstairs starts again. “How old was Wilfred Junior when he died?” I ask, and stare at the ceiling in puzzlement.

  She walks towards a painting lying on the floor. She picks it up and leans it against the wall.

  “He was six. He was playing with the family dog by the brook, just about a hundred yards from the house. According to the reports, Mr. Fisher told the authorities he heard his son scream and he ran towards his voice. At the brook, he found the child lying face down in the shallow water. It is said the water barely reached his knees.”

  I inhale deeply and tighten my scarf. It’s cold. The dragging noise starts again.

  “Did anyone see how it happened?”

  “No. Mr. Fisher was the only one who saw anything,” she replies. “Let’s go upstairs. I’ll show you the nursery and bedrooms. Most of the children’s furniture is still intact.”

  I put my camera back in my shoulder bag, and write down some more information. “That should be interesting. Thank you.”

  Each step creaks under our weight. Everything upstairs is covered in a layer of dust. We walk into an open area furnished with four chairs decoratively placed around a wooden centre table. Short hallways lead into the main bedroom, two guest rooms, two children’s bedrooms, and the nursery.

  “What happened to the girls?” I ask Edith.

  She opens a wooden chest, and coughs as a result of escaping dust.

  “The second born, Elizabeth, died six months after her brother. She was five years old. Elizabeth and Leslie shared this room here, the one to the left.”

  I follow her into the girls’ room as she continues. “Mr. Fisher built a playhouse for the children behind the mansion. One of the maids saw Elizabeth running towards it.”

  I take my camera out again, and capture the girls’ room. It is painted and decorated completely in white.

  “The maid said she seemed fine at the time,” she adds.

  I snap pictures of the toys and furniture. The doll house Mr. Fisher built sits by the windows. It’s a masterpiece of intricately detailed rooms.

  “What happened to her?”

  “Mr. Fisher found her dead at the bottom of the playhouse, with Belladonna berries in her hand. The doctors said she’d eaten a fatal amount.”

  “That’s terrible!”

  “It is, but you see the berries she ate, they didn’t grow on the property. Someone must have given them to her. During the week of Elizabeth’s death, two other girls in the area about the same age died of poisoning.”

  There’s a painting of the girls sitting on a dresser. They look to be about three and four.

  “Elizabeth and Leslie were 11 months apart. It is said they were more like twins than sisters,” says Edith.

  They look strikingly alike. They both have shoulder-length blonde hair and dimples.

  “They do look more like twins than sisters. Leslie must have been devastated after her sister’s death.”

  “She was. She got sick shortly after. She spent the next two weeks in bed.”

  “Is that how she died? Was it from the sickness?”

  The town suffered an epidemic of influenza during the mid-1890s. It would have been a likely cause of death.

  “No, she died in the barn, where the family kept horses. She enjoyed spending time with the
m and feeding them apples. The authorities couldn’t understand how, but the horses got out and she was trampled,” she says. “After the first two children died, they watched the family more closely. But sadly, there were also many children’s deaths in the town. They didn’t have any official suspects.”

  The feeling of sadness again overwhelms me.

  “Let me show you the nursery,” she says.

  The same dragging sound is back, except this time it is close. My curiosity gets the best of me this time. The noise is coming from the sitting area. I quickly head out of the girls’ room and into the hall. It’s dark, and at the end of the short hallway from the girls’ room, I run into an object. I hit the ground with a thump, knocking the wind out of me. Edith runs over.

  “Are you okay?” she asks, a twinge of panic in her voice.

  “I ran into this chair.” I mumble the obvious.

  She turns around, and picks up a wooden chair and stands it back upright. I recognize it from the sitting area.

  “This wasn’t here when we went in the girls’ room,” she says.