Maritime Mysteries

by Bill Jessome

  Following his untimely death, members of the congregation noticed the Dean wasn’t where he was supposed to be—in his grave! He was seen, or his ghost was seen, in the church!

  Dean Austin Monroe, now retired, was not fortunate enough to encounter the ghost of Dean Llwyd, but he has certainly heard stories of members of the congregation who claimed to have seen him. Dean Monroe tells of one such occasion during Sunday evening service, when a member of the congregation recognized the ghost of Dean Llwyd moving about the church. The young woman claimed to have seen the spirit going into the pulpit and gazing out at the congregation. Then, with folded arms, he came down from the pulpit and disappeared behind the vestry door. When the service was over and everyone had left the church, the young woman, concerned and frightened, told the priest who was still on the altar what she had seen. The young clergyman assured her she wasn’t seeing things. He too had seen the ghost of Dean Llwyd on more than one occasion. Sometime later, the church organist reported that while playing the organ during a Sunday evening service, he almost fell of his bench when the ghost of Dean Llwyd passed in front of him on the way to the vestry.

  From all eye witness accounts, the spirit of Dean Llwyd appears only during Sunday evening service.

  If that is so, perhaps while attending an evening service at All Saints Cathedral, you to may not only be filled with the holy spirit, but be witness to another kind of spirit. You will know when Dean Llwyd is near; you’ll feel a cold rush of air as he passes by on his way up the aisle.

  A Dollar Ghost

  W e must go back more than a hundred years for this haunting. It involved a man by the name of Dollar who made a lot of money by operating a grist mill in the community of Emyvale, Prince Edward Island. There was just one problem: Dollar was the only Protestant in Emyvale, and since he made his living off the predominantly Roman Catholic community, he should, it was thought, covert to Catholicism. “No thank you,” was Mr. Dollar’s response to the proposal. Even his closest friend, Pat McCardle, pestered him to convert. In the end, Dollar gave in. He told his friend that he would never convert during his time on earth, but he allowed that he would probably die a Catholic! That was good enough for Pat McCardle and the good folk of Emyvale. But not for Dollar. The least sniffle, cough, or ache, and the community was ready to call in a priest. In time, old Dollar’s days were numbered. His doctor advised everyone that Dollar had only a few hours to live. Pat McCardle hurried to the bedside of his old friend and whispered in his ear the promise he had made. Dollar remembered and agreed to the conversion. Pat wasted no time. He saddled and mounted the fastest horse in his stable and headed for Kinkora, some sixteen miles away, to fetch Father James Duffy. The men were less than a mile away from Dollar’s home, when the priest pulled up his horse and told Pat to slow down, “He’s gone,” said Father Duffy, “it’s too late.” Did old Dollar know all along that he’d die a Protestant before the priest arrived? Some die-hard Catholics thought so.

  When Dollar’s estate was settled, the grist mill was bought by a Jim McCloskey and his brother-in-law. The new owners continued to operate the mill the same way old Dollar did: opened early in the morning and closed down at 6:00 P.M., or when the last customer’s order was filled. But, something was wrong. Somehow, things were not quite the same. Late at night when no one was in the mill, the machinery would start up on its own. This appeared impossible, since the mill was powered by a water wheel that had to be opened to start it up and closed to shut it down. People began to whisper that the mill was haunted by none other than Dollar himself. There had been other unexplained and strange happenings since old Dollar’s death. One instance involved the new owner’s mother who went to the barn one evening to bring hay down from the loft. No matter how hard she tried, she could not push the hay through the loft hatch. It was as if someone was deliberately holding the hay back. When she told the workers what happened, they all agreed that Dollar was haunting the place.

  Father James Duffy was called in to cast out the offending spirit. When the exorcism was completed, Dollar’s spirit was trapped in a bottle. The elders of Emyvale agreed to bury the bottle across the river from the mill where a strange and large black dog, perhaps a Scottish deer hound, was later seen and heard howling at night. Somehow they felt there was a connection between the dog and Dollar.

  Once Dollar’s spirit was entombed in the bottle, it was blessed and buried. After that, the dog never again appeared and the machinery in the mill fell silent during the night.

  In time, a normal way of life returned to the community and it appeared that Emyvale’s only Protestant was finally resting peacefully…or maybe not?

  Father Duffy’s Wake

  Y ou remember Father James Duffy, the priest who performed the exorcism of Dollar’s spirit? Well, there’s an amazing story connected with the exhumation of the good priest’s body. It’s unbelievable, but according to many witnesses, it’s the gospel truth. This wonderful tale came my way from Leo Brendan Campbell of North Wiltshire, Prince Edward Island.

  Father Duffy was born in Ireland in 1802. Following his ordination into the priesthood, he was sent to St. Mary’s Bay, Newfoundland, where he served his community for the next eighteen years. From St. Mary’s, he spent eight years in Antigonish, Nova Scotia, before being transferred to Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island in 1858. In time, Father Duffy was given charge of St. Ann’s, lot 65, Kelly’s Cross, and Kinkora.

  During the winter of 1859, Father Duffy became seriously ill and was moved to Charlottetown, where he died on December 1st, 1860. He was fifty-eight years old. His remains were laid to rest in front of the church in Kelly’s Cross. There, the gentle and holy father rested for the next forty years.

  In 1898, a new church was built on the site of the old one and it was necessary to exhume Father Duffy’s body and bury it, as had been his wish, in the shadow along the pathway to the church, so those who passed by would remember him.

  On Saturday, September 15th, 1900, an event took place that the people of Kelly’s Cross and surrounding areas would remember for the rest of their days—the date of exhumation. This was no ordinary exhumation—this was a saintly priest; a friend to one and all. Because of his status, the event became of interest to the local newspaper editor, who sent a reporter to cover the story.

  This is what appeared in the Charlottetown Examiner:

  Sunday, September 16th, 1900 was a day long to be remembered by the parishioners of Kelly’s Cross. From early morning, streams of carriages could be seen converging on St. Joseph’s Church and the reason for this immense throng was a four-fold ceremony to be performed that day. On Saturday, the day before, the body of Father Duffy, was disinterred and placed in a beautiful new casket that was provided by Mr. P.D. Hagan, the local undertaker, and placed in the church where his body lay in front of the main altar until Sunday Morning.

  At 10 o’clock Sunday morning, September 16th, a Pontifical high mass was celebrated by his Excellency Bishop J.C. MacDonald, along with several other members of the clergy.

  After the reading of the Gospel, an eloquent sermon was delivered by a former pastor, Reverend Patrick Doyle, of Vernon River. In his usual and vigorous polished manner, he spoke of the dignity, the power, the high office of, and the respect due to a priest of the Roman Catholic Church, which has been exemplified in the life and work of this servant of God, whose remains have for forty years enjoyed the peace and quiet in the old cemetery.

  I began this Maritime Mystery by telling you that there was a startling revelation when the grave of Father Duffy was opened: To the amazement of those present, the body was in a perfect state of preservation! From the pulpit, Father Doyle said of this revelation, “What a joyous re-awakening of the dead past in the breast of those, who with loving hands tenderly laid away, forty years ago the remains of their beloved “Old Father Duffy,” to gaze once again on that face they knew so well, resurrected for the moment, as it were, in the closing days of the nineteenth century.”

&n
bsp; There are a number of people still living who were present when the casket was opened by Patrick Duffy Maplewood, a very respected member of the parish who volunteered to do so, and who also saw the body as it laid in state in the parish church, and who testified to the truth of the event. According to reports of the time, others listed as witnesses were, Joseph Kelly, Gordon Waddell, Joseph Carragher, John H. Trainor, Mrs. Minnie Hughes, and Mrs. Maria Kelly. All were living witnesses to this strange event. Each of them states in his or her own way, “He was as fresh as he was on the day of his burial, there was no sign of decay. ‘They even put a new suit and socks on the good father.”

  Since the people of Kelly’s Cross had always regarded Father Duffy as a living saint, it was only natural when his body was found to be “as fresh as the day of his burial,” that devotion to him intensified. Prayers were said to him, requests made of him.

  Some of the senior citizens who were school-aged when Father Duffy’s body was first lain in the old cemetery would go to his grave to offer a prayer and make a request. Some would even apply a pebble or clay from his grave and place it over a sore spot, to make it well.

  We must caution that these are only personal and private beliefs and devotions and in no way have any official approval.

  Did Father Duffy, lying in a cold grave for all those years, know that his so-called long sleep would be temporary, and that his body would eventual be interred in a more peaceful place? Was there some higher power in force—a power that kept his body from decaying?

  Chapter Seven

  The Unexplained

  The Fork in the Grave

  C an fear kill you? Can you actually be scared to death? Well, that’s what appeared to have happened to Peter MacIntyre of Tracadie. This Prince Edward Island tale begins in a general store and ends in a graveyard.

  Imagine, if you will, a cold wind blowing in from the sea, washing against the windows of a general store. The oil lamps flicker and cast ghostly shadows off the wall. The local farmers, gathered around the potbelly stove, pause in their conversation and listen to the howling wind out side. After discussing politics, crops, and the weather, the topic turns to the supernatural. Most of the men have already heard Ben Peter’s account of a brilliant light he once saw in the old French burial ground at Scotch Fort. But that isn’t going to prevent him from telling it again. According to Ben’s description, the illumination he witnessed rolled like a cart wheel and lit up the whole cemetery.

  “Poppycock,” scoffs Peter MacIntyre, “sheer nonsense and pure superstition.”

  To prove his point, Peter, will this very night, go into the graveyard alone and walk out the other side laughing. The other men who are gathered around the stove wink and smile at each other. A challenge has been made by a braggart. They would call Peter’s bluff. A pound of tobacco is wagered.

  Peter accepts the challenge and the rules are set down. He will take with him a hay fork and go to the centre of the graveyard and drive the fork deep into a grave to prove he was there. In the morning, the other men will go into the cemetery at first light and if they find the hay fork, Peter wins the bet.

  Next morning the men go to Peter MacIntyre’s cabin, but find it empty. Somewhat concerned, they rush to the cemetery. To their horror, they find the body of Peter MacIntyre slumped over a grave. When they roll the body over, they discover a prong of the fork driven through the tail of Peter’s long black coat and deep into the grave.

  Was Peter MacIntyre a victim of his own boasting? Or was there some other power at work?

  The Dungarvon Whooper

  A banshee-like scream is heard in the woods of the Miramichi. It’s the wailing of the Dungarvon Whooper.

  A story should not to be kept on a shelf or in a drawer. It should be told. So let the journey to the Miramichi begin.

  In the 1850s, along the Dugarvon River near Whooper Springs, there were several logging camps. The cook of one such camp, was a young Irish immigrant who came to the new world to make his fortune. While the lumberjacks were working in the woods, the boss and the cook were alone in camp. The only interest the boss had in the young Irishman was the thick money belt around his waist. One day, when the lumberjacks returned to camp in the evening, they noticed that the cook was missing and asked the boss where he was. Shrugging his shoulders, he said “I guess he quit.” Not so: a search of the camp found the body of the young cook. There is a theory that the boss had clubbed the cook to death, stolen his money and hidden the body in the barn.

  New Brunswick’s Michael Whalen, poet of the Renous, provides his own version of what happened in his famous ballad of the Dungarvon Whooper:

  When the crew returned that night,

  What a sad scene met their sight—

  There lay the young cook silent, cold and dead,

  Death was in his curly hair,

  In his young face pale and fair,

  While his knapsack formed a pillow for his head.

  From the belt around his waist

  All his money was misplaced,

  Which made the men suspect some serious wrong.

  Was it murder cold and dread

  That befell the fair young dead

  Where the dark and deep Dungarvon rolls along?

  Unable to move out of camp because of a snowstorm, the men were unable to take the body to the nearest settlement for burial, so they carried it into the woods and buried the cook in a make-shift grave. No prayers were said over this young Irish lad’s body. He lay there under a cold ground, unblessed.

  That night, ungodly screams coming out of the forest drove the men from their beds into the night:

  Pale and ghastly was each face,

  “We shall leave this fearful place

  For this camp unto the demons does belong.”

  Hurriedly, the lumbermen fled the camp for good. The owners kept hiring new workers but when they heard the terrible screeching of whatever was in the woods, they too fled. The owners had no other choice but to call in a Roman Catholic priest who read the church’s exorcism prayer and blessed the grave with the sign of the cross.

  Till beside the grave did stand

  God’s good man with lifted hand

  And prayed that this scene would not prolong—

  That these fearful sounds should cease,

  That this soul may rest in peace

  Where the deep and dark Dungarvon sweeps along.

  It is said the priest’s prayer silenced the horrible shrill sounds forever.

  And round the Whooper’s spring

  There is heard no evil thing

  And round the Whooper’s grave sweet silence dwells.

  But not everyone agreed. Some say the Dungarvon Whooper still wails like a banshee.

  Be that as it may, the story of the Dungarvon Whooper is still, after nearly 150 years, the story most told around a warm fireplace. It’s so popular that even a train was named after it. Should the reader visit Chatham, New Brunswick, we may share a pint and talk about what really happened that day so long ago along the Dungarvon. Where? Where else but in a tavern in the old Chatham Railway Station. You can’t miss it—it’s called the Whooper.

  Granny’s Ghost

  T his hand-me-down came to me on a Saturday morning in the local supermarket. I call the man who told it to me the “banana man” because as he recounted this familiar story, he was picking over the best fruit. It’s a ghostly tale of a spirit who almost beat the family back home from the cemetery.

  When the driver of the automobile came over the hill, he saw an elderly woman standing just outside the graveyard. She raised a small, fragile hand indicating she wanted him to stop. Why he stopped he couldn’t say. Ordinarily he would have kept on going. But something he couldn’t explain or understand compelled him not to. The woman got in the back, and leaned her head against the seat. The driver couldn’t help but notice how sickly she looked. Her skin had a distinct pallor to it. The dress she wore was black with a white collar and cuffs. “Where are you
going,” the driver asked.

  “I’m going home.” She gave the driver the address and fell silent again. Someone’s grandmother, he thought. But what was she doing by herself in the cemetery? Oh well, it takes all kinds. When he turned to ask if he was going in the right direction, she was gone! The driver pulled over immediately and stopped the car. The only thing remaining in the back seat was a lingering lilac fragrance. The woman had simply vanished!

  The bewildered man was about to turn the car around and continue his journey when he remembered the street address she had given him. He drove the car slowly down the street until he came to the house. He stood outside for a moment trying to decide what to do, before knocking. Would the people inside think him crazy? He knew he had to find out. His knock was answered by a young woman. The man could hear voices inside. He told her about the woman he had picked up outside the cemetery and that she had wanted to be dropped off at this address, but had suddenly disappeared, vanished from a moving car. He described the elderly woman and what she was wearing. The young woman began to weep. “The person you’re describing is—was—my mother. We just buried her—only just returned from the cemetery.”

  The Ghost of Ashburn

  L ocated on the outskirts of westend Halifax, Nova Scotia, is the famous Ashburn Golf and Country Club. For more than seventy-five years, Ashburn has been the home for thousands of golfers.

  There is something else on the course besides would-be Tiger Woodses that sets Ashburn apart from any other golf course in the country: it has a resident ghost. She’s been seen on several occasions over the years watching from the tree-line. We’re told she’s old, very old, and tall and thin. This female spirit has been haunting the course and the area since the 1850s. According to local folklore, the woman became difficult in her old age, and got lost in the woods on several occasions. The last time she disappeared, she was found hanging from a tree. There is another theory, though, on how she died and why she’s haunting Ashburn. Seems there was this old man who lived in a shack in the same woods. He was found dead quite by accident in his bed by hunters. Official records show he died of natural causes. When authorities investigated further, however, they uncovered a shallow grave and found the remains of an old woman. No one really knows what the relationship between the old man and woman was. Some believe they were brother and sister. Authorities at the time assumed, because her body was found near his shack, that he had murdered her.