by Morgana Best
"These stones mark the cover of a well." Gavin King shone his flashlight over the stones. "A young boy died here in 1868. His mother, Eliza Cantwell, was the wife of the publican, and her son, Stephen, went outside in a heavy storm. He came here and drowned in the well. Eliza's ghost has been photographed looking out the window of her cottage. These days there are shops between the well and the cottage, but back then there was a direct line of sight. We'll walk over to the cottage now."
Gavin was interrupted by a shriek. "I felt someone pull my hair!" The teenage girl was visibly upset. Some of the other participants crowded around her. I did not feel a paranormal thing, and there was not an apparition in sight.
Gavin was excited. "Did anyone photograph this area just then? Look at your cameras. We usually find that when someone is touched by ghosts that we have orbs on film. Does everyone here know what an orb is?"
Most people murmured that they did, but the teenage girl said she'd never heard of orbs. Perhaps she was too young to have seen reruns of Most Haunted.
Gavin waved his camera at us. I take all my photos with my iPhone, but his camera was large and looked expensive. "Orbs show up where there's paranormal activity. An orb is the soul of a person who has died. It looks like a small round ball of light. Look, I've captured one here."
We gathered around Gavin to look at his camera. There, right in the center of the photo, was a large round white orb. The others, even Melissa, seemed impressed. I, however, was not.
The excited group then headed for Eliza's cottage. I managed to single out Gavin as we walked down the laneway. "I've researched orbs. How do you know that orb on your camera wasn't dust, moisture, or an insect? Do you think that every orb is a ghost?"
I couldn't see Gavin's face too well in the dark but I felt his tension. "Oh, I see you're a skeptic."
If only he knew. "No, not at all. No doubt some orbs are paranormal, but I do know that others are simply dust, moisture and insects, even pollen, any tiny particles. I know that some are just the camera's flash reflecting these things. I do know that the older digital cameras produced stacks of orbs, as they weren't able to fill in the pixels. Plus photos are only 2D, and the size of the orb will depend on how far away it is from the camera. Sometimes they've been proven to be things like dust and rain, hair and pollen. Sure, orbs are seen in photos of haunted places, but orbs have been seen in photos everywhere. The two guys from that TV show Ghost Hunters even agree with what I'm saying."
Gavin brushed off my remarks. "We often have skeptics on the tours. Everyone's entitled to their own opinion."
I was about to respond but we had arrived at Eliza's cottage in Green Street and Gavin was addressing us again. "Eliza's ghost has been seen in that window looking out to the well where her son, Stephen, drowned."
He pointed to the window on the right side of the cottage. The cottage was small, and made from wide vertical slabs of rough timber. My flashlight revealed a shingle roof.
Gavin produced a photo from his folder and shone his flashlight on it. "Gather around, guys. This was taken last month. Can you make out the woman in the window? She's in Victorian era dress. This is Eliza."
The photo to me looked blatantly photoshopped. There was a white cloud around the figure which looked like it had been done by someone having their first go on Paint. Again, everyone else was impressed.
I was concerned that some of the tour members pressed their hands on the window and tried to look inside the cottage. This was clearly the original glass, a century and a half old. The door was in the middle of the cottage and was flanked by large glass windows, each with twelve panes. I was sure the store owner wouldn't be happy to see fingerprints all over the windows in the morning.
"Come on now, the next site is a few streets away, and it's very haunted." Gavin said the word very in a loud voice. "There've been many sightings at the Morpeth Convent Guest House. All of you stick together and be careful crossing the streets at night, especially this one, Northumberland Street."
We all duly looked right and left then right again and crossed. Gavin was still talking. I was trying to take notes but it was difficult to walk while making notes.
"Try not to shine your flashlights into people's houses; they don't like it. Here we are; turn left into Princess Street. Now that is the Church of the Immaculate Conception, and the Morpeth Convent Guest House is next to it. It started out in 1909 as a convent of the Sisters of Mercy and was only shut down in 1980. It's a Bed and Breakfast now. The chapel inside has beautiful stained glass windows."
Just then one of the women on the tour grabbed Gavin's arm. "Something just pulled my coat, really hard."
I could see Gavin looked pleased, even in the dark. "Yes, there's a lot of spirit activity here."
I noticed a thin, scruffy looking man standing directly behind the woman. I was fairly sure he was the one who had been standing behind the girl at the time of the hair pulling incident. I made a mental note to keep my eye on him.
I had become the Keeper of the Society upon the death of my Aunt Beth.
Problem is, I didn't exactly know what being the Keeper of the Society entailed, or to be precise, I didn't have the slightest clue, and no one had contacted me to enlighten me. I didn't even know the name of the Society. I had changed since I had become the Keeper; since then, I had been aware of spirit activity. Trains, buses, stores, everywhere I went, I sensed spirits. I had expected Morpeth to be buzzing with the paranormal, but so far I hadn't felt anything at all. Zilch. Zero. Nothing.
We backtracked somewhat and made a right turn which brought us opposite a church.
"St. James Church," Gavin said unnecessarily, as we were standing in front of the sign that said St. James Church. "A shame a fog's coming in, as many people have reported seeing the ghost of a bishop who runs between the church and that building there which is now the residence." He pointed. "Careful not to go over to the church; we will have to stay on this side of the road. There's a cemetery and my research tells me that there are also unmarked graves all around there."
I thought that unusually sensitive of Gavin, and made notes as he continued. "St. James Church was built by Lieutenant Edward Charles Close, the founding father of Morpeth. Lieutenant Close served in the Napoleonic Wars, and in 1811 during a battle, he made a vow to God that if he spared him, he would build a church in his honor. Later, Lieutenant Close erected St James Church to honor his vow. Just a moment; I'll read from his diary."
Gavin withdrew a sheet of paper from his folder then handed the folder to me to hold.
"'In 1811 when Sergeant Meulen was wounded I went to take the color. When I arrived at the center a shell fell. We lay down till it burst. My head was between the legs of a soldier, and a soldier was on my right and left side, close against me. The shell burst, the man whose legs my head was protected by had half his head carried off; the other two were dreadfully mangled; the body of one was laid bare from his loins to his breast and both the legs of the other was carried off near the knee.'"
Well that was certainly more gruesome detail than I wanted to hear. Melissa nudged me and pulled a face. At that moment a cry pierced the air, and at first I thought it was a tour member also objecting to the imagery of the poor fallen soldiers.
"Over there! Over there!"
I recognized the speaker as a pleasant New Zealand tourist who had introduced herself to us before Gavin's arrival. All flashlights turned to her. She looked uncomfortable as she said, "I just saw a ghost running between those buildings."
I looked around, and sure enough, the thin man was nowhere in sight.
Gavin's voice rose. "Yes, I saw him too just then! There've been many sightings of that very apparition. Scarcely a tour goes by without him appearing."
The group was excited. I tugged on Melissa's arm. "Melissa, I think this is staged. Keep an eye on that thin man; he was right behind those people when they said a ghost touched them, and now he's missing, right when that figure ran across from the church."
"Do you really think it's staged?"
"Definitely." I couldn't add that I was sure it was staged as I had felt no spiritual presence on the tour. I looked up from whispering and saw Gavin was close by and staring straight at me. Had he heard what I said?
Gavin directed the group to walk down the Avenue of Trees. His voice, as usual, was a monotone. "This is perhaps the most interesting house on the tour, but as it's now an Aged Care home, we can't get too close to it as we'll frighten the residents. Closebourne House was built by Lieutenant Close; it was his third house in fact. It was made by convicts from stone they quarried down by the river. In 1848 Lieutenant Close sold his house to the first Bishop of Newcastle. An interesting fact about the times is that there was a toll imposed on people who traveled in and out of Morpeth. The charge was one penny per person plus one half-penny per wheel. Oh wait, did anyone see that figure over there?"
I looked down the end of the street and saw a figure dressed in black dash between trees and then run out of sight.
The New Zealand tourist spoke up. "Yes, I saw that figure, very dimly. It looked like a man in a cloak."
Five of the other tour members had also seen the figure. I glanced at Gavin. Even by moonlight he was looking pretty smug. There was still no sign of my suspect.
Gavin's voice was quite self-satisfied. "Now we'll head back to town to experience the haunted room at the pub, but first, we'll go back to Swan Street to the Morpeth Courthouse which is haunted by the ghost of a doctor."
The mist was settling in and psychic impressions radiating from the direction of the Courthouse were now hitting me. They were fleeting and I couldn't get a handle on them.
Gavin droned on. "This street is now called Swan Street but used to be called Front Street. The Courthouse is just up there. One of the ghosts who haunts here is a Maitland doctor. His empty boat came ashore one night and a search was conducted for sixteen days until his body was found under a jetty. His body was taken to the courthouse for autopsy. His ghost has been sighted in the Courthouse on several occasions."
On the walk back I questioned Gavin. I did my utmost to keep every trace of sarcasm out of my voice. "Do you usually get this much spirit activity on the one tour?"
Gavin loomed over me. "Yes, frequently, sometimes even more. Are you still a skeptic?"
I bristled at being called a skeptic, but tried to keep my tone even. "Actually, I'm not a skeptic, but I'm a journalist and I was wondering if I could ask you some questions?"
The air grew decidedly cold then, as did Gavin's voice. "What sort of journalist? From the Newcastle Herald? Maitland Mercury? Or one of the tabloids? Are you one of those horrid exposé journalists?"
"No actually, I write for a paranormal magazine and I'm here to do a story on Morpeth ghosts."
That did the trick. Gavin was suddenly helpful. "Wonderful! Did you know I'm about to sign a book contract? I'm happy to help. Would you like me to email you photos for the article? I have a very good photo of me standing right next to St. James Church with a big orb rising out of the cemetery. You have my card, don't you? Call me anytime; I'm only too happy to help."
Clearly. This was free advertising of the very best kind. I did my best to sound eager, but failed. "Melissa and I have to leave now but I'll call you for more information on the ghosts."
Gavin grasped my hand with both of his. "Yes, please do. May I have your card? What was your name again?"
I could almost see dollar signs flashing in his eyes.
"There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life: music and cats."
(Albert Schweitzer)
Chapter Six.
The mist had fully descended by the time we reached the park in front of the bridge over the Hunter River. There were only two other people, a man and a woman, on the tour. In the dim light they appeared to be in their fifties and were either badly botoxed or were truly frozen stiff. We introduced ourselves and then stood silently waiting for Scotty, the tour guide.
At 11 p.m. he suddenly appeared as if on cue, holding a hurricane lamp and dressed in historical clothing. I figured it was historical clothing, but I knew nothing about such things. It certainly wasn't the latest trend, especially the paisley patterned necktie. Who wears a brown, knee-length coat and a high-necked shirt these days? I wondered if he'd grown the long, bushy beard just to add to the effect.
I had expected a "Welcome to the Ghost Tour" or some such words of exhortation, but Scotty simply grunted, "Follow me," in a heavy Scottish accent. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. The guy completely gave me the creeps. Something wasn't quite right.
I tucked my flashlight under my arm, grasped my pen, and launched into questioning. "Scotty, how long have you lived in this area?"
"Long time." The words came out as little more than harsh grunts.
Unperturbed, I pressed on. "Are there many sightings of ghosts in Morpeth? Have you yourself seen any?"
Scotty stopped and turned to look at me. He held the hurricane lamp up to my face. I felt unnerved, so steely was his gaze. A chill overcame me; the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I felt a premonition of danger, but it passed as quickly as it had come.
"Are you a detective?"
I was unsure as to whether or not he was being sarcastic, so shook my head and fell back into stride with Melissa.
After a few minutes we turned into Green Street and stopped again outside the settlers' cottage. Any fears that the dour Scotty would prove to be a boring tour guide were at once put to rest. "This was one of the first cottages in Morpeth. It was owned by Eliza Campbell. Her husband owned one of the pubs, and every night, Eliza was frightened for the safety of her children. She had seventeen children, but some died. The drunks used to gather outside the cottage at night. There was just that thin wall there between them and the pub." Scotty gestured in a sweeping motion to the left. "Eliza was happy all day, but once the sun went down, she was terrified all night waiting for her husband to come home."
"I didn't know he could speak more than three words at once," Melissa whispered in my ear.
I elbowed her. "Shuuush!" Again I questioned Scotty. "Was it Eliza's son, Stephen, who drowned in the well behind Campbell's Store?"
Scotty grunted. "Who told you that? Are you a lawyer?"
I still didn't know if he was being sarcastic. "No, but I was told that, and I'd like to know. Also, I was told that Eliza has been seen in this cottage window looking in the direction of the well for her son."
Scotty grunted again, more loudly this time. "Eliza does not look out this window. She's not here." He turned his back and walked back down the lane in the direction of the bridge. I was starting to worry about my mortgage again, when I heard Scotty mutter, "The spirits here are more recent."
We walked back to the river in silence. Scotty pointed down the river, but there was nothing to see in the dark. Again, I felt a presence of an unknown being, but then the impression went away. Still gesturing down the river, Scotty spoke. "That's where the ship St. Michael capsized in the river in December 1841. So they say; I wasn't around then."
The botoxed couple and Melissa laughed. A sudden sensation of unease passed through me.
Scotty continued. "St. Michael was a sea-going ship, and in the 1820s it traded between NSW and the Pacific Islands, but then some traders from Sydney converted it into a store ship and moored it here. It was the only store ship for years. Pretty soon after that, Edward Close built a stone warehouse down over there and a hotel up that road over there. The business in the area grew so fast that it was no longer needed. It was put up for sale in February 1841, the month before poor old Baxter Morgan was unjustly hanged."
"Baxter Morgan!" I exclaimed.
Scotty loomed over me and fixed me with his beady-eyed stare.
"Baxter Morgan?" I repeated. "Did you say 1841?"
Again Scotty peered into my face. "Why do you want to know, lassie?"
I thought the question odd; surely my qu
estion was reasonable. I was wondering how to answer when Scotty spoke again.
"Poor, old Baxter Morgan was unjustly accused of being one of the Jewboy Gang. He was hanged in March 1841. He was framed for the murder."
I didn't dare ask another question, but thankfully Mr. Botox did. "I've never heard of the Jewboy Gang. Who were they?"
"Scum of the earth!" Scotty spat his words vehemently. "Bushrangers. Seven of them. An escaped convict by the name of Davis got a gang together of other escaped convicts and a couple of fools. They had double barreled guns and pistols and good, fast horses. They were from Sydney but were pressed out to up north of here. They were thieves but careful never to kill any man, but one day one of them, Ruggy the Irishman, shot a man and killed him. A small party hunted them down, and took them alive. One of them escaped but was later found. It is said that twenty shots were fired but no one was killed. One of the civilians swore he saw two men escape, and named one of them as Baxter Morgan. Even though poor old Baxter Morgan was a gentleman and well respected, he was taken to Sydney and hanged with the Gang. His property was taken from him. I'll show you."
I was trying to take it all in. Baxter Morgan was hanged two centuries ago. That was not murder. At any rate, why would anyone be concerned about such an old event these days? Surely the Society didn’t want me to solve an over one hundred and fifty year old murder? It made no sense to me. I was still lost in thought while Scotty led us up Tank Street and into High Street. We turned a couple of times and it was too dark to see the street signs. "There," he exclaimed.
The house in front of us was small. I couldn't make out any details as it was dark. No lights were on inside the house, but given the hour, that was no surprise. I did see some children's toys in the front yard.
"The Widow Palmer. Her husband was a wealthy man but his luck went bad and he lost his government contract. Soon afterwards he died in an accident, so they say. He's not around here now. If the treasure had been found, this wouldn't happen to other people, living in poverty, dying before God took them." Scotty paused and looked at me. "What are you doing?"