Out of the Mist

by EvergreenWritersGroup

  I waited.

  “Their name is… it’s something like Thornton or Thornbloom or… hmm…” She looked up and tapped her chin as if that would help her remember the name.

  “Thorburne!” she said suddenly. “That’s it. Thorburne, with an ‘e’ on the end. They were adamant about the spelling. Definitely not from around here, perhaps down around Boston way? Or New York? They must be, to have that much money!” She raised her eyebrows and inclined her head towards me, as if suggesting the solution to a puzzle.

  “Oh,” she added, “they also have a fancy sailboat, but bigger, more like a yacht. It’s usually anchored in the cove next to the beach, but they just left on a trip around the world. Melanie called this morning to catch me up on the news.”

  I thought of the mysterious disappearance of the old trunk before the station fire. What if… my mind raced with scenarios: Could Bud Smith have been the tall figure we saw that night, dragging the trunk to the beach and loading it in a boat? He’d disappeared the next day, presumably to Ontario to work. Was it really Marilyn we saw driving recklessly past us on the beach road? Had Bud been in a conspiracy with Alfred Nolan, the caretaker? Or with Ol’ Man Thorburn? Did Ol’ Man Thorburn have family connections after all, and had their descendants now taken up residence in the brand-new house? The possibilities surged and clamoured to the surface of my mind for attention.

  What if the trunk had been hidden away in the attic of the house on the hill for years and years, until that fateful, chilly April night? Was it a treasure chest left behind by the sea captain? I thought of how afraid we’d been of seeing ghosts in the old Robertson house.

  This was so much more interesting than mere ghosts.

  ~~~***~~~

  The Dancing Tulip

  Wilma Stewart-White

  She drove deeper and deeper into the forest. The trees arched over her closer and closer. Perhaps this was a wild goose chase. She was collecting information for her research on old houses of Lunenburg County and her friend, Martha, had enthused about an early house she said she had lived in as a child. She was following Martha’s instructions and had turned at the old Baptist church on the corner. The road had quickly branched and narrowed.

  What had been a pretty little country road with a cosy tunnel of green was turning into a very narrow lane that now squeezed the car tighter and tighter. Branches reached out, leaving fingernail scratches on the roof.

  Why am I doing this? she wondered. I can blame Martha.

  “Hmmm,” she finally said in frustration, thinking about how she would talk to Martha. “If this road peters out and I’m stuck with nowhere to turn, I’ll scream. I’ve started too late in the day. This path is dark and gloomy and the day is wearing on.”

  Suddenly, the tunnel ceased and the car shot out, released from the thicket of branches. The sun, close to setting, glared right in her face, momentarily blinding her. She jammed on the brake and took stock of her surroundings. She got a quick glance of a barred gate in front of her and a huge red barn on a hill. Two black and white sheepdogs raced to the gate, barking, daring her to come closer.

  “You! Vat you vant?”

  She jumped half out of her skin.

  A gnarled old man peered in her window. Where had he come from?

  She tried to quickly gather her wits about her. She looked at the caricature of a face. Two small, evil, glowing eyes glared at her. Skinny hands with long curving fingernails left a trace of slime on her window. She inched her window down hesitantly.

  “I am doing research on old buildings around here and I was told there was such a house here. I am interested in seeing it.”

  “Of course, is old but is private house—no visitors.”

  “Oh, well—you see, I am also looking for traces of early Lunenburg County symbols. I hear you have a rare carving. I only wanted a quick look and maybe a photo…?”

  Inwardly, she quailed at the thought of actually getting out of the safety of her car and coming face to face with this creature and his two snarling dogs. Was she mad?

  “Komm then.”

  He wrenched open the gate and whistled to the dogs.

  Slowly, she edged her way up the deeply rutted track to a house so old it seemed rooted in the hillside. Up close, the barn seemed even more enormous. A flock of dirty, unshorn sheep moved steadily closer, watching her out of small, dark eyes.

  She slowly opened the car door. The flock parted unwillingly, providing a walkway to the house. The house was indeed old with a low roof and tiny windows. The door was almost sunk into the earth. The gnome appeared and ushered her in, swiftly closing the door behind her

  The room was almost pitch dark. She blinked and tried to focus. A fetid earthy and mouldy smell filled her nostrils. A massive hearth faced the door and a miserable fire glowered in the grate. A huge wooden table took pride of place heaped with onions and cabbage and potatoes. Carrots lay in a separate pile. They seemed to be in curious shapes, almost as if they had legs. A pile of old pewter plates sat at the other end of the table beside a large black pot and a wicked looking knife.

  “Here!” he shouted “Iss this vat you vanted to see?” He pointed to a carving on the mantle.

  The date, 1762, and the name, Johan Schlangenveit, was engraved and beside it a beautifully carved tulip. The tulip, though frozen in time, was bent ever so slightly, petals fanned, as if it had been blown by a gentle breeze.

  The “dancing tulip” was a well-loved symbol of the early settlers from Germany. They were also occasionally seen on some of the earliest slate gravestones. They were rare and were similar to ones found in Lancaster County Pennsylvania whose settlers were also from small villages along the Rhine. Links between Lunenburg and Pennsylvania were rare. This carving was well executed and very delicately done.

  “Oh,” she gasped. “How lovely.”

  The gnome smiled, showing his very unlovely teeth. He seemed pleased with her response. “Yah. His land, his house he built and his farm from the beginning ven ve all came from the old country. Even though ze tried to push him out. Tried to scare him avay. Vild horses at full of moon.”

  What on earth was he talking about, she wondered. Wild horses? Then she remembered the rest of Martha’s spooky tale. The settler family who had lived there told stories of the house being haunted by a troop of marauding Indians. Many people, though, thought the ghosts were settlers in disguise trying to scare the inhabitants away.

  “Alvays a full moon zey ride, zey whoop—but I not afraid—iss my home alvays.”

  His eyes strayed to a small door beside the hearth. The door was very narrow and low, almost too small for anyone today. In fact, it looked perfect for the gnome. She looked at it more closely. An ancient, hand-forged latch was well worn. His eyes followed.

  “Does this door open?” she asked

  “Nein, always locked. Zere iss no key. Opens by itself ven moon is full and horses come. Staircase goes down to old cellar below the earth. No one ever goes zere.”

  “So the door goes to the cellar?”

  “Nein, much deeper”

  His eyes slid away from hers—evasive and secretive.

  This sounded highly implausible. She began to wonder what was actually going on here. She knew it would be wise to leave this curious place. “I think I should go. Could I take a picture of your lovely tulip carving?”

  He screwed up his eyes, then reluctantly said, “Yah, ok but yust tulip.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled and snapped a few shots, wishing she could also capture him and his funny door.

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Many, many years. Not many people come. Iss sad house with many bad things zat happen here. No one else vants to be here.”

  “It is a lovely property with such a big barn that sits so high on the hill. You could see for miles,” she said

  “Alvays dying in ze barn—sheep vont go in.”

  This was getting too creepy. She edged to the door. He slipped past her and
opened the outside door a tiny bit. She had to edge past him to get out.

  She looked back at the ancient door and saw above it another carving. It was round and had strange markings on it. Suddenly, she realized it was a rare, old country hex symbol. They were put above doorways to protect against witches and evils unknown, even in the new world.

  She stood under the symbol for a moment feeling a sense of its power and hesitated for a moment, but the urge to move propelled her on. The strong odour of earth and mustiness wreathed around him. He leaned back against the door and peered at her with curious eyes

  She could feel him looking deep inside her and she shivered. All around the old door latch were deep scratches. She looked again at his curled hands with the long nails.

  Tiny bottle-glass panes of the windows, aglow with stray rays from the setting sun, gave the house a sly look. The landscape around was darkening, shadows were lengthening. The barn seemed afloat as a slight mist rose from behind it.

  There was no sign of any other person

  “Do you live here alone? You are a long way from the main road.”

  “Zere iss only me. I live here always and alone. But tonight I vill haff many visitors. It iss the full of the moon. Zey will be here soon. Do you vish to see? You could some back and see?”

  His fingers curled and his eyes gleamed.

  “No. No thank you. You have been very kind.”

  She hurried back to the car and, with difficulty, turned in the yard. The barn loomed behind her. The evening mists were rising still higher. Through her rear window, she could look right through the open barn doors at the moon just beginning to rise. Were her eyes playing tricks? She could see figures in the higher levels of the barn.

  “Oh, God,” she whimpered.

  The figures were hanging from the beams, slowly twisting. The gnome moved slowly towards the car. She locked the doors and quickly shot down the yard.

  Suddenly, he appeared and swung the gate open with a horrible screech

  How did he get here so fast? she wondered.

  She had almost reached the lane of trees. Just before she entered, she looked back over her shoulder. The full moon hung higher in the sky, but the house and barn had disappeared. She heard and faint pattering of horses’ hooves and weird whooping calls. She shot down the lane as fast as she could, disregarding the tree roots and grabbing branches. Behind her, the trees swallowed up the dirt road. You couldn’t even tell it was there.

  Her digital camera glowed and flashed a tantalizing rectangle of light from the passenger seat.

  Did it hold the secret tulip within?

  ~~~***~~~

  Graveyard Study

  Tom Robson

  Before leaving school one October afternoon, Ms. Williams, the Grade Four teacher at my school, sought my approval for yet another of her excellent teaching ideas. “Mr. Robson, I’m thinking of taking my class to do a graveyard study.”

  She hesitated, perhaps looking for signs of disapproval or trying to anticipate my reaction.

  She went on to explain how it fitted with the study of pioneers and settlers, and how the graveyard she had in mind had some interesting turn of the twentieth century markers.

  She did not know that I enjoyed graveyards, especially those which served small, rural communities such as the one she was describing. I knew they could reveal a wealth of information and pose questions which students of all ages could research.

  If she’d known of my interest she would not have been concerned. I approved her trip instantly and asked if I could accompany her and the class there. A date was set and the plan was put in motion.

  It was surprising that I had never stopped to investigate the particular cemetery she wanted to visit, even though I drove past it twice every working day going to and from school. It looked too small and insignificant to be interesting. The white and black trimmed, wooden church it surrounded was no longer in regular use. Ms. Williams had told me about the graves of the local, landowning family who had built the church, and of the large number of memorials to children. She had pricked my interest.

  Later that same afternoon, I pulled into the small driveway at the church to wander among the gravestones. There was much that children could learn from these markers and I decided to make some notes of things they could focus on.

  It was October and there was a fall chill in the air. I spent longer there than I intended, deciphering fading inscriptions and reading about the landowning family, whose exploits were written on their memorial stones. Not only had the family built the church and given the land for the graveyard more than 100 years before, they had also employed many of those buried there. Though I knew that children’s graves were a sad feature of many cemeteries of this era, this one seemed to have far more than its share: too many dating from the 1918 flu epidemic.

  Dark clouds, a strengthening breeze, and an awareness that I was late heading home, sent me back to the car. As I passed the church, set on the edge among some trees, I tried to identify an indistinct noise I could hear in the wind. It seemed to be coming from inside the church, though I knew it was locked and seldom used since the consecration of the new one, a few miles down the road. I stood and listened, but could separate nothing from the sound of wind in the trees.

  Over the next few days, I did some research on the church. I discovered that the landowner had been involved in immigration in the 1870s.

  Records showed that General Laurie, who had his town house on Morris Street as well as his estate at Oakfield, had brought out three families of “agricultural labourers with their 17 children” on the SS Hibernian in August of 1873.

  He was also responsible for the placement of 76 “destitute children” arriving on the same ship, brought from Mrs. Rye’s emigration home in England by a Mrs. Birt. In April of the next year, the same lady arrived, again on the Hibernian, with close to 80 children, ages four to 16. General Laurie had the responsibility of “distributing” these “Home Children” to families throughout Nova Scotia.

  He discontinued this work soon after, possibly because of the criticism that annually, in Halifax, there were “at least 50 little ones dying from starvation in the hands of ‘nurses’.” A writer in the Halifax Evening Reporter urged that this problem be addressed rather than using our resources on imported waifs and strays.

  Intrigued by this additional knowledge, I wanted to revisit the graveyard to verify some inscriptions. I also wanted to look inside the small church, where, I was told, hung some plaques commemorating the general and his sons. I arranged to borrow the key from the caretaker and stopped by on my way home from school.

  Again it was a late afternoon, darkened by overhanging, threatening clouds sent scurrying across the sky by chilly winds. I sought the information I needed from grave markers, hurrying to beat the threatening rain.

  I closely checked two family markers. On each were recorded the birth and early deaths of four children. I confirmed that these eight children were likely those of estate workers brought to Canada by the general.

  When the storm began and the rain came, I sought shelter, and further information, inside the church. I unlocked the door and, as I stepped into the entrance way, I heard the same noise that I thought I’d imagined on my previous visit.

  Someone was definitely crying, and it was coming from inside the church.

  Nervously, I peeked into the chancel. There were about 12 rows of carved, wooden pews. Towards the front sat a woman, head bowed and body racked with sobs. Between the sobs I could hear her anguished words, “Why? Why? Why?”

  I knew there had been a burial in the churchyard the previous week. I thought I must be intruding on someone’s private grief at that loss. Without making my presence known, I retreated. I felt so sorry for the woman and would have liked to help, but couldn’t. It didn’t seem right.

  As I discreetly closed the church door behind me, I heard more words punctuating the cries. I could only distinguish, “my babies, my babies....” as the
wind and the rain muffled the voice.

  I got into my car and sat there a while, wanting to allow the woman privacy for her grief, but needing to return to the church before I had to return the key. I wondered why the caretaker had not warned me that someone else had borrowed a key and might need some private time.

  While I waited, I rewrote my scribbled notes. Through the rear view mirror I saw the door from the church open. Through it stepped the woman. In the shadow of the dark doorway she was being consoled by a tall man. With his arm around her shoulder, he led her to the back of the church. I knew a path wound through the woods back there, towards the large house where the general’s descendants still lived.

  In the brief moments before the couple disappeared round the corner and into the trees, I got the impression of a long dress beneath a black bonnet. The man seemed to be wearing a tweed suit of a different style. But the rear window was running with rivulets of rain and my glimpse was fleeting.

  I returned to the church, completed my research, then closed it up and left.

  As instructed, I placed the key in a hiding place at the caretaker’s house. Later, I phoned to make sure he had found it. I told him of the lady who had been grieving, and of the man I hadn’t seen inside the church, but who had escorted her as she left.

  There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. And then, “You’re the only person who has borrowed a key today.” Another pause before, “Perhaps you saw the general?”

  This time, the silence was at my end of the phone. It was broken when the caretaker spoke again, somewhat nervously: “They say that he felt for all those who lost children, and, whenever he could, he’d visit the parents to help them. He lost his own daughter when she was only 16. He felt responsible for so many he’d brought here, so far from home.”

  He continued, “You’re not the first to hear and see that mother crying. And nobody will walk that path between the church and the big house after dark. Years ago people used to talk about the Church Path ghosts.”