Editorially speaking…
Surely, you don’t expect the Chronicles to be about anything but Halloween on this propitious date, do you?
And why not? Old newspapers, the fodder for historians and writers, are filled with stories about encounters with the supernatural. After all, everyone loves a ghost story, right?
What better than a story about a haunted house to get the chills running down the spine? —Pixabay
So, to begin, this nugget from an 1898 Victoria Colonist which reported that a restless spirit was ruining the sleep of Okanagan residents: “A story is current amongst the residents of Okanagan Landing.
“Mrs. McDonald, housekeeper for engineer Hoare of the steamer Aberdeen, says Mr. Hoare refuses to live in his house on the swamp road because of a tramp he’d given a glass of water to last year, and whose dead body was found shortly after in the mountains, but appeared to him in the identical spot on the anniversary of his first appearance.
“He waked up the house, and the tramp sank from view in the swamp. A strange dog has been hanging near the spot since. Several other residents claim to have seen the alleged ghost.”
Sadly, that's all there is to this ghost story. Not another word is recorded of engineer Hoare’s unnerving experience. Nor is there mention of what happened to gossiping Mrs. McDonald when her employer found himself the centre of attention, clear down to Victoria!
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Last Sunday’s annual Ghost Tour of the Old Cemeteries Society was a sell-out, as expected, the tour having to be divided into nine groups of 20-odd. Despite intermittent rain, with umbrellas the order of the day, it went smoothly.
I knew most of the stories but the guides did their job well, even eloquently, so it was fun to hear the various tales spoken aloud. Sort of like an audio book in the flesh.
Resplendent in his undertaker’s garb, tour leader John Adams relates another ghost story.
To set the scene for a Cariboo ghost tale, Billy Barker’s headstone was decorated with gold pan and packsack.
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Okay, I love a good ghost story as I’m sure most people do. But do I believe in ghosts? Have I ever seen one? Let’s just say...I may have come close, once, when I still lived in Victoria.
When what began so innocuously, became a spine-tingling adventure during a visit to the aged home of a new acquaintance.
I’f met Chris through a close friend, Paul, and, some weeks later we were invited to Chris’s home to discuss a project of mutual interest. Then, our business completed in a basement recreation room, we moved upstairs to a parlour for refreshments (coffee, I assure you), and idle conversation. I say parlour, as it didn’t appear to be the living room. Upon arrival, I'd seen only that the house was old and large, at the end of a winding driveway and hidden from the road by trees.
In short, the old manor was the typical country estate of literature, and the perfect setting for our adventure.
Settled comfortably before a fire, we enjoyed our coffees and talked of many things, one topic leading to another, and before we know it, it was 2:00 a.m. The wind had come up, and was firing the rain in shotgun blasts at the windows, the fire snapping angrily whenever a stray gust roared down the chimney.
The old house creaked violently; from down the hall came the insistent cry of our host’s cat, locked in the bedroom. He was, Chris said, the only other living creature in the house.
By this time, Chris was doing most of the talking, Paul and I content to marvel at his inexhaustible fund of anecdotes. Finally, the conversation turned to that of ghosts, and Paul asked Chris if the old house hosted a bonafide spirit resident. “Well...” said Chris, “yes. Or, to be more specific, a poltergeist.
“As you may know, a poltergeist is a special type of ghost; one who breaks the dishes and overturns furniture, and that sort of thing. Yes, we certainly have one of those.”
He’d come to this conclusion some years before, when the kitchen dishes had first clattered to the floor from a table or counter without apparent reason. Then there had been heavy knocking in the attic. More than once, Chris said he’d searched the dusty garrets with a flashlight, only to find no signs of a disturbance, by ghosts, bats or mice.
Yet the unearthly pounding and falling of dishes had continued irregularly.
Then, leaning forward, Chris told of the manor's first owner. In those days, the property had formed a large estate when its owners were leading socialites, and the farm had known many publicized pheasant hunts. Then there had been a terrible accident. A guest’s shotgun accidentally discharged its full load of bird shot, striking his host. At such close range, the wound was fatal, and sympathy for the gentleman farmer’s lovely widow was great,
Then began the rumours: ugly insinuations that the family friend whose faulty gun had killed his host was consoling the grieving widow beyond the call of a guilty conscience. Gossip had graduated to open accusation, but no legal action came of the charges, the widow moved away, and the farm had passed into other hands.
Over the years, the property had been cut up, piece by piece, until only a few acres were left with the once elegant house and fortress-lake barn.
Then we remembered Chris having mentioned, as we drove by the deserted barn upon arriving, that a previous owner had committed suicide within its mute walls.
This was the dramatic scene of our eerie experience: the grim manor house, a raging storm, our earnest host sitting before the fire. A long pause followed his monologue, which was disturbed only by the creaking of the house and the insistent pleading of the imprisoned cat, when I asked, “Well, have you been bothered by the ghost—or poltergeist—lately?”
At precisely this instant—I swear—as if upon my cue, there came from the kitchen, two doors down the hall, a loud crash. For what must have been all of 10 seconds, Paul and I stared at Chris, unconsciously evaluating the grim story he’d just told, and looking for a hidden string.
Upon discussing it after, we learned we both were convinced at this point that Chris was playing a practical joke on us. The uncanny timing of the crash in the kitchen was just too much to accept. But Chris was frozen in a crouch, half out of his chair, and staring in apparent disbelief at the hallway. If he’d pulled away pulled any wires, they were certainly well concealed.
In concert, Paul and I decided the “act” was genuine and raced for the kitchen. With 10 great steps we were at the door. I was in the lead, placed my place my hand on the knob—and stopped cold. I looked at Paul. He stood behind me, petrified.
To this day, I can’t say what, if anything, was in the kitchen.
Or, for that matter, what if anything had fallen. For reasons I've never been able to understand, I couldn't enter that kitchen. I was sure that Bob had made up the entire story of the manor's history and of the poltergeist. I knew he was lying. Yet I was afraid to open that door, and we returned to the parlour.
We left shortly after. I’ve never been back to the charming old house, I'm sorry to say. Nor have I seen Chris for many years. The property has since been sold more than once.
I've been asked, upon the publication of various articles on the supernatural, if I believe in ghosts. Each time, I'm reminded of that stormy night in Chris's spooky old house.
Do I believe in ghosts? Don't be ridiculous.