The Devil's Cask

I used to write stories for a local newspaper affiliated with The Daily News when it was still in circulation. I wrote for free, for the pure enjoyment of it, for the research experience and because all of the pieces were ‘stories from the past’, stories about the community I was born and raised in, where my roots are firmly planted – Eastern Passage, Nova Scotia.

My favorite part of writing those stories (that are all clipped and archived in a large book on my bookshelf) was the feedback.  Eastern Passage is a small (but rapidly growing) community on the outskirts of Halifax, Nova Scotia’s capital.  Every week when a story was published, people would stop me to comment, compliment or offer anecdotes.  When The Daily News folded, I stopped writing for the tiny associated community paper.  Then, people would stop me and ask when I was going to write another story.  I felt bad for having to say I was no longer doing them.  Often people would say they looked forward to them and only bothered reading the paper to see what I’d written which is such lovely compliment.  When I browse through all of the pieces I did, it makes me proud to hail from such an interesting town rich in history.

Because Eastern Passage is a still considered a fishing village and outlined by harbor islands, ghost stories and tales of the sea are plentiful.  One of the stories I shared was a ghostly tale on Devil’s Island.  I originally did it for a Halloween edition and found the original lurking in my Gmail account so I thought I’d share here.

Seems apt to share it now and Cow Bay/Eastern Passage is hosting the 37^th annual Summer Carnival.  It’s a week-long event complete with fireworks, parade and midway among other family oriented activities.  This event is almost as old as I am and so in pure community spirit I offer a little spooky story about a harbor island.

The Devil’s Cask

Devil’s Island, situated at the mouth of the Halifax Harbour, one mile in circumference, was once a prosperous fishing community. Twenty odd families inhabited the petite island and etched out nice tidy lives fishing with the Atlantic Ocean at their front door. Today, it is desolate, nothing standing but an old dilapidated lighthouse and is home to some of the area’s most legendary ghost stories.

Back in the heyday of the island two residents Dave Henneberry and Ned Edwards were loitering at the water’s edge when they came upon a curious sight. What they believed to be a large chalky white barrel was bobbing along the surf. Dave pointed excitedly at the buoying cask and proclaimed it as the Devil’s treasure. Ned reacted to his proclamation with skepticism but Henneberry persisted, 

“I’m telling you Ned, it’s the Devil’s treasure there bobbin’ around. You see, every seven years the treasure surfaces for a drop of sunlight strictly to tease the innocence of the angels and then it sinks back down into the abyss.”

“Should we take a shot at ‘er?” Ned asked nervously, raising his rifle and pointing it square at the ivory keg. “Maybe, if we shoot a hole in ‘er we’ll slow ‘er down?”

“Are you crazy!?” Dave exclaimed, “And run the risk of rilin’ the Devil himself!? I should say not. That’d be takin’ evil in your own hands.”

Though in a moment of pure mischievousness, some called it a strange island-born perversity, Dave picked up a stone and hurled it at the drifting drum. The rock caused a spooky thunking sound and seconds later it slowly sank away and down beneath the waves out of sight as if it hadn’t been there at all.

Ned looked at his friend both stunned and agog,

“Thought you said not to bother with it or else you’d rile up the Devil!”

Dave folded his arms and grinned at the spot on the water where the supposed Devil’s treasure had floated moments before without reply. Ned let out an exasperated sigh, shook his head and shuffled back up on to the shore and home, mumbling about his friend’s superstitions.

Some thought perhaps Dave threw the rock knocking the keg for luck some whispered it may have been spite. Ned, believing in the fate of the barrel knew it was Dave’s peevish curiosity that led him to do it.

Early the next morning a few of the fisherman ventured down by the shore and happened upon Dave who appeared to be leaning over the edge of his rowboat. On closer inspection the men discovered their fellow Islander head and shoulders deep in the water, drowned. His boat was floating eerily close to the spot where the Devil’s hoard graced the water’s surface. Those who found him say he looked as if he had been fixated on something smothered deep in the water, staring at it and had fallen asleep.

Did Dave Henneberry determine his own fate by challenging the Devil himself or was it a mere coincidence? Consider then that after his death his ghost was said to inhabit the Henneberry homestead and the family was cursed. Shortly after Dave’s death an infant was found lifeless in its crib in the upstairs bedroom. The family who purchased the house a little later claimed to hear the sloshing of wet rubber boots on the floor thought to belong to Dave and the shrill cries of a baby coming from the upstairs room.

**

Wishing everyone a happy and healthy weekend.  Perhaps when you have a quiet moment to yourself, consider your roots, where you are from and ponder how they have shaped the person you have become.  

In propinquity,

Nic