Ghostly Tricks in Eastern Passage

I have been digging back into the archives, reading some of the stories that I wrote way back when for a local newspaper. I was tasked with writing ‘stories from the past’ for the Eastern Passage and surrounding areas. Some of the stories came to me by way of my Dad. I want to preserve some of them here and with Halloween coming, I thought this one would be appropriate to begin with.

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Ghostly Tricks in Eastern Passage

Are you superstitious?  Panic when you see an owl in daylight?  Knock on wood?  Shrink when a black cat crosses your path, your heart skips a beat when you break mirror so you tie your handkerchief in a knot to ward off evil?  If you're one of those people who avoids walking under ladders or counts crows this story of a prank played on an old Eastern Passage resident who was superstitious will appeal to you.  Leo had an active imagination and was genuinely spooked by ghosts.

Ghost is a word derived from the Saxon word gaste, meaning spirit. In common usage, a ghost is the soul of a dead person that becomes visible to the living. Psychic researchers refer to a ghost as a recurring apparition.  A ghost does not inter react with the living but rather repeats the same action over and over, like a tape being replayed again and again.  Leo was well aware of the activity of ghosts and it sent him into a tizzy just thinking about it.

In the 1940s, the young men of Eastern Passage could often be found hanging out at the Myers Pool Hall on Quigley's Corner.  Leo was one of the usual suspects.  You could spot him easily by his wild tuft of curly hair fopping about while making his way around in his bare feet on his trusty bicycle.  Not a fan of the washtub, his idea of 'cleaning up' was applying a little powder and he was ready to go.   He was a comic sort, often a casualty of horseplay.

Al and the other guys in the pool hall were notorious storytellers.  Devising antics of tomfoolery and telling harebrained fibs while chalking up their cues.   He knew Leo was scared of the dark and particularly of ghosts.  At nightfall, Leo would always rush home, passing the graveyard at St. Andrew's Church. He would pedal fast, his heart racing until he was safely by without incident.  Al knew this and used it to his advantage.

One evening, Al was in the mood to rile up a little mischief.  Night fell to a black hush and Leo mounted his bicycle giving himself a push start off home down the dirt road.  As usual, the closer he came to the graveyard, the quicker his pulse raced.  St. Andrew's cemetery sent chills down his spine especially in the dark. Al, being good with detail knew all of this and decided he would treat Leo to the fright of his life.  Leo pedaled with a fevered pace evading all that goes bump in the night, stiff on top of his bike, focusing straight ahead.  Al was waiting for him behind one of the larger headstones in the cemetery with a ghastly white sheet draped over his head.  When Leo approached, sweaty and nervous Al, in his clever disguise jumped out at the wiry haired man aping the sounds that we imagine ghosts make.  “WOOWWWHOAAAA!”  Leo's eyes widened with sudden fear and jumped ten feet in the air nearly throwing himself off of his bicycle.  He jerked his pedals so hard he snapped the chain spinning his dirty feet creating a billowing cloud of dust behind him.  Al watched Leo, spooked to his core race off pushing his bike with his feet all the way home.  All Al could do was laugh.  He returned to the pool hall to recount his caper to the boys.

The next evening Leo told the story of how he was attacked by an aggressive spirit rising out of the cemetery.  He had every man in the pool hall in stitches, standing in the middle of the room replaying the scene, his hair still wild, and his eyes popping.  Al chuckled and confessed to Leo it was him dressed up in a sheet trying to fool him but Leo wouldn't hear any of it, he knew better than to believe anything that came out of his mouth.  He went on believing that there was in fact a ghost out for revenge and pedaled quicker every night after on his way home.

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I miss my Dad telling me stories, especially after being afforded the opportunity to tour through the Myers homestead yesterday with family. The walls vibrate with history and stories and shenanigans. I wish I knew every single one of them so I could write them down.

I’ve got a few more ghost stories from the area I used in those news stories to share here in the coming week. It’s so much fun re-reading them now.

In propinquity,

Nic

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.

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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