I've always been interested in all folklore, especially how they originated. How were they created? Over active imaginations? I would like to believe there is a little truth behind every legend. Not that I'd like to believe there were spooky men walking around with hooks for hands, impaling helpless victims. I'm assuming you know what I mean. Everybody has heard of Bloody Mary. I remember at school, a few of us would go into the bathroom, turn out the lights, spin around a few times, and then call to Bloody Mary, saying her name three times. Nothing ever happened of course, but it sparked the imagination, and fear.
I found this interesting interpretation of Bloody Mary, excerpted from 'Spooky Pennsylvania,' retold by S.E. Schlosser.
BLOODY MARY
She lived deep in the forest in a tiny cottage and sold herbal remedies for a living. Folks living in the town nearby called her Bloody Mary, and said she was a witch. None dared cross the old crone for fear that their cows would go dry, their food-stores rot away before winter, their children take sick of fever, or any number to terrible things that an angry witch could do to her neighbors.
Then the little girls in the village began to disappear, one by one. No one could find out where they had gone. Grief-stricken families searched the woods, the local buildings, and all the houses and barns, but there was no sign of the missing girls. A few brave souls even went to Bloody Mary's home in the woods to see if the witch had taken the girls, but she denied any knowledge of the disappearances. Still, it was noted that her haggard appearance had changed. She looked younger, more attractive. The neighbors were suspicious, but they could find no proof that the witch had taken their young ones.
Then came the night when the daughter of the miller rose from her bed and walked outside, following an enchanted sound no one else could hear. The miller's wife had a toothache and was sitting up in the kitchen treating the tooth with an herbal remedy when her daughter left the house. She screamed for her husband and followed the girl out of the door. The miller came running in his nightshirt. Together, they tried to restrain the girl, but she kept breaking away from them and heading out of town.
The desperate cries of the miller and his wife woke the neighbors. They came to assist the frantic couple. Suddenly, a sharp-eyed farmer gave a shout and pointed towards a strange light at the edge of the woods. A few townsmen followed him out into the field and saw Bloody Mary standing beside a large oak tree, holding a magic wand that was pointed towards the miller's house. She was glowing with an unearthly light as she set her evil spell upon the miller's daughter.
The townsmen grabbed their guns and their pitchforks and ran toward the witch. When she heard the commotion, Bloody Mary broke off her spell and fled back into the woods. The far-sighted farmer had loaded his gun with silver bullets in case the witch ever came after his daughter. Now he took aim and shot at her. The bullet hit Bloody Mary in the hip and she fell to the ground. The angry townsmen leapt upon her and carried her back into the field, where they built a huge bonfire and burned her at the stake.
As she burned, Bloody Mary screamed a curse at the villagers. If anyone mentioned her name aloud before a mirror, she would send her spirit to revenge herself upon them for her terrible death. When she was dead, the villagers went to the house in the wood and found the unmarked graves of the little girls the evil witch had murdered. She had used their blood to make her young again.
From that day to this, anyone foolish enough to chant Bloody Mary's name three times before a darkened mirror will summon the vengeful spirit of the witch. It is said that she will tear their bodies to pieces and rip their souls from their mutilated bodies. The souls of these unfortunate ones will burn in torment as Bloody Mary once was burned, and they will be trapped forever in the mirror.
BURNT CHURCH
Here's a story I've never heard of before, but I'm sure you'll find it as horrifying as I did. It is also retold by S.E. Schlosser.
She was sophisticated, poised, and cultured. In retrospect, this should have made them suspicious. A teacher like her should be presiding over a girl's school in London or New York, not seeking a position in a small town in Georgia. But at the time, they were too delighted by her application to ask any questions.
"It will be good for our daughter to learn some culture," the attorney's wife told the pastor's wife.
"And our boy may find some table manners at last," the pastor's wife responded with a smile.
School was called into session in the local church shortly after the arrival of the teacher. And soon, the children were bringing glowing reports home. Teacher was special. Teacher taught them manners and diction as well as reading, writing and arithmetic. All the children loved teacher.
The parents were delighted by the progress their children were making at school. Teacher had been a real find. A God-send, said the preacher's wife.
But not every one in town was so satisfied. The local ne-er-do well - called Smith - had more sinister stories to tell.
"That woman ain't natural," he told the blacksmith, waving a bottle of whisky for emphasis. "I seen her out in the woods after dark, dancing around a campfire and chanting in a strange language."
"Nonsense," the blacksmith retorted, calmly hammering a headed iron bar on his anvil.
"They say she's got an altar in her room and it ain't an altar to the Almighty," Smith insisted, leaning forward and blowing his boozy breath into the blacksmith's face.
"You're drunk," said the blacksmith, lifting the hot iron so it barred the man from coming any closer. "Go home and sleep it off."
Smith left the smithy, but he continued to talk wild about the Teacher in the weeks that followed. During those weeks, a change gradually came over the school children. The typical high-jinks and pranks that all children played lessened. Their laughter died away. And when they did misbehave, it was on a much more ominous scale than before. Items began to disappear from houses and farms. Expensive items like jewelry, farm tools, and money. When children talked back to their parents, there was a hard edge to their voices, and they did not apologize for their rudeness, even when punished.
"And my daughter lied to me the other day," the attorney's wife said to the pastor's wife in distress. "I saw her punch her younger brother and steal an apple from him, and she denied it to my face. She practically called me a liar!"
"The games the children play back in the woods frighten me," the pastor's wife confessed. "They chant in a strange language, and they move in such a strange manner. Almost like a ritual dance."
"Could it be something they are learning at school?" asked the attorney's wife.
"Surely not! Teacher is such a sweet, sophisticated lady," said the pastor's wife.
But they exchanged glances.
Smith, on the other hand, was sure. "That teacher is turning the young'uns to the Devil, that 's what she is doing," he proclaimed up and down the streets of the town.
"Don't be ridiculous," the preacher told him when they passed in front of the mercantile.
"I ain't ridiculous. You are blind," Smith told him. "That teacher ought to be burned at the stake, like they burned the witches in Salem."
The pastor, pale with wrath, ordered Smith out of his sight. But the ne'er-do-well's words rang in his mind and would not be pushed away. And the children continued to behave oddly. Almost like they were possessed. He would, the preacher decided reluctantly, have to look into it someday soon.
That day came sooner than he thought. The very next Monday, his little boy came down with a cold and his mother kept him home from school. When the pastor returned from his duties for a late lunch, his wife came running up to him as soon as he entered the door. She was pale with fright.
"I heard him chanting something over and over again in his bedroom," she gasped. "So I crept to the door to listen. He was saying the Lord's Prayer backwards!"
The pastor gasped and clutched his Bible to his chest, as goose bumps erupted over his body. This was positively satanic. And there was nowhere the boy could have learned such a thing in this town, unless he learned it...at school.
At that moment, the attorney's wife came bursting in the door behind him.
"Quick pastor, quick," she cried. "Smith is running through town with a torch, talking about burning down the school. The children are still in class!"
The pastor raced out of the house with the two woman at his heels. They and the other townsfolk who followed them were met by a huge cloud of smoke coming from the direction of the church, where the school children had their lessons. The building was already ablaze as frantic parents beat at the flames with wet sacks, or threw buckets of water from the pump into the inferno. Smith could be heard cackling unrepentantly from the far side of the building, which was full of the screams of the trapped students and their teacher.
The fire blazed with a supernatural kind of force, and the pastor thought he heard the sound of the Teacher laughing from within the building when it became apparent that no one could be saved.
The church burnt for several hours, and when it was finally extinguished, there was nothing left. Mourning parents tried to find something of their children to bury, And Smith wisely disappeared from town, his mission against the works of Satan completed.
The teacher's burnt body was buried deep in the ground and covered with brick tomb. The children's smaller bodies were interred beneath wooden crosses. Of all the student's in the school that fall, only the pastor's small son survived.
To this day, voices can be heard in the graveyard at Burnt Church, chanting unintelligible words, as the school children and the teacher once chanted in the woods outside town. Sometimes apparitions are seen, and dark walkers who roam the graveyard at night. And they say that a brick taken from the grave of the evil teacher can set fire to objects on which they are place.
Saturday, 17 September 2011
Friday, 9 September 2011
WHAT IS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN GHOSTS AND SPIRITS?
You know, I didn't even know there was a difference between ghosts and spirits. I figured they were words that meant the same thing. My niece, Kim, sent me some information from http://wiki.answers.com/ that shed some light on the subject. It still confuses me somewhat, but I thought I'd take this information that I read and relay it to you. Perhaps you can grasp it better than I can.
A ghost is a personality or a piece of a personality of someone who has passed that is left behind because there is something that is keeping them here. There are many possible reasons of why they would stay behind here are the most likely reasons - they don't know they have passed. This can happen if they were killed or died suddenly and usually tragically. They could have been a murder victim or even possibly died in an accident that happened suddenly. One haunting that I can think of to be a good example is the Villisca House haunting. In the Moore home at Villisca, Iowa, 8 people were brutally murdered in the middle of the night. The whole family, including two children that were staying the night with the Moore children were killed in their sleep with an axe. The man who killed them was never found, leaving this gruesome murder a mystery. The house is now said to be haunted by some of the victims of that tragic night.
Another reason a ghost might have stayed behind is because they feel an attachment to a place, object or even a person. If they are attached to a place, it could be because it was what they considered to be their home, or even just a place that they had their happiest moments in their life. If they're attached to an object it is usually an object that they held very dear to them. If it is a person they have an attachment to, it is usually because they have such a great love for that person. They may feel like that person still needs them. Or they just might not want to leave that person behind. An example of an attached haunting would possibly be the White House ghosts. Former presidents are said to still roam the halls of this great house. If you think about it being the President of the United States would most likely have been the happiest time of their lives and you most certainly would love for that to be your home I'm sure. I know I would have certainly loved to live there just from all the history that has taken place there.
Unfinished business could be another reason that a haunting could occur. The ghost might feel the need to continue so that something could be finished or taken care of before they will pass on. Winchester Mystery House comes to mind immediately for this one. Sarah L. Winchester wanted her home to be built with many odd things built into it. She hired carpenters to work on her home day and night. Construction would never cease on the home until her death. She was the widow of the inventor of The Winchester rifle, William Wert Winchester. After the deaths of her husband and daughter, she contacted a medium for guidance. This medium told her that the spirits of the victims of the Winchester rifle were wanting vengeance and the only way she could escape the curse that had befallen her husband and child was to build a home for herself and those spirits. She must continue to build or she would die as soon as the building stopped. In her home she had doors to nowhere, windows that were built to open up to a wall. There would be many entrances to a room, but only one exit. Stairs led to a ceiling and there were many other oddities. This house was definitely a mystery. Some of the carpenters worked on the home until their deaths. Their ghosts are said to still be working on the home. The noise of hammers sometimes will be heard and one phantom carpenter has been seen. He is supposedly there guarding the home and overlooking the construction still being done even in the afterlife. Sarah Winchester is even said to still be there.
Then there are the residual haunting. These are the hauntings that have no intelligence. These hauntings are like a recording that has been imprinted on the land or home in which it takes place at. They will happen at a certain time or date or just random. It will be almost like a scene that is the same all the time. It could also take place as noises or smells. The perfect example of this is the Civil War battlefields. Most of the hauntings that take place at these battlefields are sounds and smells of the ghastly war that took place on its grounds. Cannon and gun fire have been the main residual hauntings from the battlefields, but there are reports of fleeting apparitions of men who still seem to be fighting the war as if it were still going on around them.
Now this brings me to Spirits. Spirits are different from ghosts because they are not bound to this earth. Spirits are actually the passed on personalities of a living person. Spirits will come back for a time. They can come back for many reasons, but the most common is to tell a loved one a message or to help a loved one cross over. There have been many accounts from people of a loved one coming back to warn of impending danger, or simply to just let the loved one know that they are okay and happy. There is also a belief that they will come back to comfort a loved one who is dying and make the transition of death a little easier on them. Most spirits will return to where they came from after they have done what they came to do. There are many personal experiences and I can not thing of a famous instance of this although I'm sure there most likely is. One story I know of is a personal experience of my mothers. After the birth of her first child she was sitting in her room brushing her hair as she looked into a mirror. Suddenly, her face transformed into the face of her mothers, who had died when she was a young girl. As she stared into her mother's face, she got the overwhelming sense that her mother was proud of her. Her mother said nothing, just merely gave her that feeling. My mother really truly believed that that was a visit from her mother.
It would be nice to hear your views on this subject. Do you believe there is a difference between a ghost and a spirit? How would you translate the information above? It is a subject I might research furthermore later on. Anyways, that's all I got for now.
A ghost is a personality or a piece of a personality of someone who has passed that is left behind because there is something that is keeping them here. There are many possible reasons of why they would stay behind here are the most likely reasons - they don't know they have passed. This can happen if they were killed or died suddenly and usually tragically. They could have been a murder victim or even possibly died in an accident that happened suddenly. One haunting that I can think of to be a good example is the Villisca House haunting. In the Moore home at Villisca, Iowa, 8 people were brutally murdered in the middle of the night. The whole family, including two children that were staying the night with the Moore children were killed in their sleep with an axe. The man who killed them was never found, leaving this gruesome murder a mystery. The house is now said to be haunted by some of the victims of that tragic night.
Another reason a ghost might have stayed behind is because they feel an attachment to a place, object or even a person. If they are attached to a place, it could be because it was what they considered to be their home, or even just a place that they had their happiest moments in their life. If they're attached to an object it is usually an object that they held very dear to them. If it is a person they have an attachment to, it is usually because they have such a great love for that person. They may feel like that person still needs them. Or they just might not want to leave that person behind. An example of an attached haunting would possibly be the White House ghosts. Former presidents are said to still roam the halls of this great house. If you think about it being the President of the United States would most likely have been the happiest time of their lives and you most certainly would love for that to be your home I'm sure. I know I would have certainly loved to live there just from all the history that has taken place there.
Unfinished business could be another reason that a haunting could occur. The ghost might feel the need to continue so that something could be finished or taken care of before they will pass on. Winchester Mystery House comes to mind immediately for this one. Sarah L. Winchester wanted her home to be built with many odd things built into it. She hired carpenters to work on her home day and night. Construction would never cease on the home until her death. She was the widow of the inventor of The Winchester rifle, William Wert Winchester. After the deaths of her husband and daughter, she contacted a medium for guidance. This medium told her that the spirits of the victims of the Winchester rifle were wanting vengeance and the only way she could escape the curse that had befallen her husband and child was to build a home for herself and those spirits. She must continue to build or she would die as soon as the building stopped. In her home she had doors to nowhere, windows that were built to open up to a wall. There would be many entrances to a room, but only one exit. Stairs led to a ceiling and there were many other oddities. This house was definitely a mystery. Some of the carpenters worked on the home until their deaths. Their ghosts are said to still be working on the home. The noise of hammers sometimes will be heard and one phantom carpenter has been seen. He is supposedly there guarding the home and overlooking the construction still being done even in the afterlife. Sarah Winchester is even said to still be there.
Then there are the residual haunting. These are the hauntings that have no intelligence. These hauntings are like a recording that has been imprinted on the land or home in which it takes place at. They will happen at a certain time or date or just random. It will be almost like a scene that is the same all the time. It could also take place as noises or smells. The perfect example of this is the Civil War battlefields. Most of the hauntings that take place at these battlefields are sounds and smells of the ghastly war that took place on its grounds. Cannon and gun fire have been the main residual hauntings from the battlefields, but there are reports of fleeting apparitions of men who still seem to be fighting the war as if it were still going on around them.
Now this brings me to Spirits. Spirits are different from ghosts because they are not bound to this earth. Spirits are actually the passed on personalities of a living person. Spirits will come back for a time. They can come back for many reasons, but the most common is to tell a loved one a message or to help a loved one cross over. There have been many accounts from people of a loved one coming back to warn of impending danger, or simply to just let the loved one know that they are okay and happy. There is also a belief that they will come back to comfort a loved one who is dying and make the transition of death a little easier on them. Most spirits will return to where they came from after they have done what they came to do. There are many personal experiences and I can not thing of a famous instance of this although I'm sure there most likely is. One story I know of is a personal experience of my mothers. After the birth of her first child she was sitting in her room brushing her hair as she looked into a mirror. Suddenly, her face transformed into the face of her mothers, who had died when she was a young girl. As she stared into her mother's face, she got the overwhelming sense that her mother was proud of her. Her mother said nothing, just merely gave her that feeling. My mother really truly believed that that was a visit from her mother.
It would be nice to hear your views on this subject. Do you believe there is a difference between a ghost and a spirit? How would you translate the information above? It is a subject I might research furthermore later on. Anyways, that's all I got for now.
Monday, 5 September 2011
CAN A GHOST ATTACH ITSELF TO A FAMILY?
It's not the first time I've wondered if it is possible that a spirit could attach itself to a family. Like Kim and Tracy in the last two entries of this blog, Kim's daughter Natasha entertains the same idea. They have all had experiences dealing with the paranormal. With Kim and Tracy, it all began in Ontario. Now that Kim has moved all the way across the country to Williams Lake, B.C., those paranormal experiences have not subsided, nor have they stayed hidden from her immediate family. It seems anybody connected to Kim and Tracy becomes a believer fast enough. I, myself, haven't experienced anything with Kim out of the ordinary as of yet, but I've only been in Williams Lake for about four months, so only time will tell if I will have the honor, or the horror - however you look at it, of witnessing first hand the entity that clings to her and her family. I've been around taps that had a mind of their own, but that just about sums up my experiences.
Natasha tells a story that begins several years ago when she was a child. Although it is difficult to be certain 100% whether it is the same spirit Kim and Tracy dealt with in Ontario, there is some proof to that effect. If you've had the chance to read the last two accounts, you will understand. You can draw your own conclusions.
Here is an account from Natasha. I will not interrupt it one bit with editing - this is word for word, which is the same courtesy I extended Kim and Tracy.
I think that we never really die. I think that we either go somewhere bigger and better than our simple minds can even begin to imagine, or we stick around for whatever reasons. I can't honestly say that I know for a fact that there is a heaven, however, I can honestly say that I know that we never truly die, and perhaps some parts of us stick around long after our body has disappeared. The only reason why I say that so confidently is because of the things I have seen and heard throughout my lifetime, which is more than the average person can say. I suppose I should do my best at telling my stories in order, but it's a little difficult. I'm going to start with the things I remember as a little girl.
My mom, dad, brother, and I lived in a town house on Gibbon Street in Williams Lake, B.C. It had four floors. The basement on one, the living room, bathroom and kitchen on another. Above that was my parent's room, and then on the very top floor, with another bathroom, was my brother's and my room. I remember some things very clearly about that house. I recall how in the kitchen area, against the wall that you see as soon as you enter, my mother had porcelain masks hanging in a row. One of those masks was painted to look like a cat. It had ears and black fur around the face. I remember the smile that was painted onto its face like it is a photograph stuck in my memory. It had a very mischievous smile. Although it was a mask, every now and again when I would walk by it, I remember there being eyes staring back at me. Although it sounds a little crazy and difficult to believe, but the memories have stuck with me for fifteen years.
That's not the only thing about that house that I remember. We went through a lot of babysitters because after one night, they never wanted to return. Tamara, who lasted the longest, was cleaning our kitchen, and was moving all the chairs out of the way so she could mop. The last chair that she tried to pick up, would not be budged. She couldn't move it. I was sitting on the stairs and could hear her telling my mom "It felt like someone was sitting in it."
My brother and I used to get in trouble all the time when we were living at that house. But what stands out in my mind is when we were accused of biting on the blinds of all things. They were white and plastic and there was always little teeth marks in them, but never once were we the culprits.
Another recollection I have is when my sister Makayla was visiting for the summer. My brother and I had to share his room while she stayed in mine with one of her friends. She woke me up in the middle of the night and begged me to stay with her friend, Shay, while she took a shower. By then, everyone was starting to get used to the house, but Shay still didn't want to be alone. I was lying in the room with Shay and we were looking at a magazine, when my sister tried to come back into the room. I remember her saying: "This isn't funny guys, open the door." Shay started to panic. There was no lock on the door for us to lock, and we were across the room, nowhere near the door. The door would just not open for her.
A lot of freaky things happened in that house, from hearing people talking, to hearing them run up and down all of the stair cases. I have a tape that we left recording one night when we all went out. The house was completely empty, but on that tape that is currently sitting in a box in my bedroom, you can hear a child's voice clearly, screaming for his dad, drums being played, footsteps, and more footsteps. We didn't live there long after that. In fact, we have moved twice since then and have experienced further paranormal activity.
On one occasion, my Grandma had given us Disney character toys for Christmas. I had a Goofy toy with a string that you could pull and make his say different things. My brother got a Mickey Mouse toy that was similar. One night, after we were sent to bed, I kept hearing my brother's toy. It was repeating the words "I love you," over and over again. Figuring it was my brother playing around with it, I yelled at him to put the toy away. He told me he wasn't playing with it. Alarmed, we both started screaming for my mom. Having horrifying experiences with toys before, she was quick to take the batteries from the toy, and toss the thing into the garbage. Even then the toy still confessed it's love to whoever would listen.
In our current house, a nice house on the corner of a busy street in Williams Lake, nothing has gone on here like I have experienced before, or maybe I'm used to it by now. There is still an entity or two I'm sure. I do hear people talking in the house every other night after we have gone to bed, but I think the only two things that have happened here that have come slightly close to the things I had experienced in the other houses would be the day me and my mom got into an argument the night we were talking about my great grandmother Jean(Jessica). I don't remember what we were fighting about, but I was about to leave the house. I was standing at the bottom of the stairs and she stood at the top. Just before I was about to open the door, still screaming at my mom, a small doll that was sitting on top of a shelf by the door flew off the shelf and hit the wall on the opposite side, before hitting the floor. And I have seen a little blond boy out of the corner of my eye run around the house and vanish. Both my mother and I know who it was, but I will tell of that later.
The other little incident that I recall, involved my great grandmother, Jean. I was sewing with my mom at the kitchen table. I was asking her questions about Jean. I don't remember her very well and wanted to know more. I was asking my mother if she remembered being at my grandmother's house for a dinner. I was telling her about my only memory of Jean, and how I thought she was a scary woman. Not long after those words came out of my mouth was my hair yanked on. Mom started to laugh while I sat there kind of shocked.
My mother and my Aunt Tracy as well as other members of the 'Oliver' family tree have told me their fair share of stories and about our history. Most o the strange stories I have heard about begin on that farm, a piece of land that once had a house that my grandpa built on it. I have heard stories of other houses on that land, but not as many as I have heard about my grandpa's house.
The first time I had been there, as soon as wee pulled into the driveway, I did not feel so good. I suddenly felt upset, depressed, and just did not want to be there. That was the first time I had seen the little blond boy. I was coming out of the bathroom in the old house, and I had seen a little boy out of the corner of my eye run into a bedroom. My Grandpa told me about Alfie, the little blond boy, who was my third cousin, who drowned in a river just behind the land the farm was on.
When I left that day, my grandma gave me two candle holders with faeries on them. As much as I loved those candle holders, having them made me feel wrong. All I can say is that even after living in the townhouse that seemed to have many spirits staying there with us, I had never felt so much wrongness in a house before.
After thinking about all that I have seen and heard and felt, it makes me believe that it isn't so much the houses we have lived in, or the land the houses are set upon, but the family that is effected by apparitions. Can spirits be attached to a family? How else can you be on one side of Canada and see the same spirit on the other? Nonetheless, my family seems to share different, and the same paranormal stories. It may have come from the old farm in Ontario, but it is now linked to our family. I'm sure of it.
Natasha.
Natasha tells a story that begins several years ago when she was a child. Although it is difficult to be certain 100% whether it is the same spirit Kim and Tracy dealt with in Ontario, there is some proof to that effect. If you've had the chance to read the last two accounts, you will understand. You can draw your own conclusions.
Here is an account from Natasha. I will not interrupt it one bit with editing - this is word for word, which is the same courtesy I extended Kim and Tracy.
I think that we never really die. I think that we either go somewhere bigger and better than our simple minds can even begin to imagine, or we stick around for whatever reasons. I can't honestly say that I know for a fact that there is a heaven, however, I can honestly say that I know that we never truly die, and perhaps some parts of us stick around long after our body has disappeared. The only reason why I say that so confidently is because of the things I have seen and heard throughout my lifetime, which is more than the average person can say. I suppose I should do my best at telling my stories in order, but it's a little difficult. I'm going to start with the things I remember as a little girl.
My mom, dad, brother, and I lived in a town house on Gibbon Street in Williams Lake, B.C. It had four floors. The basement on one, the living room, bathroom and kitchen on another. Above that was my parent's room, and then on the very top floor, with another bathroom, was my brother's and my room. I remember some things very clearly about that house. I recall how in the kitchen area, against the wall that you see as soon as you enter, my mother had porcelain masks hanging in a row. One of those masks was painted to look like a cat. It had ears and black fur around the face. I remember the smile that was painted onto its face like it is a photograph stuck in my memory. It had a very mischievous smile. Although it was a mask, every now and again when I would walk by it, I remember there being eyes staring back at me. Although it sounds a little crazy and difficult to believe, but the memories have stuck with me for fifteen years.
That's not the only thing about that house that I remember. We went through a lot of babysitters because after one night, they never wanted to return. Tamara, who lasted the longest, was cleaning our kitchen, and was moving all the chairs out of the way so she could mop. The last chair that she tried to pick up, would not be budged. She couldn't move it. I was sitting on the stairs and could hear her telling my mom "It felt like someone was sitting in it."
My brother and I used to get in trouble all the time when we were living at that house. But what stands out in my mind is when we were accused of biting on the blinds of all things. They were white and plastic and there was always little teeth marks in them, but never once were we the culprits.
Another recollection I have is when my sister Makayla was visiting for the summer. My brother and I had to share his room while she stayed in mine with one of her friends. She woke me up in the middle of the night and begged me to stay with her friend, Shay, while she took a shower. By then, everyone was starting to get used to the house, but Shay still didn't want to be alone. I was lying in the room with Shay and we were looking at a magazine, when my sister tried to come back into the room. I remember her saying: "This isn't funny guys, open the door." Shay started to panic. There was no lock on the door for us to lock, and we were across the room, nowhere near the door. The door would just not open for her.
A lot of freaky things happened in that house, from hearing people talking, to hearing them run up and down all of the stair cases. I have a tape that we left recording one night when we all went out. The house was completely empty, but on that tape that is currently sitting in a box in my bedroom, you can hear a child's voice clearly, screaming for his dad, drums being played, footsteps, and more footsteps. We didn't live there long after that. In fact, we have moved twice since then and have experienced further paranormal activity.
On one occasion, my Grandma had given us Disney character toys for Christmas. I had a Goofy toy with a string that you could pull and make his say different things. My brother got a Mickey Mouse toy that was similar. One night, after we were sent to bed, I kept hearing my brother's toy. It was repeating the words "I love you," over and over again. Figuring it was my brother playing around with it, I yelled at him to put the toy away. He told me he wasn't playing with it. Alarmed, we both started screaming for my mom. Having horrifying experiences with toys before, she was quick to take the batteries from the toy, and toss the thing into the garbage. Even then the toy still confessed it's love to whoever would listen.
In our current house, a nice house on the corner of a busy street in Williams Lake, nothing has gone on here like I have experienced before, or maybe I'm used to it by now. There is still an entity or two I'm sure. I do hear people talking in the house every other night after we have gone to bed, but I think the only two things that have happened here that have come slightly close to the things I had experienced in the other houses would be the day me and my mom got into an argument the night we were talking about my great grandmother Jean(Jessica). I don't remember what we were fighting about, but I was about to leave the house. I was standing at the bottom of the stairs and she stood at the top. Just before I was about to open the door, still screaming at my mom, a small doll that was sitting on top of a shelf by the door flew off the shelf and hit the wall on the opposite side, before hitting the floor. And I have seen a little blond boy out of the corner of my eye run around the house and vanish. Both my mother and I know who it was, but I will tell of that later.
The other little incident that I recall, involved my great grandmother, Jean. I was sewing with my mom at the kitchen table. I was asking her questions about Jean. I don't remember her very well and wanted to know more. I was asking my mother if she remembered being at my grandmother's house for a dinner. I was telling her about my only memory of Jean, and how I thought she was a scary woman. Not long after those words came out of my mouth was my hair yanked on. Mom started to laugh while I sat there kind of shocked.
My mother and my Aunt Tracy as well as other members of the 'Oliver' family tree have told me their fair share of stories and about our history. Most o the strange stories I have heard about begin on that farm, a piece of land that once had a house that my grandpa built on it. I have heard stories of other houses on that land, but not as many as I have heard about my grandpa's house.
The first time I had been there, as soon as wee pulled into the driveway, I did not feel so good. I suddenly felt upset, depressed, and just did not want to be there. That was the first time I had seen the little blond boy. I was coming out of the bathroom in the old house, and I had seen a little boy out of the corner of my eye run into a bedroom. My Grandpa told me about Alfie, the little blond boy, who was my third cousin, who drowned in a river just behind the land the farm was on.
When I left that day, my grandma gave me two candle holders with faeries on them. As much as I loved those candle holders, having them made me feel wrong. All I can say is that even after living in the townhouse that seemed to have many spirits staying there with us, I had never felt so much wrongness in a house before.
After thinking about all that I have seen and heard and felt, it makes me believe that it isn't so much the houses we have lived in, or the land the houses are set upon, but the family that is effected by apparitions. Can spirits be attached to a family? How else can you be on one side of Canada and see the same spirit on the other? Nonetheless, my family seems to share different, and the same paranormal stories. It may have come from the old farm in Ontario, but it is now linked to our family. I'm sure of it.
Natasha.
Tuesday, 30 August 2011
AN ANGRY GHOST IN ONTARIO
This story is directly related to the story I wrote in the last entry, on August 27. In that entry was an account of paranormal activity in Ontario told by Tracy. This next story is told from her sister, Kim's, which coincides with some of the information Tracy has already divulged, plus some tantalizing extra insights. So again, this is a word for word account by Kim.
I think for anyone who might read this to really understand the experiences that my sister(Tracy), and I have wrote, it is important to also touch on some of the family history and also of the area. The majority of occurrences take place in a rural northern Ontario community on a family farm that had been passed down through the generations beginning with my great-grandfather Alfred on my dad's side of the family. Although it isn't clear how much land Alfred had purchased. I am told Alfred and his wife Ella Mae chose to raise their children on one small lot that later became my home.
From all the information and statements that I gathered over the years, I believe that Alfred had divided the land between two of his children, son Jack, and his daughter Grace. Jack with his wife Jean later lived on the same piece of land as Alfred. Grace, married to George, built a home on the far western corner, not far from a fairly large creek that ran down the length of property. Grace and George had three children, the eldest daughter, Edith Jane, son, Alfred George, and youngest, Frederick James.
On June 15, 1950, the children were playing by the creek, when the youngest boy Freddie had fallen in. Alfred George, named after his grandfather, is believed to have went to the aid of his brother first and quickly headed into the water, and his sister, Edith followed. Tragedy struck, and after a thorough search, all three bodies were found in the creek that evening by my grandfather, Jack. Edith was 11 years old, Alfie was 9, and Freddie was just 7.
Now the stories I have been told about the first house that stood on the farm are chilling o say the least. I wish at times I knew more about the history of the house, and whether or not it was actually built by my great grandfather or if it had already been there when he required the property.
Jack and his wife Jean lived in this along with four of their children before their marriage ended. From what I understand, Jean moved west and unable to take the children, Jack remained in the house with two daughters - my dad and his younger brother, Jackie.
Reports of this house from my dad and grandfather Jack, ranged from hearing voices, numerous people running up and down the stairs or having conversations, and it escalated to items being thrown at the kids. This seemed to happen on a daily bases and it didn't seem to matter what time of day or night. My dad's oldest sister, Claudette, seemed to take the worst of the damage. My grandfather told me that once during a heated argument between Jean and Claudette, a hot frying pan sitting on the stove violently threw itself at Claudette and hit her in the back, leaving a terrible burn and a bruise.
There was also an old barn on the farm that had an old style door latch for a handle. The youngest child, Sam, was so little at the time, she was unable to work the latch open. She'd rattle it back and forth to no avail. She could not force it open. When Jean left to move to the west, Sam went to live with a friend of the family until Jean was able to send for her. Even though she was gone from the house and property, The boys, who remained at the old house, could ofter hear the door handle rattle and click as if Sam was on the other side trying to get in.
The only real memory of the first house that I have is in 1978-79, when I was about 8 or 9 years old. My father had saved up enough to start building his own home on the farm and I remember going with him and my mother to the farm to pick out a spot for the new house. Just as we were getting out of the car, my dad told me to stay out of trouble and I was not allowed to go in the old house. As my dad roamed around, I remember peeking through the old glass windows and seeing all sorts of neat things in the rooms. I remember thinking that although everything was tarnished with dust and dirt, it was almost inconceivable that it was empty. I got this notion that people should still be living there. I recall seeing pictures still hanging on the walls and cups on the table. Then something shiny on the floor caught my eye, and I knew right away that it was money. It looked funny to me. I had never seen this type of currency before. They were shiny new, and large and so many of them. I remember wanting them so badly that I figured if I begged my dad long enough, he would let me have them.
Calling for my mom first, I hoped that she would go into the house and get me this money. I pointed through the window at the money on the floor for my mother to see. She hollered for my dad(Boyd) to come look. "Boyd, you got to come see this. There is a pile of silver dollars on the floor!" I remembered getting so excited. I was jumping and dancing around my mom, entertaining the belief that we had suddenly become super rich. My dad peered through the window and to my disappointment, he didn't seem to care one bit.
"Can I have them dad, please dad, can I have them?" No sooner did that come out of my mouth did I regret it. The expression on my dad's face changed so quickly. His good mood suddenly plummeted and anger and hatred took its place. With his face all twisted, blackened eyes, and his voice deep and low, said: "I said no. No one is allowed in the house."
My father never got that angry with me. In fact, that was the first time that he actually scared the hell out of me. Running back to the car in tears, I heard my mom yell with panic in her voice: "Boyd! What the hell is wrong with you!" Immediately after that, we left and that was the last time I seen the old house still standing. Or so I thought. I actually did see the old house once more after that, but it was years after my dad tore it down. Yes, I'll explain that later.
A few weeks after the silver dollar incident, my dad and his brother went to the farm to start tearing down the old house. My dad was persistent, calling hydro several times to make sure it was safe - that the power was turned off before they begun to dismantle it. My dad then climbed on the roof and started disconnecting wires. I don't know if he did get a jolt or if he luckily figured it out first, but I remember him coming home mad as hell. He called hydro and after a lot of swearing and yelling, he asked them if they were trying to kill him. Although Hydro swears that the pole was dead, and the work order was completed, mysteriously, the power still ran live to the house.
After the house was only a pile of rubble, the construction of the new house began. The new house was built directly across from the old, several hundred yards apart. Some lumber was salvaged from the old house, which was also used in the construction of the new house. I am not completely convinced that using old building material for the new house could be the only explanation for all that happened, but I am sure it didn't help matters.
A year later, the house was completed. My dad's brother, Jackie bought a trailer and moved it to the south side of the property across from ours. Only the Trans Canada highway divides the two pieces of land. I only mention this little fact because the experiences in Jackie's home, although mild in comparison to ours, adds further credence to the idea that it could be the property as a whole that is disturbed. Or...maybe it's a freakishly weird family curse that knows no boundaries. There were so many experiences that I find it hard to know where to start. It's impossible to list all the events chronologically. In fact, this is my third or fourth attempt at even writing this paragraph. As soon as I recall one experience, another memory even more unbelievable than the first creeps into my mind.
I think I'll start with the clown. I hate clowns. I cannot remember exactly how old we were. I was maybe 11, Tracy 5 or 6, and my brother Kevin was about 2. My grandfather Jack bought Kevin this red stuffed musical clown. The ones with the wind up red ball nose, and would play a tune when it was wound up. One night I heard Tracy and Kevin screaming from the bedroom - a high pitched blood curdling scream I will never forget. I must have been sweeping up the floor, as the next thing I remember is being in the bedroom doorway with the whisk broom in my hand. The kids were sitting in the middle of the bed. I got this tingling sensation, and numbness all over my body. I followed the children's gaze to the corner of the room to my left. Still in the doorway, I then heard the laughing and giggling. There it was, the clown, on the ceiling, spinning head over heels in circles. Then it stopped upright and violently shook while continuing its incessant giggling. Somehow I mustered up a good dose of courage, and in an instant, I was underneath it, and beating the abomination with the broom. With each strike I kept telling myself that it wasn't hard enough. I'm not sure how long it took - maybe a few seconds, or a few minutes, but it felt like a lifetime to knock that little red bastard off the ceiling. I don't remember what happened to the clown in the days to come.
There were two other incidents that took place involving toys that would take on a life of their own. There was a yellow toy telephone that would ring and roll its eyes when pulled by a string fastened to the front. If left out, we were certain to be woken in the middle of the night, hearing it ring up and down the hallway outside our bedroom. It wasn't until the phone chased my sister down the hallway did my mom finally get rid of it.
As far as actual spiritual manifestations in the house, there were not too many that I can recall. At times, strange figures I could see out the corner of my eye, or a glimpse of their reflections in windows or mirrors. The only spirit I can honestly say I have clearly seen was that of a little blond haired boy. It wasn't until my dad saw the little boy that we started to call him Alfie. My father reassured us that Alfie had been around for years and was quite harmless. Dressed in blue coveralls and tousled dirty blond hair, Alfie seemed to be a little shy, as he was either peeking around corners or running from room to room. On one occasion, my cousin Dwayne was visiting at our house with the intention of staying the night but he had quickly changed his mind after he followed Alfie down the hall into one of the rooms believing that he was following my brother. Neither my brother or sister were home at the time and even though I tried to convince Dwayne that everything was fine, he still insisted that he wanted to leave. Dwayne wasn't our only house guest to report that they had seen Alfie, and over the years, my dad became proficient in calming people's fears and keeping the panicked reactions to a minimum. I saw Alfie four times on the old farm and at least three times years later after my own move to B.C.
Unfortunately Dwayne wasn't the only person who left our home after a paranormal experience, stressed and scared. One evening while my parents were out, the neighbors had sent their youngest son, Dave, over to sit with me and watch the kids. The reason for this was because there was a terrible lightning storm coming through and I was really too young to be alone with the kids and without a phone. Ontario lightning storms can be the most amazing and frightening experiences. The night was as black as could be, but with the flash of lightning you could see clear across the fields as if it were a mid-summers day. The sky would light up for fifteen seconds or so, and it would be long enough for your eyes to adjust and clearly see your neighbors home across the highway. As Dave and I stood watching the light show through the big picture window, the wind picked up and was tossing a wheel barrel down the lane. At first it looked like a scene right out of the Wizard Of Oz, and I laughed at Dave who had to go outside to case the barrel down before it caused any damage or reached the highway. Still at the picture window and Dave outside, we both waited for the next flash of lightning to see where the barrel was headed. Just as the sky lit up, Dave was gone, suddenly running directly across the driveway toward the barrel, which was being held against a tree by the wind. Just before he reached it, the sky went black for a second or two, and then another flash lit up the sky even brighter than before. The wheel barrel was still against the tree and right behind the tree stood the first old farmhouse. It was tall, grey and weathered looking with windows that appeared to be staring right at me and watching like it was alive. I heard a loud scream and I witnessed Dave stop dead in his tracks, and then he stumbled and fell backwards on his butt as he tried to turn and run back to the house. Back in the house and white as a ghost, Dave started flashing the outside light on and off which was our safety signal to the neighbors that there was trouble and to come to their aid. Without saying a word and visibly shaking, he waited for his brother Stan to pull up to the house. When he did, Dave jumped on his dirt bike and left. Although we never talked about it later, I can only assume that Dave saw the same image of the old house as I did.
I wish I could better describe the feelings and emotions that a person could experience just by being on this farm - isolated, depressed, feeling a heavy burden and often guilt. Many times there were bursts of anger, which led to a lot of violence. Of course with the alcohol abuse that the family endured for so many years can be blamed for a lot of those incidents, but sometimes I wonder if something else didn't bring it on. There were many moments when the two least likely people would turn violent and angry toward each other over something so minuscule that you might consider that there were other forces at work. Once, my dad's brother Jackie, who is the most calm and easy going man in the family, came home one day after work to find out some family were visiting from Cochrane for the weekend and he was less than impressed. You see, while Jackie was at work, one member of the visiting family, Richard, stopped in to see his family and with Jackie's wife's permission, took the kids for a little ride on Jackie's four wheeler. When Jackie found out he became uncharacteristically angry and violent, beating the hell out of Richard. My dad was called over to calm Jackie down, and he was quick to send the family away before further trouble brewed. This seemed like further evidence to my theory that something more going on than anyone could possibly fathom.
Both the land and the house had a way of taking things and giving back. It was normal to have items disappear for long periods of time, only to show up later in the most unusual places and sometimes not even in the house. Missing items such as books, dishes and once even a toothbrush, turned up in the barn. There were times items that we had never seen before would just appear amongst our things - cutlery even of all things. One time a strange butter knife appeared, which almost drove my mother crazy with fear. The image on the handle was of people crawling up a ladder or rope with flames and the devil beneath them. For years, my mother had a garden and every fall and spring either my dad or my mom would turn over the soil to have it ready for planting. One time, my mother uncovered an old rock foundation while working that was the same size as her entire garden. A year later in the same spot, she dug up an old button up shirt and a pair of denim pants.
As kids growing up in that environment, we all had made a vow to each other that as soon as my parents no longer needed that house, we were going to burn it the first chance we get. I have since moved my parents into another house in the same town, and my father insisted to be the one to tear the farm house down. It took him the last two years to do so, and just this last spring, he applied for a permit to burn what remained. Two weeks before he was to burn it, it is believed that a vehicle passing by on the highway tossed out a cigarette which started a grass fire on the property. The fire quickly spread down toward the house and in the end, the old barn, and stretched to the hay fields beyond. What was left of the old house was the foundation and floor, untouched by the flames and still remain.
Although we laugh about it now, it does play on the question that because things happened to us while living on the farm, is it the land or some kind of family connection.
Kimberly
I think for anyone who might read this to really understand the experiences that my sister(Tracy), and I have wrote, it is important to also touch on some of the family history and also of the area. The majority of occurrences take place in a rural northern Ontario community on a family farm that had been passed down through the generations beginning with my great-grandfather Alfred on my dad's side of the family. Although it isn't clear how much land Alfred had purchased. I am told Alfred and his wife Ella Mae chose to raise their children on one small lot that later became my home.
From all the information and statements that I gathered over the years, I believe that Alfred had divided the land between two of his children, son Jack, and his daughter Grace. Jack with his wife Jean later lived on the same piece of land as Alfred. Grace, married to George, built a home on the far western corner, not far from a fairly large creek that ran down the length of property. Grace and George had three children, the eldest daughter, Edith Jane, son, Alfred George, and youngest, Frederick James.
On June 15, 1950, the children were playing by the creek, when the youngest boy Freddie had fallen in. Alfred George, named after his grandfather, is believed to have went to the aid of his brother first and quickly headed into the water, and his sister, Edith followed. Tragedy struck, and after a thorough search, all three bodies were found in the creek that evening by my grandfather, Jack. Edith was 11 years old, Alfie was 9, and Freddie was just 7.
Now the stories I have been told about the first house that stood on the farm are chilling o say the least. I wish at times I knew more about the history of the house, and whether or not it was actually built by my great grandfather or if it had already been there when he required the property.
Jack and his wife Jean lived in this along with four of their children before their marriage ended. From what I understand, Jean moved west and unable to take the children, Jack remained in the house with two daughters - my dad and his younger brother, Jackie.
Reports of this house from my dad and grandfather Jack, ranged from hearing voices, numerous people running up and down the stairs or having conversations, and it escalated to items being thrown at the kids. This seemed to happen on a daily bases and it didn't seem to matter what time of day or night. My dad's oldest sister, Claudette, seemed to take the worst of the damage. My grandfather told me that once during a heated argument between Jean and Claudette, a hot frying pan sitting on the stove violently threw itself at Claudette and hit her in the back, leaving a terrible burn and a bruise.
There was also an old barn on the farm that had an old style door latch for a handle. The youngest child, Sam, was so little at the time, she was unable to work the latch open. She'd rattle it back and forth to no avail. She could not force it open. When Jean left to move to the west, Sam went to live with a friend of the family until Jean was able to send for her. Even though she was gone from the house and property, The boys, who remained at the old house, could ofter hear the door handle rattle and click as if Sam was on the other side trying to get in.
The only real memory of the first house that I have is in 1978-79, when I was about 8 or 9 years old. My father had saved up enough to start building his own home on the farm and I remember going with him and my mother to the farm to pick out a spot for the new house. Just as we were getting out of the car, my dad told me to stay out of trouble and I was not allowed to go in the old house. As my dad roamed around, I remember peeking through the old glass windows and seeing all sorts of neat things in the rooms. I remember thinking that although everything was tarnished with dust and dirt, it was almost inconceivable that it was empty. I got this notion that people should still be living there. I recall seeing pictures still hanging on the walls and cups on the table. Then something shiny on the floor caught my eye, and I knew right away that it was money. It looked funny to me. I had never seen this type of currency before. They were shiny new, and large and so many of them. I remember wanting them so badly that I figured if I begged my dad long enough, he would let me have them.
Calling for my mom first, I hoped that she would go into the house and get me this money. I pointed through the window at the money on the floor for my mother to see. She hollered for my dad(Boyd) to come look. "Boyd, you got to come see this. There is a pile of silver dollars on the floor!" I remembered getting so excited. I was jumping and dancing around my mom, entertaining the belief that we had suddenly become super rich. My dad peered through the window and to my disappointment, he didn't seem to care one bit.
"Can I have them dad, please dad, can I have them?" No sooner did that come out of my mouth did I regret it. The expression on my dad's face changed so quickly. His good mood suddenly plummeted and anger and hatred took its place. With his face all twisted, blackened eyes, and his voice deep and low, said: "I said no. No one is allowed in the house."
My father never got that angry with me. In fact, that was the first time that he actually scared the hell out of me. Running back to the car in tears, I heard my mom yell with panic in her voice: "Boyd! What the hell is wrong with you!" Immediately after that, we left and that was the last time I seen the old house still standing. Or so I thought. I actually did see the old house once more after that, but it was years after my dad tore it down. Yes, I'll explain that later.
A few weeks after the silver dollar incident, my dad and his brother went to the farm to start tearing down the old house. My dad was persistent, calling hydro several times to make sure it was safe - that the power was turned off before they begun to dismantle it. My dad then climbed on the roof and started disconnecting wires. I don't know if he did get a jolt or if he luckily figured it out first, but I remember him coming home mad as hell. He called hydro and after a lot of swearing and yelling, he asked them if they were trying to kill him. Although Hydro swears that the pole was dead, and the work order was completed, mysteriously, the power still ran live to the house.
After the house was only a pile of rubble, the construction of the new house began. The new house was built directly across from the old, several hundred yards apart. Some lumber was salvaged from the old house, which was also used in the construction of the new house. I am not completely convinced that using old building material for the new house could be the only explanation for all that happened, but I am sure it didn't help matters.
A year later, the house was completed. My dad's brother, Jackie bought a trailer and moved it to the south side of the property across from ours. Only the Trans Canada highway divides the two pieces of land. I only mention this little fact because the experiences in Jackie's home, although mild in comparison to ours, adds further credence to the idea that it could be the property as a whole that is disturbed. Or...maybe it's a freakishly weird family curse that knows no boundaries. There were so many experiences that I find it hard to know where to start. It's impossible to list all the events chronologically. In fact, this is my third or fourth attempt at even writing this paragraph. As soon as I recall one experience, another memory even more unbelievable than the first creeps into my mind.
I think I'll start with the clown. I hate clowns. I cannot remember exactly how old we were. I was maybe 11, Tracy 5 or 6, and my brother Kevin was about 2. My grandfather Jack bought Kevin this red stuffed musical clown. The ones with the wind up red ball nose, and would play a tune when it was wound up. One night I heard Tracy and Kevin screaming from the bedroom - a high pitched blood curdling scream I will never forget. I must have been sweeping up the floor, as the next thing I remember is being in the bedroom doorway with the whisk broom in my hand. The kids were sitting in the middle of the bed. I got this tingling sensation, and numbness all over my body. I followed the children's gaze to the corner of the room to my left. Still in the doorway, I then heard the laughing and giggling. There it was, the clown, on the ceiling, spinning head over heels in circles. Then it stopped upright and violently shook while continuing its incessant giggling. Somehow I mustered up a good dose of courage, and in an instant, I was underneath it, and beating the abomination with the broom. With each strike I kept telling myself that it wasn't hard enough. I'm not sure how long it took - maybe a few seconds, or a few minutes, but it felt like a lifetime to knock that little red bastard off the ceiling. I don't remember what happened to the clown in the days to come.
There were two other incidents that took place involving toys that would take on a life of their own. There was a yellow toy telephone that would ring and roll its eyes when pulled by a string fastened to the front. If left out, we were certain to be woken in the middle of the night, hearing it ring up and down the hallway outside our bedroom. It wasn't until the phone chased my sister down the hallway did my mom finally get rid of it.
As far as actual spiritual manifestations in the house, there were not too many that I can recall. At times, strange figures I could see out the corner of my eye, or a glimpse of their reflections in windows or mirrors. The only spirit I can honestly say I have clearly seen was that of a little blond haired boy. It wasn't until my dad saw the little boy that we started to call him Alfie. My father reassured us that Alfie had been around for years and was quite harmless. Dressed in blue coveralls and tousled dirty blond hair, Alfie seemed to be a little shy, as he was either peeking around corners or running from room to room. On one occasion, my cousin Dwayne was visiting at our house with the intention of staying the night but he had quickly changed his mind after he followed Alfie down the hall into one of the rooms believing that he was following my brother. Neither my brother or sister were home at the time and even though I tried to convince Dwayne that everything was fine, he still insisted that he wanted to leave. Dwayne wasn't our only house guest to report that they had seen Alfie, and over the years, my dad became proficient in calming people's fears and keeping the panicked reactions to a minimum. I saw Alfie four times on the old farm and at least three times years later after my own move to B.C.
Unfortunately Dwayne wasn't the only person who left our home after a paranormal experience, stressed and scared. One evening while my parents were out, the neighbors had sent their youngest son, Dave, over to sit with me and watch the kids. The reason for this was because there was a terrible lightning storm coming through and I was really too young to be alone with the kids and without a phone. Ontario lightning storms can be the most amazing and frightening experiences. The night was as black as could be, but with the flash of lightning you could see clear across the fields as if it were a mid-summers day. The sky would light up for fifteen seconds or so, and it would be long enough for your eyes to adjust and clearly see your neighbors home across the highway. As Dave and I stood watching the light show through the big picture window, the wind picked up and was tossing a wheel barrel down the lane. At first it looked like a scene right out of the Wizard Of Oz, and I laughed at Dave who had to go outside to case the barrel down before it caused any damage or reached the highway. Still at the picture window and Dave outside, we both waited for the next flash of lightning to see where the barrel was headed. Just as the sky lit up, Dave was gone, suddenly running directly across the driveway toward the barrel, which was being held against a tree by the wind. Just before he reached it, the sky went black for a second or two, and then another flash lit up the sky even brighter than before. The wheel barrel was still against the tree and right behind the tree stood the first old farmhouse. It was tall, grey and weathered looking with windows that appeared to be staring right at me and watching like it was alive. I heard a loud scream and I witnessed Dave stop dead in his tracks, and then he stumbled and fell backwards on his butt as he tried to turn and run back to the house. Back in the house and white as a ghost, Dave started flashing the outside light on and off which was our safety signal to the neighbors that there was trouble and to come to their aid. Without saying a word and visibly shaking, he waited for his brother Stan to pull up to the house. When he did, Dave jumped on his dirt bike and left. Although we never talked about it later, I can only assume that Dave saw the same image of the old house as I did.
I wish I could better describe the feelings and emotions that a person could experience just by being on this farm - isolated, depressed, feeling a heavy burden and often guilt. Many times there were bursts of anger, which led to a lot of violence. Of course with the alcohol abuse that the family endured for so many years can be blamed for a lot of those incidents, but sometimes I wonder if something else didn't bring it on. There were many moments when the two least likely people would turn violent and angry toward each other over something so minuscule that you might consider that there were other forces at work. Once, my dad's brother Jackie, who is the most calm and easy going man in the family, came home one day after work to find out some family were visiting from Cochrane for the weekend and he was less than impressed. You see, while Jackie was at work, one member of the visiting family, Richard, stopped in to see his family and with Jackie's wife's permission, took the kids for a little ride on Jackie's four wheeler. When Jackie found out he became uncharacteristically angry and violent, beating the hell out of Richard. My dad was called over to calm Jackie down, and he was quick to send the family away before further trouble brewed. This seemed like further evidence to my theory that something more going on than anyone could possibly fathom.
Both the land and the house had a way of taking things and giving back. It was normal to have items disappear for long periods of time, only to show up later in the most unusual places and sometimes not even in the house. Missing items such as books, dishes and once even a toothbrush, turned up in the barn. There were times items that we had never seen before would just appear amongst our things - cutlery even of all things. One time a strange butter knife appeared, which almost drove my mother crazy with fear. The image on the handle was of people crawling up a ladder or rope with flames and the devil beneath them. For years, my mother had a garden and every fall and spring either my dad or my mom would turn over the soil to have it ready for planting. One time, my mother uncovered an old rock foundation while working that was the same size as her entire garden. A year later in the same spot, she dug up an old button up shirt and a pair of denim pants.
As kids growing up in that environment, we all had made a vow to each other that as soon as my parents no longer needed that house, we were going to burn it the first chance we get. I have since moved my parents into another house in the same town, and my father insisted to be the one to tear the farm house down. It took him the last two years to do so, and just this last spring, he applied for a permit to burn what remained. Two weeks before he was to burn it, it is believed that a vehicle passing by on the highway tossed out a cigarette which started a grass fire on the property. The fire quickly spread down toward the house and in the end, the old barn, and stretched to the hay fields beyond. What was left of the old house was the foundation and floor, untouched by the flames and still remain.
Although we laugh about it now, it does play on the question that because things happened to us while living on the farm, is it the land or some kind of family connection.
Kimberly
Saturday, 27 August 2011
JUST CLOSE YOUR EYES AND COUNT TO TEN
I finally got a Canadian story, an I am very grateful. It comes from Ontario, and the sender happens to be a relative. Her name is Tracy, and she has seen enough ghostly sightings to make one cry, piss their pants and babble like monkey. I won't use her last name because I failed to ask if that was alright. I must say that I was a little surprised to hear of such a story that directly affected members of my own family.
Although I've never had the opportunity to be close to Tracy, she seems to be an honest woman and not one to exaggerate. Her sister Kim also has a story to tell that I will be documenting on the tail of this one, and is directly tied to this one so make sure you keep reading.
This entry is one written from Tracy herself.
During my early adolescence, I wrote numerous poems about a house that would claw and bite. It was a separate entity. It wasn't until many years later, as I sat across from a city psychiatrist, learning about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, that these poems became significant.
Armed with this new found knowledge suggesting I was super-sensitive, dissociated and suffering from PTSD, I began to severely question my experiences with the highly speculative 'paranormal.' Was everything I had witnessed a massive illusion?
I am 34 years old now and there isn't a section of my life where I don't recall an event that can't be deemed as extraordinary. Whether the memory is twenty years ago or yesterday, I have learned to trust my instincts and believe in myself. After all, how likely is it to have only a tiny slice of you be crazy?
My family history is thick with confusion and the stories I've heard paired with my own personal experiences have always held the question: "Is it the land or the family?" In this situation, I believe it to be both and I have arguments for each suggestion. Foremost is the evaluation of our land.
My great-grandfather(on my father's side) travelled to this country from England as a pre-teen. He eventually purchased land which has since been passed down a few generations. This land once held native walking trails leading to small lakes, namely 'Grave Lake,' which still holds a native burial ground. It is said that natives passed on during their travels and often were laid to rest alongside these trails. There is no guarantee that the farmhouses built here were not resurrected upon grave sites.
The land was eventually sectioned and given to a few of my great-grandfather's children. Farmhouses were built within miles of each other and although the house my father was raised in was tore down before my time, I have never doubted the paranormal stories I've been told. The presence living on the land was so extreme and obvious, that it would move objects and often injure those in its path.
As the old house was demolished, my father retained some of the material and built a home directly across the driveway. I don't recall moving into this house, but this is where my older sister Kim, younger brother, Kevin, and I were raised. Seemingly, each individual family that built on this land experienced tremendous hardship. In particular, my great-aunt suffered the loss of all three of her young children as they drowned in a nearby pond. To this day, many people have witnessed a small child with blond hair and faded blue coveralls roaming the land. Even I saw him once, as he walked from a bedroom, down a hallway to stand at our wood stove. It wasn't until years later while looking at a photograph that I shockingly realized that I was staring at the same little boy who was haunting our house, or at least one of the entities. His name was Alfie, and he was one of my great-aunt's children who had drowned in the pond.
Whatever or whoever was there with us took to purely tormenting everyone all the time. There was such heaviness over the land that as soon as we stepped off the school bus and hit the driveway, it felt as though a thousand pounds was put on our backs. The dread, depression and tension were insurmountable. I often bypassed the house and continued on into the field. I would sit for hours and watch the masses of cotton-like orbs roll around the house, seeping in and out of the windows.
One evening while Kim was babysitting, Kevin and I were sent to our room to play as she cleaned up our never ending mess. Sitting on the bed together, we played with a small bag of plastic green army men. In the corner was a red and white clown doll my grandfather gave to Kevin. It had black eyes and a bright red, wind-up nose. Cranking the nose allowed a light, music box-like tune to play. As Kevin and I battled with our army men, the clown started to sing. I sat in total fear, squeezing a plastic man so hard that it cut my palm. Kevin's eyes grew wide, and let out a giant sigh as tears spilled from his eyes. The clown's legs started twitching, and its arms began to move. The clown was dancing. In one raspy breath, Kevin and let out a piercing scream. As Kim came rushing in, the clown made its way up the wall and rested on the ceiling. It continued to sing and gyrate even as Kim beat it down with a broom.
Not long after, we had a similar affair with a toy pull-along telephone that I had. When tugged by a string, the eyes on the phone would dart around and it made a chug, chug, ring, ring, noise. The telephone ceased to exist after it chased me down the hallway.
Very often, the morning routine consisted of telling each other the noises we had heard during the night. One of us had the bright idea to set out a tape recorder in hopes of verifying the night time sounds. I think it was an idea that we all came to regret when the playback revealed whispers and snippets of conversations held by a dozen voices. The memory of those sounds coming through the speakers still haunt me and causes my skin to crawl.
Not only did our farmhouse and the house before hold unexplained events and feelings, but the land had a way of flexing its muscle. If there was an accident to be had in the township, regardless of the season, it occurred on the highway, literally at the end of our driveway and was most likely fatal. I personally had two very, very close calls with transports.
Our house and land also had a way with making things appear and disappear without reason. Considering the home was built by dad when he was young, my parents were very much aware of what went into the walls. I recall a day when a knife appeared in the house. It looked like a regular butter knife, but it had an eerie twist. On the handle of this golden knife was a carving of men climbing a ladder as flames licked their legs. It didn't take long for my mother to dispose of that knife, along with and old paper Ouija board we found.
Years later, as us kids had grown and left home, my mother found herself alone one summer night. She was awakened by a massive presence in the doorway of her room. She recalls that there was no form and no words were spoken, yet this being engulfed her doorway and she knew he was looking for something. She said: "I couldn't see him nor did he say anything, but I could feel him and I knew that he was seeking out something." He left as quickly as he came, heavy footed down the hallway, and out the door. Months later, a visiting neighbor shyly confessed that he was seeing things. "It is weird," he said. "I heard heavy footsteps and someone stood in my doorway, but I couldn't see him. I knew he was there because I could feel and smell him. I think he was looking for something." Over time, more neighbors who lived on my great-grandfather's original land came forth with the same story.
We are all adults now and question our memories and still live with the odd visit from the supernatural world. Even 4th generation children are experiencing events that cannot be accepted as coincidence. Herein lays the suggestion of being attached to the family.
At 18, I walked into my apartment and was smashed in the face with a heavy 'Captain Jack' pipe tobacco scent. As I entered my kitchen, my recently deceased grandfather(on my mother's side), greeted me. He put down his pipe, smiled at me and evaporated into the walls. Soon after, I took a flight to British Columbia to visit my sister, Kim. As I stood in her kitchen against the sink, I suggested to her that I could feel things in her house. "They don't like to be talked about," she told me. We jumped and ran out of the house as a fluorescent light bulb behind me flickered and snapped. After a few nervous giggles, and she assured me it was okay, we re-entered. In her bathroom, I admired her wall of clay masks and pointed to one - "that is my favorite mask," I said to her. As I stepped out of the bathroom, a loud bang and shatter took place behind me. That one mask that I was taken with, fell off the wall and broke into pieces on the floor.
I spent my time at her home moving from room to room, eventually sleeping on the floor beside her bed. I was poked, talked to and all around bothered by a force I could not see. Turns out that I wasn't the only visitor to her home that ended up sleeping on her bedroom floor.
To date I still experience things that I trust to be beyond this world. Every home I've occupied during this life has been met with visits from external forces. Individuals within my family have each been faced with things they can't reckon with. Even those married in, who once didn't believe in that sort of thing have changed their minds.
The older we all become, the more dates become obscured. Yet one thing remains true to each. Whether it was the house or the land, spirits do linger. When shadows rush past our eyes and whispers invade our ears, we are silent enough within to know these are not coincidences, but visits. Thankfully, our experiences now are far less violent than what they were while living in that farmhouse. Then again, children are much more susceptible.
A tiny relation of my experiences is a far cry from the whole story of course, but this was my story nonetheless.
Tracy
Although I've never had the opportunity to be close to Tracy, she seems to be an honest woman and not one to exaggerate. Her sister Kim also has a story to tell that I will be documenting on the tail of this one, and is directly tied to this one so make sure you keep reading.
This entry is one written from Tracy herself.
During my early adolescence, I wrote numerous poems about a house that would claw and bite. It was a separate entity. It wasn't until many years later, as I sat across from a city psychiatrist, learning about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, that these poems became significant.
Armed with this new found knowledge suggesting I was super-sensitive, dissociated and suffering from PTSD, I began to severely question my experiences with the highly speculative 'paranormal.' Was everything I had witnessed a massive illusion?
I am 34 years old now and there isn't a section of my life where I don't recall an event that can't be deemed as extraordinary. Whether the memory is twenty years ago or yesterday, I have learned to trust my instincts and believe in myself. After all, how likely is it to have only a tiny slice of you be crazy?
My family history is thick with confusion and the stories I've heard paired with my own personal experiences have always held the question: "Is it the land or the family?" In this situation, I believe it to be both and I have arguments for each suggestion. Foremost is the evaluation of our land.
My great-grandfather(on my father's side) travelled to this country from England as a pre-teen. He eventually purchased land which has since been passed down a few generations. This land once held native walking trails leading to small lakes, namely 'Grave Lake,' which still holds a native burial ground. It is said that natives passed on during their travels and often were laid to rest alongside these trails. There is no guarantee that the farmhouses built here were not resurrected upon grave sites.
The land was eventually sectioned and given to a few of my great-grandfather's children. Farmhouses were built within miles of each other and although the house my father was raised in was tore down before my time, I have never doubted the paranormal stories I've been told. The presence living on the land was so extreme and obvious, that it would move objects and often injure those in its path.
As the old house was demolished, my father retained some of the material and built a home directly across the driveway. I don't recall moving into this house, but this is where my older sister Kim, younger brother, Kevin, and I were raised. Seemingly, each individual family that built on this land experienced tremendous hardship. In particular, my great-aunt suffered the loss of all three of her young children as they drowned in a nearby pond. To this day, many people have witnessed a small child with blond hair and faded blue coveralls roaming the land. Even I saw him once, as he walked from a bedroom, down a hallway to stand at our wood stove. It wasn't until years later while looking at a photograph that I shockingly realized that I was staring at the same little boy who was haunting our house, or at least one of the entities. His name was Alfie, and he was one of my great-aunt's children who had drowned in the pond.
Whatever or whoever was there with us took to purely tormenting everyone all the time. There was such heaviness over the land that as soon as we stepped off the school bus and hit the driveway, it felt as though a thousand pounds was put on our backs. The dread, depression and tension were insurmountable. I often bypassed the house and continued on into the field. I would sit for hours and watch the masses of cotton-like orbs roll around the house, seeping in and out of the windows.
One evening while Kim was babysitting, Kevin and I were sent to our room to play as she cleaned up our never ending mess. Sitting on the bed together, we played with a small bag of plastic green army men. In the corner was a red and white clown doll my grandfather gave to Kevin. It had black eyes and a bright red, wind-up nose. Cranking the nose allowed a light, music box-like tune to play. As Kevin and I battled with our army men, the clown started to sing. I sat in total fear, squeezing a plastic man so hard that it cut my palm. Kevin's eyes grew wide, and let out a giant sigh as tears spilled from his eyes. The clown's legs started twitching, and its arms began to move. The clown was dancing. In one raspy breath, Kevin and let out a piercing scream. As Kim came rushing in, the clown made its way up the wall and rested on the ceiling. It continued to sing and gyrate even as Kim beat it down with a broom.
Not long after, we had a similar affair with a toy pull-along telephone that I had. When tugged by a string, the eyes on the phone would dart around and it made a chug, chug, ring, ring, noise. The telephone ceased to exist after it chased me down the hallway.
Very often, the morning routine consisted of telling each other the noises we had heard during the night. One of us had the bright idea to set out a tape recorder in hopes of verifying the night time sounds. I think it was an idea that we all came to regret when the playback revealed whispers and snippets of conversations held by a dozen voices. The memory of those sounds coming through the speakers still haunt me and causes my skin to crawl.
Not only did our farmhouse and the house before hold unexplained events and feelings, but the land had a way of flexing its muscle. If there was an accident to be had in the township, regardless of the season, it occurred on the highway, literally at the end of our driveway and was most likely fatal. I personally had two very, very close calls with transports.
Our house and land also had a way with making things appear and disappear without reason. Considering the home was built by dad when he was young, my parents were very much aware of what went into the walls. I recall a day when a knife appeared in the house. It looked like a regular butter knife, but it had an eerie twist. On the handle of this golden knife was a carving of men climbing a ladder as flames licked their legs. It didn't take long for my mother to dispose of that knife, along with and old paper Ouija board we found.
Years later, as us kids had grown and left home, my mother found herself alone one summer night. She was awakened by a massive presence in the doorway of her room. She recalls that there was no form and no words were spoken, yet this being engulfed her doorway and she knew he was looking for something. She said: "I couldn't see him nor did he say anything, but I could feel him and I knew that he was seeking out something." He left as quickly as he came, heavy footed down the hallway, and out the door. Months later, a visiting neighbor shyly confessed that he was seeing things. "It is weird," he said. "I heard heavy footsteps and someone stood in my doorway, but I couldn't see him. I knew he was there because I could feel and smell him. I think he was looking for something." Over time, more neighbors who lived on my great-grandfather's original land came forth with the same story.
We are all adults now and question our memories and still live with the odd visit from the supernatural world. Even 4th generation children are experiencing events that cannot be accepted as coincidence. Herein lays the suggestion of being attached to the family.
At 18, I walked into my apartment and was smashed in the face with a heavy 'Captain Jack' pipe tobacco scent. As I entered my kitchen, my recently deceased grandfather(on my mother's side), greeted me. He put down his pipe, smiled at me and evaporated into the walls. Soon after, I took a flight to British Columbia to visit my sister, Kim. As I stood in her kitchen against the sink, I suggested to her that I could feel things in her house. "They don't like to be talked about," she told me. We jumped and ran out of the house as a fluorescent light bulb behind me flickered and snapped. After a few nervous giggles, and she assured me it was okay, we re-entered. In her bathroom, I admired her wall of clay masks and pointed to one - "that is my favorite mask," I said to her. As I stepped out of the bathroom, a loud bang and shatter took place behind me. That one mask that I was taken with, fell off the wall and broke into pieces on the floor.
I spent my time at her home moving from room to room, eventually sleeping on the floor beside her bed. I was poked, talked to and all around bothered by a force I could not see. Turns out that I wasn't the only visitor to her home that ended up sleeping on her bedroom floor.
To date I still experience things that I trust to be beyond this world. Every home I've occupied during this life has been met with visits from external forces. Individuals within my family have each been faced with things they can't reckon with. Even those married in, who once didn't believe in that sort of thing have changed their minds.
The older we all become, the more dates become obscured. Yet one thing remains true to each. Whether it was the house or the land, spirits do linger. When shadows rush past our eyes and whispers invade our ears, we are silent enough within to know these are not coincidences, but visits. Thankfully, our experiences now are far less violent than what they were while living in that farmhouse. Then again, children are much more susceptible.
A tiny relation of my experiences is a far cry from the whole story of course, but this was my story nonetheless.
Tracy
Saturday, 20 August 2011
The Warrior Wanted His Head Rejoined To His Body
For whatever reason, stories of ghosts or anything involving supernatural phenomena are scarce in Williams Lake, B.C. This doesn't mean, however, that there aren't any valid stories. I've heard bits and pieces here and there, but have never had the opportunity to listen in full. That's where you come in. I'd like to hear stories from you, the reader, on personal experiences with the supernatural in Williams Lake B.C. I would also gladly welcome stories from anywhere else for that matter.
Until then, I will keep passing on stories I've read from a few researchers, especially the great Brad Steiger. Now lets get to the story.
Brad Steiger 'Real Ghosts, Restless Spirits, And Haunted Places
In 1964, a museum in New Mexico assigned a pair of young archeologists to undertake what had been planned as a very ordinary examination of one of the countless early Pueblo villages that dotted the flat lands of New Mexico. No extraordinary finds were expected, but investigation at the site was overdue. The two young archeologists would be working side by side with Navajo diggers hired to aid in the project.
Work was proceeding as anticipated when a Navajo workman doing rough excavation on a refuse pit at the edge of the village hurriedly approached the team leaders with news of a curious discovery. His shovel had partly uncovered a piece of bone among the rubble that had been deposited there nearly 1000 years earlier by the inhabitants of the ancient village. Unwilling to touch the bone for fear it might be human and bear a curse, the digger alerted the archeologists to the find and stood back at a respectful distance as they took up the digging. What emerged, to the archeologists' surprise, was the skull of a Native American man whose body had apparently been thrown without ceremony into the garbage pits. It was a strange find considering the reverence with which the New Mexican tribes were know to bury their dead.
After the two archeologists had searched for hours without finding the rest of the skeletal remains, they returned their attentions to the skull and came up with a gruesome explanation. Death had probably come to the man from a blow to the back of the skull. The shape of the head suggested that it was not a Pueblo tribesman, but probably the skull of one of many Apache invaders who had filtered into the area during a wave of migration in about 900 A.D. A piece of cervical vertebra still clinging to the skull showed marks having been hacked through by some early weapon similar to an axe.
The aged bones that lay in the refuse heap had belonged to a captive Apache who had been killed and beheaded by the Pueblo, then consigned to the garbage as a further degradation. No further attempts were immediately made to unearth any remaining skeletal bones after the first search of the nearby area had proved fruitless. They were of no great archeological importance, and more urgent work in the heart of the old village required all of the hours that the summer dig would still permit.
But then strange events began occurring at the old Pueblo ruin. What appeared to be the work of vandals suddenly began causing havoc at the dig site. When the archeologists and Navajo workmen slept, someone entered the village and smashed unearthed pottery and kicked in carefully excavated trenches. Events took on an even more macabre turn in the week that followed. Frightened worker swore that they saw the glowing head of a man appear before them in their bunkhouse at night. Utter nonsense, the archeologists laughed, until they slept with the workmen one night and saw the faintly phosphorescent glow of what might have been the head of a man. There was no rational explanation for the sight.
Panic at the site reached its peak when the workers became certain they were hearing words in a tribal dialect that they did not understand carried on the winds of the inky desert nights. As a last resort the young archeologists turned to an age-creased shaman at a nearby Navajo reservation to explain what was taking place at the dig and restore progress to the work at the village. The shaman said that the head of the long dead Apache was seeking his body because he could not enter the spirit world without it. The ghost would haunt the excavation until head and body were joined together in burial. Native superstition, the archeologists agreed, but in order to calm the nerves of the jittery workmen, they would see what could be done about finding the rest of the restless Apache's bones.
Because the Navajo workers reasoned that the vandalism had been a sign to help the diggers, the search for the missing remains centered on the area of the village where the vandalism had occurred. As digging proceeded in the area over several days, the team could not help noticing that the vandalism had stopped. Was it a sign the ghost was pleased? As workmen softly prodded the earth from an old ceremonial circle, a wall of dirt fell away and revealed a set of bones protruding from the soil. When the bones were laid out, they were found to be of a young male missing his head. When the skull that had been discovered earlier was brought out for comparison, the severed vertebra were an exact match. The bones of the doomed Apache brave reposed together once more.
With the aid of the shaman, the young archeologists gave a reverential burial to the yellowed skeletal remains, and the troubles that had plagued the summer expedition ended at once. When the final report of the diggings at the site was made to the museum, the scientific background of the young arheologists did not permit inclusion of the strange events that had taken place at the site. But they were willing to share those experiences with friends, who puzzled as earnestly as they did over the curious happenings that led them to help a long dead Apache find peace in the next world. Not a scientific achievement, but a very human one of which they were proud.
Until then, I will keep passing on stories I've read from a few researchers, especially the great Brad Steiger. Now lets get to the story.
Brad Steiger 'Real Ghosts, Restless Spirits, And Haunted Places
In 1964, a museum in New Mexico assigned a pair of young archeologists to undertake what had been planned as a very ordinary examination of one of the countless early Pueblo villages that dotted the flat lands of New Mexico. No extraordinary finds were expected, but investigation at the site was overdue. The two young archeologists would be working side by side with Navajo diggers hired to aid in the project.
Work was proceeding as anticipated when a Navajo workman doing rough excavation on a refuse pit at the edge of the village hurriedly approached the team leaders with news of a curious discovery. His shovel had partly uncovered a piece of bone among the rubble that had been deposited there nearly 1000 years earlier by the inhabitants of the ancient village. Unwilling to touch the bone for fear it might be human and bear a curse, the digger alerted the archeologists to the find and stood back at a respectful distance as they took up the digging. What emerged, to the archeologists' surprise, was the skull of a Native American man whose body had apparently been thrown without ceremony into the garbage pits. It was a strange find considering the reverence with which the New Mexican tribes were know to bury their dead.
After the two archeologists had searched for hours without finding the rest of the skeletal remains, they returned their attentions to the skull and came up with a gruesome explanation. Death had probably come to the man from a blow to the back of the skull. The shape of the head suggested that it was not a Pueblo tribesman, but probably the skull of one of many Apache invaders who had filtered into the area during a wave of migration in about 900 A.D. A piece of cervical vertebra still clinging to the skull showed marks having been hacked through by some early weapon similar to an axe.
The aged bones that lay in the refuse heap had belonged to a captive Apache who had been killed and beheaded by the Pueblo, then consigned to the garbage as a further degradation. No further attempts were immediately made to unearth any remaining skeletal bones after the first search of the nearby area had proved fruitless. They were of no great archeological importance, and more urgent work in the heart of the old village required all of the hours that the summer dig would still permit.
But then strange events began occurring at the old Pueblo ruin. What appeared to be the work of vandals suddenly began causing havoc at the dig site. When the archeologists and Navajo workmen slept, someone entered the village and smashed unearthed pottery and kicked in carefully excavated trenches. Events took on an even more macabre turn in the week that followed. Frightened worker swore that they saw the glowing head of a man appear before them in their bunkhouse at night. Utter nonsense, the archeologists laughed, until they slept with the workmen one night and saw the faintly phosphorescent glow of what might have been the head of a man. There was no rational explanation for the sight.
Panic at the site reached its peak when the workers became certain they were hearing words in a tribal dialect that they did not understand carried on the winds of the inky desert nights. As a last resort the young archeologists turned to an age-creased shaman at a nearby Navajo reservation to explain what was taking place at the dig and restore progress to the work at the village. The shaman said that the head of the long dead Apache was seeking his body because he could not enter the spirit world without it. The ghost would haunt the excavation until head and body were joined together in burial. Native superstition, the archeologists agreed, but in order to calm the nerves of the jittery workmen, they would see what could be done about finding the rest of the restless Apache's bones.
Because the Navajo workers reasoned that the vandalism had been a sign to help the diggers, the search for the missing remains centered on the area of the village where the vandalism had occurred. As digging proceeded in the area over several days, the team could not help noticing that the vandalism had stopped. Was it a sign the ghost was pleased? As workmen softly prodded the earth from an old ceremonial circle, a wall of dirt fell away and revealed a set of bones protruding from the soil. When the bones were laid out, they were found to be of a young male missing his head. When the skull that had been discovered earlier was brought out for comparison, the severed vertebra were an exact match. The bones of the doomed Apache brave reposed together once more.
With the aid of the shaman, the young archeologists gave a reverential burial to the yellowed skeletal remains, and the troubles that had plagued the summer expedition ended at once. When the final report of the diggings at the site was made to the museum, the scientific background of the young arheologists did not permit inclusion of the strange events that had taken place at the site. But they were willing to share those experiences with friends, who puzzled as earnestly as they did over the curious happenings that led them to help a long dead Apache find peace in the next world. Not a scientific achievement, but a very human one of which they were proud.
Friday, 5 August 2011
Salem Witch Hysteria
From Brad Steiger's 'Real Ghosts, Restless Spirits, And Haunted Places.
Because of the accusations of a small circle of prepubescent girls, an entire community in the Massachusetts Bay Colony became crazed and allowed themselves to get caught up in the fear that many of their neighbors were secretly serving Satan.
A strong case might be made from the argument that the famous Salem witchcraft hysteria of 1692 is an example of poltergeist phenomena that got out of hand. The young girls, who claimed to have been bewitched by invisible spirits under the control of various elderly women in the village, complained of being pinched, having their hair pulled and being stuck with pins. All these classic symptoms of witch's wickedness we now recognize as familiar manifestations of poltergeists.
The madness at Salem began innocently enough in the home of the Reverend Samual Parris, when his slave Tituba began telling stories of voodoo and restless spirits to his nine year old daughter Betty and her eleven year old cousin Abigail Williams. Soon the exciting storytelling sessions in the Parris household were attracting older girls, such as sixteen year old Mary Walcott, and eighteen year old Susanna Sheldon, who wanted Tituba to tell their fortunes and predict their future husbands, as well as tell them ghost stories. Although Parris and the other preachers fulminated from the pulpits about the dangers of seeking occult knowledge from spirits, the girls of Salem ignored such warnings in favor of a thrilling pastime that could help them through a long, cold winter.
Perhaps the psychic energies grew stronger when Ann Putnam, a fragile highly strung twelve year old, joined the circle in the company of the Putnams' maid, nineteen year old Mercy Lewis. Ann had a quick wit, a high intelligence and a lively imagination, and she soon became Tituba's most avid and apt pupil. Perhaps while a part of Ann's psyche was thrilled with the forbidden knowledge that Tituba was sharing with them, another more conservative religious aspect was racked with guilt for having flirted with devilish enchantment. Undoubtedly this conflict of conscience and the fear of discovery also affected the other girls.
As the winter days passed in Salem, little Betty Parris became distracted from her chores, subject to sudden fits of weeping, and was often seen staring blankly at the wall. Shortly thereafter, Abigail got down on all fours and began barking like a dog or braying like a donkey. Mary Walcott and Susanna Sheldon fell into convulsions. Ann Putnam and Mercy Lewis also began to suffer seizures. Something evil had come to Salem.
When members of the Salem clergy began to ask the girls who ti was that was tormenting them, Tituba was the first to be named by the 'possessed' children. Nor did anyone doubt the naming of Sarah Good, an unpleasant woman who smoked a foul smelling pipe, and who had been suspected of spreading smallpox through witchcraft. But when Sarah Osburne was also named by the children, the village was shocked. Mrs. Osburne was a wealthy woman who lived in one of the most substantial homes in Salem. Nevertheless, warrants were issued for all three women.
From such a dramatic beginning, the list of names of the Devil's disciples who were tormenting the girls grew steadily longer. Two magistrates, John Hathorne and Jonathon Corwin, were sent out from the General Court of Massachusetts Colony to hear testimony that included tales of talking animals, dark shapes, red cats, and a Tall Man, who was undoubtedly the Devil himself.
When the pious, saintly seventy-one year old Rebecca Nurse was arrested for witchcraft, the townsfolk of Salem began to realize that no one was safe from such accusations. Although the jury initially acquitted her, the judge ordered the jury to reconsider, and she was found guilty. She was hanged on Gallows Hill on July 19, 1692.
Massachusetts governor William Phips became outraged when his own wife was accused of being a witch. He ordered that there should be no further imprisonments for witchcraft in the state, and he forbade any more executions for the crime of witchcraft in Salem. Because of the governor's actions, the nearly 150 men and women who were still chained to prison walls were set free, and many who had been convicted of witchcraft were pardoned.
You have a story, please feel free to respond.
Because of the accusations of a small circle of prepubescent girls, an entire community in the Massachusetts Bay Colony became crazed and allowed themselves to get caught up in the fear that many of their neighbors were secretly serving Satan.
A strong case might be made from the argument that the famous Salem witchcraft hysteria of 1692 is an example of poltergeist phenomena that got out of hand. The young girls, who claimed to have been bewitched by invisible spirits under the control of various elderly women in the village, complained of being pinched, having their hair pulled and being stuck with pins. All these classic symptoms of witch's wickedness we now recognize as familiar manifestations of poltergeists.
The madness at Salem began innocently enough in the home of the Reverend Samual Parris, when his slave Tituba began telling stories of voodoo and restless spirits to his nine year old daughter Betty and her eleven year old cousin Abigail Williams. Soon the exciting storytelling sessions in the Parris household were attracting older girls, such as sixteen year old Mary Walcott, and eighteen year old Susanna Sheldon, who wanted Tituba to tell their fortunes and predict their future husbands, as well as tell them ghost stories. Although Parris and the other preachers fulminated from the pulpits about the dangers of seeking occult knowledge from spirits, the girls of Salem ignored such warnings in favor of a thrilling pastime that could help them through a long, cold winter.
Perhaps the psychic energies grew stronger when Ann Putnam, a fragile highly strung twelve year old, joined the circle in the company of the Putnams' maid, nineteen year old Mercy Lewis. Ann had a quick wit, a high intelligence and a lively imagination, and she soon became Tituba's most avid and apt pupil. Perhaps while a part of Ann's psyche was thrilled with the forbidden knowledge that Tituba was sharing with them, another more conservative religious aspect was racked with guilt for having flirted with devilish enchantment. Undoubtedly this conflict of conscience and the fear of discovery also affected the other girls.
As the winter days passed in Salem, little Betty Parris became distracted from her chores, subject to sudden fits of weeping, and was often seen staring blankly at the wall. Shortly thereafter, Abigail got down on all fours and began barking like a dog or braying like a donkey. Mary Walcott and Susanna Sheldon fell into convulsions. Ann Putnam and Mercy Lewis also began to suffer seizures. Something evil had come to Salem.
When members of the Salem clergy began to ask the girls who ti was that was tormenting them, Tituba was the first to be named by the 'possessed' children. Nor did anyone doubt the naming of Sarah Good, an unpleasant woman who smoked a foul smelling pipe, and who had been suspected of spreading smallpox through witchcraft. But when Sarah Osburne was also named by the children, the village was shocked. Mrs. Osburne was a wealthy woman who lived in one of the most substantial homes in Salem. Nevertheless, warrants were issued for all three women.
From such a dramatic beginning, the list of names of the Devil's disciples who were tormenting the girls grew steadily longer. Two magistrates, John Hathorne and Jonathon Corwin, were sent out from the General Court of Massachusetts Colony to hear testimony that included tales of talking animals, dark shapes, red cats, and a Tall Man, who was undoubtedly the Devil himself.
When the pious, saintly seventy-one year old Rebecca Nurse was arrested for witchcraft, the townsfolk of Salem began to realize that no one was safe from such accusations. Although the jury initially acquitted her, the judge ordered the jury to reconsider, and she was found guilty. She was hanged on Gallows Hill on July 19, 1692.
Massachusetts governor William Phips became outraged when his own wife was accused of being a witch. He ordered that there should be no further imprisonments for witchcraft in the state, and he forbade any more executions for the crime of witchcraft in Salem. Because of the governor's actions, the nearly 150 men and women who were still chained to prison walls were set free, and many who had been convicted of witchcraft were pardoned.
You have a story, please feel free to respond.
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