Ghost Stories of British Columbia

always.

Introduction

I’ve always hated it when people ask me what I do for a living.

If you say you’re a writer (and this may hold true for any slightly flaky non-nine-to-five occupation), people’s eyes just sort of glaze over. Back in the days when I wrote advertising, I would add that fact so that the blank stare would at least be replaced with a look of thinly veiled contempt. ("Oh, so you lie for a living," one master of tact actually said. Ironically, he was in sales.)

But for the past few years, what I’ve been writing are these true ghost stories, so if anyone presses me to be more specific about what I do, this is what I must tell them. And if the eyes were glazed over to begin with, we’re talking full-blown cataracts, in response to this.

I have to assume that most folks don’t know how to comment on such a senseless choice of profession. As for those who do say something, they seem motivated by the subject matter, rather than the fact that I have written about it. Interestingly, the reactions vary wildly.

Religious conviction seems to influence the response—but I’m a little confused as to how. It leads some people to believe in the earthly presence of spirits, and others to adamantly reject such a possibility. Yet, both camps credit their faith as the source of their conviction.

A similar division can be found among those considering the possibility that their own departed loved ones may be lingering, in some form, among us. Some people are comforted and reassured by the notion; others are horrified by it, feeling that the person cannot be at rest if they remain earthbound in any way.

And then there are those who just find the concept of ghosts generally upsetting. If you are one of them—and I must confess, I find it strange that you’re even reading this book, if you are—I encourage you to enjoy the stories simply as stories. After all, if there is a subject matter that falls into the believe-it-or-not category, this is it.

For the record, I do believe in ghosts. I have found it impossible to disbelieve the many credible, honest people who have shared their experiences with me. However—being a collector of tales, and not a paranormal researcher—I have no burning desire to convince the rest of the world. I just hope that even if you cannot believe in the phenomena, perhaps you can find value in the folklore.

But—love it or hate it, believe it or not—it would seem that, as a society, we can’t get enough of these mysteries. The books we read and the television programs we tune to are so often of a supernatural theme, these days. The immense popularity of Stephen King, R.L. Stine, and shows ranging from Are You Afraid of the Dark? to The X-Files proves our fascination. (Incidentally, Gillian Anderson, who plays Agent Dana Scully in the Vancouver-produced The X-Files claims to have a bit of a true BC ghost story of her own. She and her husband moved into a house near a native burial ground, and immediately sensed that they were not the only occupants. It was creepy, was her quote in the March 10, 1995 issue of Entertainment Weekly. It felt like there was someone attached to me. A smudging ritual was performed, and Anderson now feels that whatever spirits were there have left.)

But while our curiosity regarding the paranormal seems to be on the rise, it’s hardly a new interest. The X-Files is simply The Twilight Zone of this generation; Peter Straub, a current Edgar Allen Poe. Go back a little further, and you’ll see that even Shakespeare knew the entertainment value of a good ghost.

While I scoured the province’s old newspapers in search of ghost stories, I found local evidence of their enduring appeal. Nearly forty years ago in Victoria, a writer for the Daily Colonist by the name of Bert Binny wrote a series of articles on local ghost-lore, containing one of the more interesting theories I’ve come across.

Binny was challenging the smugness of those who were inclined to deny the existence of ghosts, based on the fact that they had never personally seen one. How do you know you don’t see ghosts? was the headline of Binny’s response in the April 27, 1958, Daily Colonist.

Quite frequently, people think they have seen ghosts which afterwards prove to be real honest-to-goodness human beings.

But could not the reverse process also take place?

Are ghosts always recognizable as such?

Could not what looks like a real person actually be a ghost?

Do you know by sight everyone who has died hereabouts during, for example, the past year? If one of their ghosts appeared on the bus, on Douglas Street or in Beacon Hill Park, would you know it for what it was or, being a practical soul, assume that it was real?

Food for thought—particularly since I am often asked if I’ve ever seen a ghost. Generally, I say no, but given this theory, who can tell?

After I tell people that I’ve never seen a spectre, I usually add that I would like to. But lately, I’ve been reconsidering.

Under controlled circumstances, it would be exciting. However, life is rarely a controlled circumstance, and being frightened or surprised in my own home is one experience I would prefer to live without. It’s a fine idea by daylight, this wanting to witness an apparition, but past the so-called witching hour, I begin to think otherwise.

This past January, I gave birth to a son and, as with most infants, for the first few weeks his preferred time to boogie was between 2:00 and 5:00 a.m. Being an early-to-bed type, it’s a time of day I would never see under normal circumstances and, in those quiet, dark, lonely hours, my imagination kept me morbidly entertained.

I would wander through our rather old house doing the rock-and-bounce step familiar to parents worldwide, and every so often I would peek out the window of our front door to see how the neighbourhood was keeping. I always saw the same thing: parked cars, dark houses, closed curtains, no movement. It would have been slightly unnerving to see anyone on our residential street at those hours, but then I began to think, what if I were to glance out the window and lock eyes with someone coming up our front walk! That would be alarming, given the time. But what if I then noticed that this person, illuminated in the soft, slightly weird orange glow of the streetlights wasn’t exactly walking, but gliding, and that there were no tracks in the snow because, well, his feet seemed to be a good three or four inches off the ground?

To quote a twelve-year-old movie, who ya gonna call?

The wildness of my imagination during these early morning hours convinced me that, despite my curiosity, I don’t particularly long for eerie things to be happening in my own home. But that’s exactly what most of the people who write to me have to deal with. Ghosts in their homes, spooky incidents in their places of employment, strange stuff occurring in the places where they are forced to be, every day. And, it is worth mentioning that many people have little or no desire for such adventure, controlled circumstances or not.

A woman named Sandy McCormick, who was unable to sit through the average horror movie, found herself living one when the cycle shop she ran in Courtenay turned out to be haunted. According to the Courtenay Comox Valley Record, Sandy’s habit of working late and spending the night on a hide-a-bed in the back room ended soon after the slow, steady, disembodied footsteps began.

Many other people demonstrated their very real fear by moving to new premises—extreme measures, unless you truly believe the old place to be haunted. One family I interviewed for my first book, Ghost Stories of Saskatchewan, actually had a priest bless every room of their haunted house, then proceeded to bulldoze it and, for good measure, torch the debris. Want to know the scary part? It didn’t rid them of the ghost.

This would be a good time to mention, however, that while seeing someone float through your living room or having your appliances act as though they have minds of their own can be obviously disconcerting, the majority of people I speak to are more awed than frightened by their experiences. For many, it becomes a rather special memory—something mystical; spiritual.

Some folks are accepting; some are not. Some are inspired; some, frightened. But the common denominator seems to be this: countless people in British Columbia have had experiences that they simply cannot explain. And while I conducted my research, I was struck by the absolute openness, sincerity, and generosity these people showed me. These were very personal experiences—in some cases, very few people were privy to the details, before now—and yet the stories were willingly shared and entrusted to me.

I was also impressed, once again, with the helpfulness of people in the province’s libraries, museums, and newspapers. Not only did they provide valuable stories and story leads, but often went above and beyond, as they say, in their efforts to assist me and enhance this book.

A. Burridge of the Salt Spring Island Public Library Association sent along this tidbit:

If you are writing about ghosts, you may be interested to know that the unnecessary insertion of ‘h’ in ghost is due to William Caxton (1422-91) who thought the word ghost looked more correct than gost. Ghosh!

Zoe Stephenson, in reaction to my letter to the Greenwood Museum, was inspired to write this marvellous poem for the Boundary Creek Times:

Have you seen a ghost floating through your rooms?

A translucent, shimmering light?

Waltzing in step to a wistful old tune,

then vanishing out of your sight?

Or talk to a stranger on Copper Street

who smelled of dank, dead musty air.

A wispy mist creeping up from his feet

when you glanced back, he wasn’t there.

Have you heard screams or bumps in the night?

The scraping of rusty old chains?

Strange eerie noises that numbed you with fright

but never could be explained?

When the Lakes District News printed my request for ghost stories, they admitted to their readers that they had one of their own! Mark Nielsen’s column contained a strange tale of hollow footsteps, mysterious flooding, unexplainably strewn paperwork, and cold waves of air in the room that once served as a morgue, when the building was a local police detachment.

All these people were incredibly helpful. All the British Columbians who answered my request for stories were, as well. Together, they shaped this book into what it is—a combination of well-known folklore and intriguing personal accounts, which can now take their place as part of the province’s social history.

That they are inextricably tied to our history is one of the great things about ghost stories. As Bert Binny so accurately acknowledged, back in 1958, Our heritage would be lacking without them.

Here are the ghost stories that are part of British Columbia’s heritage.

I hope they are to your liking.

CHAPTER ONE

The Mysterious Museums

If ghosts are a product of our history, one could assume that the province’s museums are home to many a story-telling spectre.

Often, as with Craigdarroch Castle (see chapter 6), the museums themselves have dramatic pasts as private homes or public buildings of certain significance. In these cases, the events that have transpired on the premises may have left behind a psychic mark, and previous tenants may have stayed beyond their earthly lease.

In some cases, however, paranormal activity appears to come not from the building but from the artifacts housed within. This is not surprising. Some theorists believe that a beloved possession can quite effectively chain a spirit to this dimension.

Whatever the cause, the effects are fascinating. From five different British Columbia museums come stories that you won’t likely hear on an average educational tour.

Mandy: Quesnel’s Haunted Doll

On January 25, 1995, the Quesnel Advocate ran a small article featuring one of the artifacts at the local museum. Dry reading material? Hardly. In fact, it inspired nearly one hundred people in this small town to visit the museum and see the exhibit for themselves.

The attraction was Mandy—an antique doll with an unsavoury reputation. She came to the Quesnel and District Museum in 1991, via a donor who seemed anxious to be rid of her. Ruth Stubbs, the museum’s curator, remembers the moment well.

She practically plopped the doll down on my desk, she recalled, in the Quesnel Advocate. The doll had belonged to her grandmother. She said that she didn’t want her daughter to play with the doll because it was starting to disintegrate.

The woman’s apparent revulsion was contagious—or perhaps Mandy was able to inspire such feelings—for as Ruth Stubbs accepted the 1920s-era toy, she felt distinctly uneasy.

Admittedly, the doll’s appearance was somewhat grotesque. A severe crack in her head made one eye leer suggestively and quite independently of the other. The realistically painted features could, at a glance, give Mandy the appearance of a real, but terribly scarred, child. And it somehow added to the eeriness that the doll spent her first forty-eight hours at the museum shrouded in clear plastic, a measure taken to determine whether insects had infested her stuffed, cloth body.

[The total effect] was creepy, to say the least, wrote Ruth, but I thought it was a feeling that I just had.

Perhaps, but