The Oaken Snuggery Part 16

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 16 BY TED CURRIE      Mrs. Bosevelt, on her morning rounds of the Bed and Breakfast, picked up a book from the floor, that had toppled from the bookshelf sometime during the night. This, of course, wasn’t all that unusual, as it happened quite frequently, and sometimes the books were so far from the shelf, that even with a modest end over end roll, couldn’t possibly have made it six feet from its former position. It was as if it was purposely taken off the shelf, and the person or in this case entity, that removed it, actually took several steps back, and then slammed it onto the floor. This book, she pointed out, was fairly close to the shelf but it was the only one that was opened by the impact. Odd as well, was the fact it was on its back and open as if it was where the reader was, when the book fell to the floor. She thought I’d be amused by this, and bookmarked the pages that had been facing up, when she noticed it laying on the floor, as if someone reading it had just dropped it perfectly, having been startled by an unexpected intrusion, like for example, a ghost. In this case however, it was more than likely a ghost that pulled the book from the shelf and dropped it, so as to let the owners know their haunting was still very much a work in progress.      The inscribed book is entitled simply, “Friendship,” by Hugh Black, and was given as a Christmas present in 1903, by Reverend Joseph Ewing Reid, to his wife Maude, and somehow wound up here at the pleasant Bed and Breakfast in Rose Hill, operated by the Bosevelt family. The book, after its assisted tumble to the floor, was opened to pages 122 and 23, and is headed “The Eclipse of Friendship.” I read both pages and wondered if the wee lasses who seem to be haunting up a storm here at The Oaken Snuggery, wanted me to pick up on a message or two, possibly contained in Mr. Black’s text. “The great fact of life, nevertheless, is death, and it must have a purpose to serve and a lesson to teach. It seems to lose something of its impressiveness because it is universal. The very inevitableness  of it seems to kill thought, rather than induce it. It is only when the blow strikes home, that we are pulled up and forced to face the fact. Theoretically there is a wonderful unanimity  among men, regarding the shortness of life and the uncertainty of all human relationships. The last word of the wise on life has never been its fleetingness, its appalling changes, its unexpected surprises. The only certainty of life is its uncertainty - its unstable tenures, its inevitable end. But practically we go on as if we could lay our plans, and mortgage time, without doubt or danger; until our feet are knocked from under us by some sudden shock, and we realize how unstable the equilibrium of life really is. The lesson of life is death.” I rested the book on my lap, looked out the window of the Great Room, and pondered whether it was possible, these child spirits could have been so profound and philosophical, that they would stress to the voyeur, how fragile life was, when they had both experienced it first hand. Wasn’t then obvious life was a precarious balance, or was there another reason they were interested in forwarding our research in this haunting business they seemed eager to perpetuate?      “To superstitious minds, therefore, predisposed by the strange and melancholy stories that are connected with family paintings, it needs but little stretch of fancy, on a moonlight night, or by the flickering light of a candle, to set the old pictures on the walls in motion, sweeping in their robes and trains about the gallery.” Washington Irving, “Bracebridge Hall” published in 1822.      It was just after breakfast today, having dined enjoyably with the new Bed and Breakfast guests, Angela and Thomas Collins, of Toronto, and the three of us had moved from the dining area, and its glorious food-laden harvest table, courtesy our hosts the Bosevelts, and settled quite comfortably in the great room, and the armchairs positioned around the hearth, still crackling with a small fire. We were allowed the privilege of bringing our leftover coffee to the room, and Mrs. Bosevelt never let our cups go dry, until we finally had to beg her to cease, as our bladders might explode.      Thomas begged our forgiveness for leaving the conversation, as Mr. Bosevelt had promised him an inside look at his woodworking shop in the small barn a short walk from the main house. Bosevelt had done most of the finish carpentry in the restored farmhouse, during its transition to what is now a popular new Bed and Breakfast in the present ghost hamlet of Rose Hill, known as The Oaken Snuggery. Angela Collins informed me that her husband was a hobby wood worker but hadn’t ever attempted a renovation on their house, or even garage. But had refinished a few press back chairs for their vintage oak dining room set.      After all the din of inmates of the Snuggery moving back and forth, in preparation for their next project for the morning, Angela turned to me and with a loud whisper, asked me about the two young girls who were haunting the house. I was stunned by her question, and assumed one of the Bosevelts had leaked our little in-house secret. When I asked her what she meant by that statement, she looked at me as one who has much more intimate knowledge of ghosts than I can honestly claim. “I saw them sitting on the hall seat when we arrived yesterday,” she said. “You mean you saw them clearly,” I asked this very important new witness to the Snuggery events. “They were both wearing white frilly dresses, and they were covered with dirty blotches, on the fabric, their shoes, socks, and they even had smudges on their faces, as if they had just then, ceased rolling on the ground outside, and were simply taking a break from play. They looked like two normal kids who didn’t want to be wearing dresses that’s obvious.” “But how in the world did you know they were ghosts then, if they looked like they had just been out playing around the yard,” I enquired with peaked curiosity at how this new arrival knew more than me; considering I have been here more than two weeks with little to show for my efforts.      She looked around the room after hearing Mrs. Bosevelt walk through the connecting hallway heading to the kitchen. “I could see through them, for one thing,” she answered. “And I was born with this gift, you might say, or curse depending on how much you like privacy, allowing me to see them, at times, and communicate with those who have passed frequently. Thomas and I don’t talk about this kind of thing, as he is a very staunch about death being final in all ways; no heaven or hell, no God, and no chance of their being anything to this ghost-thing. I just carry on as I always have, which is pretty easy considering my own family had the same beliefs as my husband, and I just got tired of being an advocate for religion, as I have experienced it, but made it clear that I will never drop my faith that there is an after-life. And those young ladies I saw sitting in the hallway, are proof beyond doubt, in the existence of life after death, Don’t you agree Mr. Currie, because I know you have experienced them in a number of ways; they told me so in their own silent way.” I was still stunned by the revelation but relieved that someone else could corroborate what a number of us have experienced as both an aftermath, and as a strange intrusion on our privacy. “Yes some guests have actually checked out early because of those waifs who have been up to considerable mischief in a number of rooms throughout the house. Not all of them, but enough coverage to give this place a “haunted” review by unhappy former guests,” I noted, as Mrs. Collins looked out onto the sprawling pastureland bathed in strong mid April sun glow.      “The crosses,” she asked. “You do appreciate that they are very eager to involve two crucifixes that were lost on the day of their deaths, and I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.” Frankly, I was getting a little spooked at how much she knew about the wee lasses, and the fused together crosses a guest had found during a heavy rainstorm one night, shimmering in the lamplight in a small trough running alongside the newly installed pathway to the front door. What she didn’t know, but I intended to find out for sure, was if she knew from her paranormal meeting with the suspects of the Snuggery haunting, why the small metal crosses were welded together, and why there were no chains as they were obviously meant to be worn around the neck. “You found them didn’t you,” Angela asked. “And then they disappeared from your room. Is that correct.” “Yes it is true, but how did you gather all this information in just a short hallway sighting, that was hardly an inquisition about their handiwork at the Snuggery,” I asked, showing some obvious doubt that she was this acutely psychic. “They’ve never stopped communicating with me from the moment I met them, and they’ve been so determined to keep my attention, that they’ve been entering my dreams, giving me very little time to enjoy this wonderful house and lovely district of Muskoka.” I asked, in this regard, what the girls said about the missing crosses, which of course had been reduced to one only, as they were joined in the centre, but both upright and slightly angled from each other, to truly give the appearance of two distinct crosses that didn’t appear welded together at all, until they were picked up and the linkage was proven. “I don’t know everything about the girls because they’re not quite ready to offer me the entire story of why they are earthbound, and, as you have said, ‘haunting’ this beautiful old house.”      At this moment, Mrs. Bosevelt, with a full cup of coffee herself, sat back down with us, at the armchair directly across from where we had settled, and began a conversation about first the weather, and then about her husband monopolizing Mr. Collins in the woodshop. When Mrs. Bosevelt turned to look at the kitchen, where she heard footsteps on the hardwood floors, Angela reached over the arm of her chair and squeezed my hand to guarantee my attention. “We’ll talk about this later Mr. Currie. We’ve got a lot in common, and the lost children need us to set them free. Believe me, they don’t want to haunt this house. They never lived here and they don’t want to stay.” “What do they want,” I asked, just as Mrs. Collins got up out of her chair, and looked back, saying in a softer whisper, “They want to go home, and to them, it’s the afterlife they’ve been denied because of the accident.” With this comment, Angela turned away, and went to the kitchen with our host, to check on the footsteps. It was Mr. Collins and Mr. Bosevelt, having returned from the shop, investigating whether or not there was a little coffee left in the urn. I was left to ponder a lot of information, but feeling validated for what the Bosevelts and I had experienced before Mrs. Collins arrival. It’s always nice to find out you’re not mad in instances like this. Just admitting to a belief in ghosts gets you that unfortunate status.      “The pathos of life is only a forced sentiment to us, if we have not felt the pity of life. To a sensitive soul, smarting with his own loss, the world sometimes seems full of graves and for a time at least, makes him walk softly among men. This is one reason why the making of new friends is so much easier in youth than later on. Friendship comes to youth seemingly without any conditions and without any fears. There is no past to look back at, with much regret and some sorrow. We never look behind us, till we miss something. Youth is satisfied with the joy of present possession. To the young friendship comes as the glory of spring; a very miracle of beauty, a mystery of birth.” I put the book written by the good Mr. Black back on the bookshelf where the space visibly beckoned, and stood by the fireplace for a few moments, as it had become rather chilly where I had been sitting. I have a feeling the wee spirits of The Oaken Snuggery have a story they wish to be known, and told, and I suppose there are some secrets that must be exposed. Am I then to believe it is my purpose to be the conduit? Stranger things have happened while hunting ghosts!