The Oaken Snuggery Part 2

  

THE OAKEN SNUGGERY PART TWO

BY TED CURRIE

     “The appearance of the whole place was forlorn and desolate at the best of times; but, in unruly weather, the howling wind about the crazy old mansion, the screeching of the weather-cocks, and the slamming and banging of a few loose window-shutters, had altogether so wild and dreary an effect, that the neighborhood stood perfectly in awe of the place, and pronounced it the rendezvous of hobgoblins. I recollect the old building well; for many times, when an idle, unlucky urchin, I have prowled round its precinct, with some of my graceless companions, on holiday afternoons, when out on a free-booting cruise among the orchards. There was a tree standing near the house that bore the most beautiful and tempting fruit; but then it was on enchanted ground, for the place was so charmed by frightful stories that we dreaded to approach it. Sometimes we would venture in a body, and get near the Hesperian tree, keeping an eye upon the old mansion, and darting fearful glances into the shattered windows, when, just as we were about to seize upon our prize, an exclamation from some one of the gang, or an accidental noise, would throw us all into a panic, and we would scamper headlong from the place, nor stop until we had got quite far down the road. Then there was sure to be a host of fearful anecdotes told of strange cries and groans, or some hideous face suddenly seen staring out of one of the windows.”

     Suzanne, my research assistant on this project, out here at The Oaken Snuggery, had copied down the short passage contained in the chapter, “The Haunted House,” written in 1822 by author Washington Irving. I have consulted his work frequently over the years, particularly since I wrote a small book on the relationship between Bracebridge, Ontario, and Irving’s book, “Bracebridge Hall.” Postal authority William Dawson LeSueur took the name “Bracebridge,” from the title of Irving’s book, as it was his task with the federal department, to name fledgling post offices in rural Canada. LeSueur, an accomplished literary critic and historian, in his spare time, decided that a literary provenance for the South Muskoka hamlet would prove worthy years down the road. Bracebridge was then entitled to share the literary accomplishments of Irving, including his well known story, “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” and of course, “Rip Van Winkle.” As Rose Hill is located a short distance north of Bracebridge, I thought, for literary provenance, that I would once again bone up on what Irving thought about ghosts and hauntings, to see if, by chance, there was something, anything at all, that might shed some illumination on the alleged haunting of the old farmhouse, now a popular Bed and Breakfast. Here I am, and I’m loaded down with precedents and self help materials, so that I can help the proprietors of this beautifully restored Muskoka farmhouse, carry on with their business despite spirited interruptions that have frightened some guests.

     “Formerly almost every place had a house of this kind. If a house was seated on some melancholy place, or built in some old romantic manner, or if any particular accident had happened in it, such as a murder, sudden death, or the like, to be sure that home had a mark set on it, and was afterwards esteemed to be the habitat of a ghost.” (Bourne’s Antiquities)

     The ghost hunt that I was pursuing was certainly not in the “ghost busting” capacity. I believe the owners of the Bed and Breakfast, known to patrons as “The Oaken Snuggery,” would have very much preferred a much less haunted property. Not necessarily void of spirits, but just a lesser occupation of the site. None of the paranormal events, all being of the less-intrusive nature, that guests reported seeing during their residency, were in any way frightening. Certainly not the kind of shock reaction as portrayed in the movie,  “The Changeling”. None the less, some of the patrons were anxious enough after these sightings, and chance encounters, that they ended their stay prematurely, and probably told others about their misfortune at the Rose Hill Bed and Breakfast. I suppose then I was “the softener”. It wasn’t going to be my task to rid the place of its hauntings, but rather to make sense of the collective of wandering paranormal entities, and if possible, figure out why they were hanging around as permanent inmates of The Oaken Snuggery.

     When I arrived that afternoon, of the legitimate April Fool’s Day, also being the Easter weekend, the Bosevelts apologized upon my arrival, asking if I could please look around the house and property for a period of time, as they were trying to get ready for the eight guests, in two parties, scheduled to arrive later in the afternoon. I was only to glad to take the time to familiarize myself with the early 1900’s farm house and pasture-land, situated on the upper border area of what is geographically South Muskoka. It was a beautifully scenic property, and the exterior of the house had been restored numerous times in its tenure, on this wee knoll of topography, looking more like an English country house, than characteristic of Muskoka architecture from the period of the early 1900’s. The interior design completed to the specifications of the Bosevelts, was similar to the outside, reflecting a more British influence than rural Ontario. But as long as it pleased the incoming guests, who was I to render a judgement, other than to myself.

     There was a watercolor of the farmhouse that according to Mrs. Bosevelt was painted by a family member of the original owner sometime after the Great Depression but before the outbreak of the Second World War. The painting looks much different than the exterior of the house as it presents today, and the trees around the structures have been cut down and replaced by sprawling, lovely lawns and stone walkways leading to a pleasant gazebo on a ridge overlooking the pasture. The new owners have obviously spend a lot of money doing the upgrades, with the idea of operating a first class Bed and Breakfast. But the nicely framed painting, depicting the homestead as it was in that period, in a melancholy brown, looking much older than it was, had a haunting influence all of its own. One that would keep me coming back to it, as if the very image itself, was the lead-in to the story that was to unfold at The Oaken Snuggery.

     The watercolor image hung beside a large picture window, that looked down into the hollow, to the north, and there were two wing-back chairs situated in front, to afford guests a wonderful morning and afternoon vantage point to watch the day unfold. There were the family’s Irish Setters that rambled up and down the hillsides, one chasing the other, until the roles reversed, and there were assorted free-range chickens here and there, not attracting the slightest attention of the racing dogs. There was a strong aroma of wood in the heart of The Snuggery, and it was especially rich coming from the fireplace, where a small fire was crackling away this afternoon, keeping the big room welcoming and cozy to all who entered, and dwelled there for a time. There weren’t many wall adornments and only a very few paintings and romantic prints but it was most definitely not an art gallery to go with a Bed and Breakfast. The furniture was new and rustic, except for a few vintage pieces of pine and oak, some press back chairs and an antique Boston Rocker in the corner by a book shelf holding about a hundred hardcover editions of older but not antiquarian texts. From initial feelings, and what I was able to see through the farmhouse, there was very little that characterized a classic haunt for anything more than a ghost story read in one of the books on the shelf. In other words, it wasn’t a spooky place whatsoever, but then that isn’t the criteria a ghost, with an inherent right to exist in its former digs, considers when turning on the chill in any worthy new or old haunt.

     I travelled throughout the house before the other guests arrived, and let my curiosity about the interior play itself out, to its own satisfaction. There just wasn’t anything in particular, no vibe or negative aura, that would have warned me of impending gloom, doom or any kind of spirited intervention. To say it was a benign interior is appropriate, at that time in the day. It had all the creaks and settling noises of any old and worthy house, and the creaking of the stairs, and the wooden floors, and of course the original wooden doors, was more theatre of antiquity, than the harbinger of something malevolent about to appear in the low light of the staircase, or the second floor hallway with its small portrait gallery of family worthies, hung for the guests to familiarize themselves with the hosts and their kin. It was generally a very contenting place, and I was eager to watch how nightfall would change the mood inside, and the splendor of the countryside, beyond this picture window, where I had seated myself in its provision of illumination, to admire the view down toward the shimmering pond, reflecting the modestly congenial glow of the spring sun. I was pleased them, in this comfortable portal, to be handed a mug of coffee by Mrs. Bosevelt, my host, who once again offer an apology about being too busy to sit and chat at that moment. I reminder her that I was not to be a chore during my stay, and I would gladly keep myself occupied day and night, picking up after myself accordingly, as was also the deal I made for this generous offer of lodging.

     It wasn’t long in that comfortable arm chair, before I was dozing-off, in the warmth of the fire snapping away romantically in the hearth, to my right. At one point I nearly dumped the coffee into my lap, as my hand let go of the handle, as it was sitting on my knee. I startled myself awake just in time to catch the cup with both hands, before I commenced my stay at The Oaken Snuggery with a domestic mishap. The subsequent nap was much less precarious, and I awoke when the first group of guests scheduled for that afternoon, gave a couple of bangs with the iron door knocker, to announce their arrival at the front door. I had my back turned to them as they were greeted by both hosts, and welcomed to come into the big room just off the hallway, where I was just shaking off the stiffness of a short nap, having had my head tilted heavily to the left. How dreadful if I had been snoring away when these fine folks arrived for their Easter weekend. If I’d been specially costumed as the Easter Bunny, I suppose they would have at least got a good laugh at my expense, hearing Bugs Bunny in the throes of a bad dream, with a snoring disposition.

     I sat still awaiting their arrival in the room, when it would then be appropriate to rise to the occasion, and let the hosts introduce the so called, “writer-in-residence.”

     I recall so many occasions, when living in the former McGibbon House, on upper Manitoba Street, in Bracebridge, hearing a distinct footfall on the stairs leading to the second floor, where I had one apartment, on the north side, and my friend, the larger unit on the south side. My heart seemed to stop momentarily, as I waited for either the knock on the door, or the turning of the door knob. On one occasion, when I was all alone in the building, quite late at night, the footsteps ended at my door, and then it came, to my great dismay; the knock on the door. There were three clear raps, and the sound of the knob being rattled. I picked up a hockey stick conveniently situated by the front door, and prepared to confront whoever had breached the security of the house’s locked front door. As you might expect, when I opened the door slowly, there was nothing and no one standing on the other side, but there was a musty aroma that I have smelled on other similar encounters, possibly the scent of the grave greeting me in a most peculiar way. Do I believe in ghosts? All I know for sure, is that I didn’t imagine those occasions of footsteps coming up my staircase, but never going down. I didn’t imagine the turning of the door knob, but I did see it with my own eyes. I didn’t invent the aroma that came with he invisible intruder, in a house that always smelled its century vintage, but never musty as it was a wonderfully restored estate, much like The Oaken Snuggery. I still must proceed with an open mind here, so as not to corrupt the investigation with personal bias.

 The journal continues tomorrow. g me in a most peculiar way. Do I believe in ghosts? All I know for sure, is that I didn’t imagine those occasions of footsteps coming up my staircase, but never going down. I didn’t imagine the turning of the door knob, but I did see it with my own eyes. I didn’t invent the aroma that came with he invisible intruder, in a house that always smelled its century vintage, but never musty as it was a wonderfully restored estate, much like The Oaken Snuggery. I still must proceed with an open mind here, so as not to corrupt the investigation with personal bias.

 The journal continues tomorrow.