The Oaken Snuggery Part 4

Photos by Suzanne Currie

 THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 4

BY TED CURRIE

     The Bosevelts have an adequately stocked mini-library at the old farmhouse I have found quite interesting on those late evenings when, for any number of reasons, an old writer can’t calm easily to slumber. In only a short while I have thumbed my way through most of the newer books, but admit to the bibliophile’s obsession for older books, particularly of the antique variety. I have most recently been entertaining myself, when not hustling about the inn in quest of spirited inmates, by the traveling preacher, Rev. John A. Clark’s biography, from 1836, entitled “Gathered Fragments,” originally published in Philadelphia. It is one of several dozen books from the early to mid 1800’s on a variety of subjects, including several on botanical matters, a whaling history, an early text on schooners, and the rest deal mostly with religion, including this rather worn copy of Rev. Clark’s work. As I enjoy letting a book open itself to favorite chapters and passages chosen by a long history of former readers and owners, I couldn’t help but find some irony in the way the book, with a little encouragement, invited me, the contemporary voyeur, to read “A Family in Eternity,” which is about the preacher’s visit to a cemetery in his former hometown during a visit.

Mrs. Bosevelt, on one fly-by the armchair where I was seated, couldn’t help looking over my shoulder, to see what I was reading. As I might have predicted she had a little chuckle, when she read the heading of the chapter. “I’ve read that chapter about ten times now,” she said. “I have always been interested in the old country cemeteries like the ones we have around here.” And I might add, her interest in identifying the ghosts who have claimed, in part, her newly renovated farmhouse, have obviously, something or other to do with cemeteries. In fact, although unproven, there is an alleged pioneer cemetery on the Bosevelt’s property, on the gentle elevation of land above the pond in the sprawling pasture.

     “As I walked up this avenue, and entered that sacred area, where, in former years, I had so often heard the solemn sound of ‘earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ borne on the air; and where I had beheld weeping mourners gather in stillness around the newly excavated grave, to see the last remains of some dear friend let down into its dark and solitary abode, I could not but stop, and gaze in pensive meditation upon the ‘heaped hillocks,’ of earth that lay thick around me.” Rev. Clark notes in his biography, “As I passed along from grave to grave, the names that I read upon the stones called up the images of a numerous group that I had once known. A plain marble slap that lay near me apprized me that I was treading over the ashes of one whose countenance and character I recollected very distinctly. He was a small thin man, and well known to all the village. Professionally he was an apothecary, and for many long years had he dealt out medicine to heal the sicknesses of others. Though thin and sallow, he had been so long at this post, and was by night and by day surrounded by so many powerful agents to ward off diseases, that many supposed that he had discovered the true elixir of life, and could bid defiance to the shafts of mortality. What a commentary did that stone read to me upon the vanity of all such expectations. His medicine availed nothing when God remanded the dust, out of which he had been formed, to its native inanimate state.” I folded up the wonderful old text, and laughed a little to myself, while not wishing to draw attention to myself, especially from Mrs. Bosevelt, who held considerable stock in this book and this chapter. I don’t think it is all that unusual to have a fascination about cemeteries, and I have been known to wonder amongst the tombstones myself, on these early spring days, when the nature of all places begins to flourish once more; and yes, I find re-birth in places like this all rather ironic, yet not in a humorous way of course.

     It was well after the bewitching hour when I made my way along the creaking hardwood floor of the old house, refashioned from its days serving the shelter needs of the farm family at Rose Hill, north of Bracebridge, known today as “The Oaken Snuggery.” Not that I care for the name mind you, but what do I know about running and promoting a Bed and Breakfast?

     I had moments before, been awoken in the armchair, at fireside, by someone or something whispering in my ear, and then there was the sensation on my hand, of what felt like a child’s grip over my fingers, giving them a soft but recognizable squeeze. It wasn’t unsettling or in any way frightening, but it did establish quite clearly, that the Bosevelts weren’t fooling when they told me the old house was haunted. I was the only person up at that time, and at that moment no other creature was stirring except me in the armchair, slumbering momentarily at my post. I had remained up, you see, in order to sense-out just what the Bosevelts were referring to, when they told me the country inn was occupied by numerous ghosts, that had made their appearances known to numerous guests, who were not so hospitable to these untimely interventions. I would have time to mull it over, what had happened while sitting in the main room of the house, and whether it was just an over-active imagination and possibly a little indigestion.

     The tiny room the Bosevelts had afforded me, while paying guests were staying at The Snuggery, had been used most recently as an office, but with a cot and a nice window to look out over the front yard, it was perfectly acceptable to my operation. Which of course was to identify what was going on at The Oaken Snuggery of an adverse nature. The ghost or ghosts didn’t fit into the couple’s business plan, and it fact, the intrusions did cause several early departures, which cost the Bosevelts money. The sightings and related experiences weren’t of a malevolent nature, and no one ran screaming from the house as a result of a chance meeting. And, to make this clear, I wasn’t in attendance for the month of April to rid the house of ghosts but rather to make an attempt at finding out why they’re hanging around. What might they want of the Bosevelts? Are the looking for validation, or for someone to avenge their deaths? There would be no exorcism involved because the devil wasn’t involved in this occupation of a homestead. More likely it was a casual haunting to add some character to the early 1900’s farmhouse, and it might be the case Martha Stewart would find the haunting an enhancement to the ambience of the old place.

     I pulled open the thick old door to my closet-room, and immediately caught the scent of the potpourri that permeated the hallways and the great room of the inn. It was a little strong for my nose, but I was tired enough not to let it bother me for long. I switched on the overhead light, brought the oak door to a silent closure, and sat down on the edge of the cot to remove my shoes. When I finally settled beneath the comforter that Mrs. Bosevelt had provided for my comfort, that first night, I only remember a few things before the lights went out. My lights. I was sound asleep in only a few minutes. I hadn’t even switched off the ceiling light, but it didn’t stop me from falling into a deep abyss of slumber.

     At approximately two thirty that morning, I awoke the result, I believe, of a very profound and aggressive dream. Nothing new for me, as I frequently dream in color as well. It wasn’t quite a nightmare but I think it had the potential of getting quite nasty if it hadn’t been the case my mind decided quite independently, my psyche didn’t need the excess baggage that night. Why do we wake up suddenly while having a dream? A nightmare even? I did have a heavy heartbeat, I know that, and it was probably running a little quick for someone who had just been sound asleep. I guess it was as sound as profound, because I could remember a few details that seemed greatly out of place for an average dreamer like me. I came to suspect that it may have been a dreamscape inspired by my visit to this property, and have been tainted somewhat by the reality I was here to investigate a haunting. I wasn’t doing a review of the Bosevelt’s Bed and Breakfast. I was going to let them know at the end of my stay, how many inmate spirits were residing free of charge, at The Oaken Snuggery.

     The bits and pieces of the dream made no sense to me, but then, that’s rather normal fare when trying to understand the alchemy of the juice which influences the brain in slumber. I know the setting was outdoors, and there were at least two human characters involved in the unfolding scenes. I believe that both entities were youthful, and were probably female, but they were visible in my dream judgement, at a considerable distance from where I was situated. Their clothing was white but the panorama of the dream theatre, was green and brown, being the landscape and the trees of some mysterious woodland. I remember a particularly musty odor which is not uncommon in my dream experiences, and this was strange of course, because the scent of potpourri in my room was quite intense with the door shut. There were the sound of voices,  all quite shrill, and it also seemed as if there was a barking dog lodged somewhere in the dream but it was not witnessed such that I could describe what kind it was, or even what size or color. As I pondered the dream for awhile before setting my head back down on the plump and cool pillow, I did have the fleeting sensation that I was being beckoned in this short dreamland adventure, but it was not the case I was being called, or pulled toward someone, or something, yet it impressed upon me that these figures, obscure and even quite abstract, wanted me to follow along behind them. It was a very hazy scene that this dream prevailed upon its voyeur, and it didn’t seem all that compelling or troubling, in perspective, to some of the dandies I’ve had in the past. But I did feel something in my gut after that dream and it kept me up for the next hour, as I tried to tie it in to the earlier experience in the main room, of feeling the hand of a child upon mine, and its voice whispering in my ear. I wasn’t of the opinion at this point, that it was anything worth jotting down, as far as notes, as part of this month-long odyssey to discover if The Oaken Snuggery indeed had numerous non-paying, non contributing inmates.

     I remember a story told to me by a lady-friend quite a few years back, about seeing a strange scene unfolding at a nearby cemetery, to the community of Rose Hill, when she and her boyfriend at the time, were taking a short cut through the hallowed ground, to get from one residence to another. A pretty common thing to do, and a regular stroll the two would take a few times each week. It was quite late at night when they were walking toward her home, in the romantic moonlight of a warm spring evening, when they saw up ahead, a woman struggling to free her long Victorian style gown, from a snag on a fallen wire fence along the roadway abutting the cemetery. They watched it unfold for a few more seconds, while they continued to walk closer, and when they were within range to speak with the woman in distress, she turned to look at them, and then turned back toward the fence, and gently faded into the night. It wasn’t until this disappearing act, that they suspected the lady in white might be of the paranormal ilk. They had thought about the reasons she was wearing such a formal, dated gown, but there could have been any number of explanations, from a costume party somewhere up the road, to a matter of personal choice, possibly a nightgown that looked more formal in the poor light. When she disappeared in front of their eyes, they had no doubt in their minds, they had witnessed a ghost attempting to escape the bounds of the place in which she must have been buried. I think we could all come up with an image of what this must have looked like, in the soft illumination of a spring moon, with the sound of peepers resounding through the abutting woodlot. It is the kind of apparition that has been making infrequent yet mildly disturbing appearances at this country inn, set into the beautiful countryside of Rose Hill, a former hamlet that never made it to village status before being largely abandoned as being “a going concern.” Who the ghosts may have belonged to in life is the pivotal aspect of my on-site sleuthing, and yes indeed, I would be electrified to see such a vision as what my friends had witnessed, being the “lady in white.” I might well have inspired a date with her in my dreams, but expect to awake thusly, feeling enlightened and invigorated; not sweating with a rapid heartbeat, frightened by the interaction. But as I am not able to dial the dream of my choice, I shall retire with hopefulness yet not be disappointed if the lady stands me up, being that, as a matter of protocol, I have never been properly introduced to the delightful specter of that night in the graveyard of South Muskoka.

     I fell asleep again, and awoke to the beautiful rays of the spring sun, beaming onto my bedstead in the most cheerful way.