The Oaken Snuggery Part 7

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 7

BY TED CURRIE

     There is a folk tale from antiquity, but not too distant as far as Muskoka’s history reaches back, in terms of settlement, that allegedly occurred near the present ghost hamlet of Rose Hill, not far from the Town of Bracebridge, and the former railway yard at Falkenburg. The story tells of a long-ago railwayman, who for whatever reason, fell from a steam train passing this way, toward Falkenburg, who, with lit lantern, fell from the moving train, the iron wheels severing his head that was apparently never located when the rest of the body was recovered. There have been a number of folk tales told of this alleged incident, indicating that the railway worker still walks the short section of line where the tragic circumstance claimed his life in a most grotesque fashion. Sightings have been made over the last century by railway employees, and passengers, who remark to others asking why there was a man in historic garb, with illuminated lantern, walking close along the tracks. Is it the case, like the Headless Horseman of Washington Irving’s short story, “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” the railwayman is simply looking for his lost crown? Where did it go after the accident? Along with this railway mystery, I’m reminded of the Falkenburg area train derailment, that may have had something or other to do with this headless worker, and the fact that the train’s bell went missing from the wreckage shortly after the mishap occurred. I am not an authority on this incident, but I have had many discussions with residents of the area where the accident occurred, and even a few railroad memorabilia collectors, who have some theories about where the heavy brass bell from the engine went, in the moments after the smoldering mass of wood and iron settled down. And yes, it is still a folk yarn that it may have been the case, the headless man decided to pay back his railway employers, by stealing the bell of potentially the train that one night years earlier, had taken his life and, possibly, made his head disappear. I love these relics of folk tales that paint in the colors on a typically black and white history. 

     The afternoon weather took a turn shortly after noon today, after having had such a remarkably warm and bright beginning from daybreak. The cloud cover began to darken over the ridge of tall pines at the far end of the property, and it wasn’t long after I noticed the lessening light, that a gentle spring rain veiled over the hollow where the pond appeared grey and turbulent, as the wind began to turn the mirroring water into one of conflicting surface currents. The temperature has also dropped significantly and it is no longer pleasant to walk the meadow trails that were so uplifting only an hour earlier. But it is all in keeping with the spring situation, and the need for moisture is constant, to support the new growth that will soon flourish in vivid, rich greenery, from the grasses and fern cover, to the canopy of maple, birch and oak leaves on the ridge above the pond and minor wetlands scattered through the former pasture.

     I have enjoyed a wonderful lunch today, served by the Bosevelts, proprietors of this establishment, nestled amidst this natural splendor, in the heart of the ghost town, or hamlet, once known as Rose Hill on the old agricultural department maps. I have had several interesting chats with guests of the Bed and Breakfast, eight in total having come from the urban south of this province, and never once did I mention my own mission to this Snuggery. I did investigate subtly, how their respective stays had been thus far, and with casual conversation, nothing was revealed to suggest there had been any encounter whatsoever with what the Bosevelts have considered to be of the ilk of the paranormal. It was the reason I was invited to spend most of this month to prove or not, that the Oaken Snuggery is at least lightly haunted. It had been the case that several guests complained of ghostly encounters, and wished to depart the establishment before the end of their registered occupancy. But what they claimed to have been ghostly, and a touch of the paranormal not part of the Bed and Breakfast package, may have been nothing more than over-active imaginations at work. It is an old house not matter that it has been restored and expanded by the new owners, and it still, so honestly, represents its heritage, creaking and knocking as century plus buildings are known to react to everything from the weather, to the ground water altering the earth around the foundation, to humidity causing swelling of the woodwork, compromising something else of its architectural integrity. It’s an over-simplification to blame ghosts for all these resident noises that are part of the character admirers of history cherish. There are those who should probably only stay in newer buildings that haven’t begun to seriously settle into the landscape, the way this old-timers has become intimate with its topography over the century.

      I have settled down here in the main room of the Bed and Breakfast with a hot cup of tea, made in the old country tradition, courtesy Mrs. Bosevelt, and have been enjoying the radiating heat coming from the recently stoked fireplace, made of some of the famous Muskoka rock found scattered around this former farmstead dating back to the 1860’s. I have been catching up on my notes, which for all intents and purposes is more of a personal diary, chronicling some of my travels on the property so far, and situations that I have found, even in a minor way, to be thought provoking, in terms of whether what I saw, felt and heard might be considered a contact with occupying spirits. Whatever they were, in my first few days here at the Snuggery, there was nothing experienced that would cause me to flee the place. These minor intrusions were gentle and alluring to the researcher, but I wanted to increase the exposure. I needed their direction, so I availed myself to their passions and possibly mischief, to become better acquainted with what the haunting was about. Some perceived injustice in the past? An intrusion upon their inhabitation at present? The Bosevelts are kind folks, and it’s not as if they wish to have the resident spirits exorcised from the property. It is not their purpose whatsoever, as I rather believe them to be content to have this king of provenance attached to their dream enterprise, that is also their retirement home. I like their attitude. I would just like to be able to prove to them that there is no devil-to-pay at work here, or any kind of malevolence manifesting within, that might wish all intrusion to cease, under the false perspective that history can reclaim the site to the period of their existences. The deterioration would be final when the house caves-in, and is devoured by the landscape, turning a home into earth, earth into vegetation, that will eventually erase all visible heritage that humans ever dwelled here.

     I awoke with a spreading pain in my leg. I had once again slumbered off, while I was holding the tea cup and saucer on my leg, the hot liquid tipping over the edge, of both the cup and saucer, burning my skin as it spread all the way to my knee, still steaming hot. I have a bad habit of letting myself fall prey to the kind of falling-off day dream that inspires this kind of accident. Thank goodness I’ve never smoked or I would have ignited myself and my surroundings much earlier in life.

     Fortunately no one else was in the big room at this moment, and I quickly mopped-up the wet area of my pants with a cloth napkin the host had so kindly prevailed upon me, half expecting something like this would happen. Also in my favor was the fact none of the tea hit the chair upholstery, which saved me from having to confess my mishap to the Bosevelts. As it was, at this time, they were bidding their guests farewell at the front door of the Bed and Breakfast, and I suppose it was this din that woke me up before I could commence snoring and making a real fool of myself. Upon reflection however, there was more to this slumber-moment than just spilling hot tea in my lap. I had another minor intrusion that seemed remarkably similar to one I had the night before, possibly leading me to some area of commonplace, between the spiritual essences of this enchanting old homestead, and what the entities are trying to instill by various actions, and manipulations, to either send me scrambling away from the Oaken Snuggery, or inviting me generously, to know more about their grievances or apprehensions about the operation here at Rose Hill.

     In these vignette proportioned dreams, there are two definite entities at play, and when I suggest “play,” I mean there is some mischief involved with my emotions. As a parent of two boys, and having been a stay-at-home-dad for their childhood, I am all too aware of the art of attention-getting by youthful players. The two distinctly individual white vapors I witnessed drifting within ten feet of each other, on the upper embankment of the pond, near where the pioneer cemetery is located, were floating just above the ground as if they were kites held low to the earth by some tethering that I couldn’t identify, prohibiting them from rising unfettered into the blue morning sky. It was if the entities I had witnessed since shortly after my arrival at the Oaken Snuggery were the spirits of children, and they weren’t going to let the reality of demise, curtail their ambitions to play and play heartily in a most enchanted forest clearing. Then there was the whisper in my ear, that was distinctly the voice of a child, and then the ever so slight weight and light squeeze of an invisible hand upon my own, while resting on the arm of the same chair that I currently reside upon making these observations. It was the grip of a child, but only one in this instance.

    The daydream contained more sound than images, and it was most definitely the chatter and laughter of youth versus adult engagement. There were very abstract images of flowing white, as if long gowns filling out in the turbulence of atmosphere raised by running and twirling, as if one child is chasing the other but not finite details showing, such that I might be able to draw a picture of what I had experienced of an unconscious adventure or, possibly, the folly of wanting to believe there is something ghostly at play, thusly inspiring my imagination to manufacture my desires.

     I close my eyes once again, after of course putting the tea cup and saucer, with contents, on the chair-side table, trying to re-visit the dream as short and unremarkable as it was, because there was something relevant I needed to explore. Is it possible that I had become a kindred spirit, for whatever reason, to children who had once lived in this house, or the two shelters that existed on the property in the late 1800’s, before fire burned them to the ground. Did the children perish in one of these fires? Are children buried in the family cemetery that has never been properly researched? Is it possible I may be considered their benefactor, who can restore their identities, and their passions for this property that may have contributed to the end of their lives?

     I nodded off once again, only to wake to the soft, lovely voice of Mrs. Bosevelt, inviting me to partake of dinner with her and her husband, now that the Bed and Breakfast was void of guests until the following weekend. I was delighted by the offer and wasted no time establishing myself at the huge harvest table in front of the picture window, that looked out upon this truly spectacular Muskoka homestead. The fare was delicious, and we lingered past desert, to enjoy the art of conversation before I once again felt the pull of bedlam on my body and spirit, and wished my hosts a pleasant evening, and a heartfelt “good night”!

     As I resided in this most pleasant bedstead provided by the Bosevelts, I couldn’t help, being somewhat less interested in slumber than I had initially planned, and inadvertently thinking of ghosts and their assorted recreations, at the expense of mortal calm and complacency. I so clearly recall the expression on my wife Suzanne’s face, the day she came through the door, onto the front verandah, of our Golden Beach residence, to ask me if either of the boys, Andrew or Robert, had just been in the house. I had been watching them playing with their toy cars in the dirt driveway, while our cat Fester and dog Alf were positioned in front of the door, sprawled out on the woodwork. There is no way either boy had left my sight, and they would have had to command the pets to move, in order to navigate their way to the door, should they have desired to abandon play. Suzanne looked as if she had just seen a ghost. When I, with a touch of anecdote, stated this to her, she looked at me without any sign of doubt about what had just then confronted her at the kitchen counter. “Yes, if the boys didn’t come into the house, then I did see a ghost. There was just a little boy standing in front of the kitchen counter (we had an open kitchen and living room in our cottage), and he was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and had shaggy blond hair.” “But did you see his face,” I asked her. “That’s what shocked me about the boy. I knew it was a boy but he didn’t have a distinguishable face. It was blurred, and when I tried to focus on him, because I really thought it was Robert standing there, the child just vanished. It was really unsettling Ted,” she said, still looking unsettled about the incident. What I did have were about a half dozen photographs that I’d been taken that afternoon, while I sat out on the verandah as the boys played below. Four of the images show the cat, dog, and both boys looking toward the closed front door of the house, as if they either watched something enter, or they had heard Suzanne about to come out with a tray of sandwiches and beverages. That’s what she was preparing before the brief meeting with the wee lad. The child made several more appearances in and around the kitchen counter, and we presume the wee lad had at one time lived in the ranch bungalow. We named the boy “Herbie” and the story appeared in the well known Ontario Ghost book written in the 1990’s by Barbara Smith. Suzanne still gets upset talking about Herbie because it was a sad situation, as if the child was looking for his own mother, who was no longer at the residence. There had been a theory from neighbors that it was the ghost of a child who had been hit and killed by a car many years previous, a short distance along Golden Beach Road, not far from our driveway entrance. I can feel myself succumbing to weariness, so I must, this time for sure, rest my pen, and ease my mind of ghosts and assorted hobgoblins.