The Oaken Snuggery Part 21

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 21

BY TED CURRIE

     I have thought to ask the Bosevelts about a strange little watercolor painting that hangs in a shallow and largely unlit section of wall here at The Oaken Snuggery. As I’ve studied all the paintings and assorted decorating sculptures positioned in this restored farm house, including some that I am told came with the property courtesy the previous owners, but this little gem has attracted my attention more than all the others, some being of the antique variety, including quite few Victorian era portraits. Mrs. Bosevelt assures me that these black and white images do not represent her or her husband’s ancestry but rather, were purchased from local antique shops for decorating purposes only. This strange watercolor showing two children playing by what appears to be the pond here at Rose Hill, may be a more contemporary illustration by a former resident of the farmstead. I suppose it could date back further, because the framing is certainly of the late Victorian period. I keep making note of it, in order to ask Mrs. Bosevelt whether or not it was one of the art pieces that came with the house, during the real estate purchase. In the last few days it has been bothering me, much as if I am being manipulated by spirits unknown, to believe that the two children in the drawing are the two wee lasses who are making sport of haunting this old South Muskoka farm house. When I study it and then look out at the pond, from the great windows here in the Great Room, that offers a panorama of the pasture and hillside pinery, it does look remarkably similar to the landscape depicting in this simple, nostalgic image of playtime. I must make a point to ask the Bosevelts at the next opportunity, for an explanation, as to where this tiny but vibrant art piece came from, because it is certainly haunting me at this moment, to the point I really want to believe it is the casual view of two children who became, in later life, two poorly behaved and uninvited guests of this otherwise charming and inspiring home in the Muskoka woods. I’m writing this down in my journal in order not to forget to ask the proprietors of this inn, to explain why the image is so important to this place, when there would be many other decorating options. It’s such a small painting for a big, big wall space.

     There is a warm drifting mist and a slight drizzle of rain this morning, falling over this rejuvenating landscape, emerging in vibrant green buds and heads of vigorous ferns popping up all around the pond that is the size of a small lake. It is a somewhat familiar Walden Pond that Thoreau might have found moderately fascinating, although there is no waterside cabin from which to observe pond life, while making copious notes about the allure of nature, with all its welcome intrusions.

     Since I have been lodging at The Oaken Snuggery, these past two weeks, plus a few days extra, I have travelled to every corner of the South Muskoka property, and searched every room and open space in the old farmhouse, curious more than anything else, about what has made the Bosevelt venture in the Bed and Breakfast business, so successful in only a matter of a full year of operation. It has received many exceptional reviews from guests, and coverage in a number of industry magazines, and of course a feature story in the local newspaper and its summer special edition. The only persistent negative attached to this pioneer homestead in the ghost hamlet of what was once Rose Hill, just north of the town of Bracebridge, has been the reported paranormal occurrences experienced by a half dozen guests of the country inn, but only representing three parties, being husbands and wives. Two of the parties wished to check out early because of unwelcome intrusion of apparitions, including one of an older woman rocking in an old chair in one of the unoccupied rooms. A passing guest, wondering what the noise was the vacant room, felt the urge to open the door to see for herself. The ghost vanished soon after being sighted, and the guests vanished just about as quickly, by early the next morning. None of those who had experienced the ghost(s) of The Oaken Snuggery had written any kind of negative reviews of the Bosevelt’s pride and joy, but it would be quite contrary to their business plan to have this happen at such an early stage of investment retrieval. I was there, as an amateur ghost sleuth, and writer, to make a preemptive strike, so to speak, by trying to identify the suspect wayward spirits, figure out by any means possible, why they, if there was more than one, were fettered to the reality of contemporary earth, long after their own demise. It wasn’t my task to rid the property of such inhabitations, or hauntings, better stated, by initiating an exorcism. Instead it was more the case, that if the old farmhouse was indeed haunted by one or more spirited guests, that at the very least, the Bosevelts would have a small guide book available to at least make the best of the house and property’s legacy, with a sort of soft sell of its haunted reputation. In short, if they couldn’t or wouldn’t get rid of the inmate ghosts, then they would have to work with them, to appeal to those guests with a genuine interest in residing at such a place as harbors the spirit-kind. It’s done throughout Europe, including well documented haunted castles, where guests pay extra to be a part of a paranormal encounter, if that is, one was to actually occur. The Snuggery is by no means loaded to the hilt with roving ghosts, looking to scare the bejesus out of anyone who lodges within. Just the same, if the ghosts plan on remaining part of the lodging chattels, then they have to become part of the revised business plan, so that guests won’t be able to get a refund if they cut their stay short, because of a rocking knitter, who should be anywhere else but amongst the living. I was in the pivotal position to soften the edges of this image of a haunted Bed and Breakfast so I not only needed more facts about the hauntings at present, but to as well, know how to write this into a story that would interest guests, and attract more, without understating or over-stating the level of haunting one might expect of a 118 year old farmhouse that has its own family cemetery.

     I have walked a long way this morning, around the pond and the marsh at the far end, where the geese have gathered this morning, and I have only just this moment, sat down on a bench, the equivalent of a fallen pine, near the pioneer cemetery, to make these few notes about my stay so far at The Snuggery. The Bosevelts have been wonderful hosts and I’ve enjoyed meeting the several dozen guests who have lodge here since my arrival at around the first of April. The food has been terrific, the treats throughout the day nothing short of superb, and the accommodations have been both comfortable and spacious, even my room which is really the everyday office for Mrs. Bosevelt’s accounting files. I didn’t want to take up a full room for myself, and a smaller room with a fold-down cot was perfect for a wanderer like me. I’ve spent most of my free time either hiking all over the multi acre property, and lounging in the Great Room of the farmhouse, having the best view of any room at The Snuggery, to enjoy the panorama of what was once a Muskoka homestead of the late 1860’s.

     The property doesn’t feel haunted as if that counts for anything. I have seen and been touched by what presumably is a paranormal energy, but nothing that was in any way negative. Each encounter, as brief as it was, seemed to me more fascinating and exciting than fearful. I didn’t want to run away from any of the situations that casually came my way during these outings in this early spring setting of the South Muskoka woodlands. As far as being haunted, The Snuggery itself doesn’t exude and tangible aura of harboring ghosts or bandy legged wee beasties, and on each occasion that I did have an unearthly experience, there was no prevailing sense of dread, or any trace of negative energy, partly because the spirits involved seemed to only be the specters of two little girls of long ago, who had little interest in malevolent behavior. Mischief? Yes! But seemingly to make a point. To get our attention and enlist our mortal capabilities, to resolve what has potentially been a fettering worry that has continued from life into the afterlife. In psychic analysis, several of us who have reviewed all that has and continues to happen of a paranormal character, appears to have a distinct mission attached, possible the deceased making restitution for something unfortunate that happened in their lives, that was never adequately addressed before the separation between mortality and immortality. There are a lot of clues to chase down and much more to experience, but there is nothing dire attached to this investigation. Nothing even remotely sinister or dangerous, such that any of us here at the lodgings should worry about consequences whatsoever. As a haunting it is all quite benign if that is, one relates what is happening here to what is profiled in Hollywood movies, when it comes to nasty spirits seeking revenge. This would make a poor Hollywood movie, in this regard, and I suspect it will be a rather dull booklet when I’m finished, but then again, the Bosevelts will probably be glad of this softer aspect of owning a haunted Bed and Breakfast.

     The rain has begun to fall with much greater vigor now, and the mist over the water has moved off over the pasture, where it was disappear soon into the low shrubs on the hillside where it is wafting at this moment. I love the sound of rain as it tinkles off the surface of the pond, and as I have a hood on my jacket to keep my noggin dry, I am in no hurry to abandon this most alluring portal onto the old Muskoka homestead, that has so many enchanting qualities and quantities, such that indeed, the good Mr. Thoreau would have found much to write about, lodging at this particular vantage point. I might, during this vigil, sense that I am being watched by something in the woodlot at my back. I worry now more about a spring-hungry bear or rogue moose than I do a traversing spirit, about to upset my calming sojourn by laying an invisible hand upon my shoulder. I expect to see strange shadows moving about along the ridge to my right, and hear rustling on the slop to my left, and it would not surprise me thusly, to hear the very faint singing of merciful angels, guarding this cemetery in front, with all their heavenly powers to protect. Alas, as I close my notebook, and decide to head back to my lodgings, as the rain has begun to fall much heavier than moments previous, I regretfully can not claim to have experienced a single event or intrusion that was out of the ordinary for such a heavy place on earth. It is all so beautiful and oozing of solitude, but nothing that either adds or detracts from my story, about my stay at the haunted house that was The Oaken Snuggery.

     There is something powerfully alluring and spiritual about the sound of wind rushing through the overhanging pine boughs, that at times, seems a chorus of the deceased, singing of the intimate enchantments of nature that stimulate the senses, and haunt the solitude that seems overpoweringly lonely, and isolated, yet you are wishing a few yards of a habitation with its crackling fire and scent of the evening meal in preparation. The universe illuminates slowly as the wind relaxes its sweep over the hills and down through the valleys of this contrasted topography, having been one of the most successful homesteads in pioneer Rose Hill, the hamlet a short distance north of the Village of Bracebridge as it existed in the 1870’s. It is, of all things, a writer’s paradise, and since I have taken up residence here at The Snuggery, I have never been without a budding story idea, or poetic leaning, that encourages me to pick up this pad of paper to make copious notes. It is that essence of haunting and atmosphere that I most sincerely benefit from, on this somewhat strange adventure for a former newspaper reporter turned ghost sleuth. I must remember to ask the Bosevelts about the painting of the two children. It just seems to be more important to this place than its size and positioning reflect in earnest.

The Oaken Snuggery Part 20

Photos by Suzanne Currie

 THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 20

BY TED CURRIE

     I was walking out around the Bosevelt’s smaller version of Walden Pond this morning, and the conditions reminded me of the story of Maria Shea, one of Suzanne’s ancestors, who came through these same woods, in this part of Muskoka, but on a very unfortunate journey for her, and the entourage bringing her coffin to the burying ground. Maria, in the late 1860’s, living in the Ufford area of the present Township of Muskoka Lakes, had passed away after a short but painful illness, as many of the homesteader class had suffered in those early years of settlement, from diphtheria and influenza outbreaks, without having adequate medical provisions, and a generous supply of physicians to tend to the ill. Maria Shea couldn’t be saved, and her family wanted her buried in the Falkenburg Cemetery, a considerable distance from the Watt Township farmstead. Using poorly cleared bush trails, the funeral procession moved through the countryside slowly, with the coffin of Maria Shea on a cart, but carried up and down hillsides to avoid any unfortunate dislodging of the deceased, and the route would have put them quite close to this Rose Hill property. The small cemetery on the hillside reminded me of this pioneer funeral, even though it is definitely not where Maria was buried.

     After quite some time parading through the woods and clearings between Watt and Falkenburg, the procession arrived at the cemetery, but when they arrived at the pre-dug grave, they found it had filled-up with water from the rainfall of the day before. The Shea family would not advance the funeral service without first removing all the water from the six foot deep hole, and although it took many hours to complete the task, Maria Shea was buried in a much drier grave, satisfying mourners and Maria’s kin folk. What a sad venture that was, traveling all that distance by foot, and small wagon, to make sure Maria had a fitting funeral, in a consecrated church cemetery. I tried to visualize what it would have looked like, coming through the thick forests in this part of the township, and how difficult the footing would have been on sections that were washed out from the rain, and full of natural obstacles, that could only increase the suffering of the funeral procession. Yet their pioneer grit helped them achieve their objective, of giving Maria Shea a decent burial in a tree bordered section of picturesque landscape a few miles north of Bracebridge.

     On most days spent here at The Oaken Snuggery, I can wander the well trodden pathways and think happy thoughts. For some reason this morning, I couldn’t get Maria Shea off my mind, but this was the historian’s folly, not any shortfall of scenery, or quality of the day’s atmosphere. It just felt as if, at any moment, that ghosts of that funeral procession from more than a century ago, would once more, pass along this old farmstead laneway, heading as they were back then, to a gravesite at the Falkenburg cemetery. I have always benefitted and suffered from an over-active imagination. I’ve learned to live with the excesses, either way, but the historian is hardest to convince, that imagination doesn’t always serve the best interests of fact finding.

     The very act of planning to ask my spirit associates why they were haunting, playfully or otherwise, The Oaken Snuggery, was kind of foolish, knowing full well that I didn’t need to make an appointment to talk to the “other side,” or a written sheet of questions I intended to ask them. The girls, in this case, who allegedly go by the names of Cynthia and Francis, ages ten and twelve respectively. I’m pretty sure they could read my mind as I sat in the farmhouse’s Great Room, following dinner, pondering how effective it would be to just surrender to the wee lasses, and beg they tell us to what extent they are willing to go, on the brink of malevolence no doubt, if we continue to miss the point of their rather poignant haunting of this Bed and Breakfast, nestled into the pinery of the ghost hamlet of Rose Hill, just north of the South Muskoka town of Bracebridge, Ontario. A ghost hamlet playing host to a couple of trick playing ghost-children, who have a story to tell, but even with a psychic guest, who identified them visually, sitting on a couch in the hallway, Angela Collins left before we could more thoroughly appreciate why they continued to hang around the environs of the living, apparently not appreciating they have officially departed the mortal coil so to speak. So hatching this idea of asking them outright about their spiritual mission here at the Snuggery seemed the right thing to do for all concerned. I don’t think the girls felt the same, as they ignored me for the next several days. As they had obviously become disenchanted with me, for being overly intrusive, I was becoming fed-up in my own muddled mind, not getting anywhere on this gamble of revealing the source of the random hauntings, and what can be done about short of a blunt force exorcism. I thought first I might yell at them for awhile, insisting that they are hurting very nice people here at the Snuggery, who have done nothing wrong, or inconsiderate to the integrity of the property. They restored a badly run-down turn of the 1900’s farm house, and expanded it in size, (so the ghosts have more room to haunt), and brought the grounds to a park-like attractiveness, perfect for those guests who like to wander and lounge about outside. I have seen the before and after photographs of the farmhouse, and without questions the Bosevelt family did the old homestead proud, including the protection of the old pioneer cemetery on the hillside overlooking the pond. They didn’t employ a bulldozer at any time, and they took great care to look after the native plants and trees, and instead of draining the pond, they insisted on protecting its ecology. If the young ladies who insist on haunting this place were halfway considerate of all these efforts to improve upon the farmhouse and property, they would occupy the premises with a lot more respect and a more harmonious kind of intervention, adding to the heritage of the place. Not detracting from it or sending guests packing-up early because they inspired moments of fright and panic with their appearances and pranks about the dwelling.

     It was more than 48 hours since Angela Collins had left the Snuggery, to head back to Toronto as a result of an injury sustained by her mother, at the Collins own house, and I had just settled myself down in one of the big wing chairs in the Great Room, thinking it would be great to hear from her again because I needed help with this project. Suzanne, my charming partner, at home in Gravenhurst, has been able to sleuth around for some background information, but not enough to really get a foothold on the real deal. Who were these girls? Did they die on this property, from potentially a serious farm accident of which they were a party? What do they want from the Bosevelts? What would make them feel more comfortable at the Snuggery, or, what would encourage them to leave the world of the living for the more peaceful hereafter?

     I heard the phone in Mrs. Bosevelt’s office, and I knew immediately it was my new friend, Angela. She must have read my mind. As it turned out however, it was the opposite situation. The over-zealous spirits of Francis and Cynthia had apparently been keeping her from sleeping through the nights, and even her day dreams were being targeted by the dynamic duo.

     “They are determined to get our attention, but I guess I’m the one who is acting as the conduit here, so obviously it doesn’t matter whether I’m in Rose Hill or not. They’ve found me, and very much insist I continue communicating with them,” Angela said, with a resignation of voice, making it clear it’s a big responsibility have psychic capabilities. “I have had two dreams since we left the Snuggery, and both of them have something to do with church, two crucifixes, like the ones we found adhered to one another, and lilacs but they haven’t really put it all together for me. Possibly its their own lingering immaturity, but one thing I do feel very intensely, is that they are feeling unresolved about something; as if they had committed some offense, minor or major, and as a result, something quite negative occurred. They stop short of showing me the ramifications of their actions, if I’m right about this of course, believing, I suppose, that we might be mad at them as well, or rat them out to someone who knows them after all these years. I think this is a situation that occurred long, long before the construction of the present farmhouse, which, as you mentioned at the inn, was built in the early years of 1900.” I agreed with her regarding this date. “Well, I’m seeing a much more primitive structure, actually two log-style cabins with rock chimneys, but they’re divided in the dreams, as if they were of two different time periods. Is that possible Ted,” she asked. “It is possible because there were two pioneer built homesteads, using logs harvested off this free grant land, one dating back to the late 1860’s, the other, according to what we have been able to find out from neighbors, was re-built by a different family three years later due to a fire in the first that reduced it to ashes. The second one was also destroyed by fire a few year after this, and as a result, the property was farmed by a neighbor family until it was sold after the turn of the century, and the present farmhouse constructed,” I replied with some authority of history, that had been uncovered by Suzanne on the research side of the project.

     “Do you think that these hell raising children might have had something to do with the fires in these cabins, possibly to the extent of having perished in one of them as a result of mischief,” I asked the woman with the psychic good senses. “I don’t get this message at all, but it is becoming a little clearer, that they may have had a minor role in at least one of the fires but it’s not a positive vibe I’m getting back, from their dream-time interventions,” Angela added to the conversation. “I’m confused about the religious significance of portions of the visions I’m receiving,” she related of the several dreams having most significance to this paranormal investigation. “Was it ever the case where church services were ever held in the homes of pioneers because there was nothing else within an easy commute of their property,” she asked. “It was very common,” I reported with the historian’s confidence. “There are lots of recollections about congregation sharing between homesteads in a particular under-served township in Muskoka, and each Sunday the venue might change to someone else’s shanty or log cabin; until of course, churches were constructed, and even then it was often the case where all denominations were welcomed into the church regardless whether it was Anglican or Methodist, Presbyterian or Catholic, although there were very few of those, because the population was largely Protestant in the true pioneering period of settlement. You know, the Orange Lodge, King Billy parades on the 12th of July, just like they had in old Ireland. And there were a few other situations where larger outbuildings were prepared and used as churches-in-waiting, that would accommodate a much larger congregation, but had none of the finishing details and architecture of a more traditional church building.” I agreed that this might have been the case with the two cabins, that were on this property before the farmhouse and outbuildings were constructed, and possibly this might relate to the sensory perception that the Snuggery  property had a context of religion beyond the early attempts at agriculture, which of course was a distinct failure for the three families that owned the land since the 1860’s, who put their faith in the quality of the soil to produce a sustaining, even profitable harvest.

     Angela informed me, rather abruptly, that she needed to end our conversation, as her mother, bedridden as a result of the accident, was calling for assistance. I thanked her heartily for the assistance, and she remind me that whatever was still weighing on the girls after well more than a century, had kept them earth bound, but it was only now that the resident family of this property was paying attention, and wanting some resolution to end the unsettling events disturbing the peace and comfort of The Oaken Snuggery. “In my opinion, the sisters had something in their possession, at a critical time in this rural neighborhood, that didn’t belong to them, and it may have been the crosses we found fused together which undoubtedly had chains when they were taken, potentially from one of these homestead cabins during one of those Sunday multi-faith meetings. I think the crosses belonged to Catholics, and the consequence of having stolen them, was likely impressed upon them as being of a hell-fire nature. If they had taken them, for whatever reason, they felt God was going to punish them in a most painful way. Maybe this is what the adults were saying at the time, when they went missing, and the girls became panic stricken, and refused to reveal their secret in fear of holy retribution.” She concluded, “but listen, this is just conjecture, and it might be a foul ball into the bleachers, when it comes down to how much fact this represents, and how much fiction is coloring the black and white of history as it played out back then. Good luck, and I will contact you again soon should something else pop up, as these girls have engaged me since we met up there at Rose Hill.” I thanked her for giving me something to go on, and information that might help Suzanne at our home office, dig a little deeper using published journals from this general area, from this approximate time in local history. I don’t think I sleep better now, but I will certainly be more receptive to the girls’ overtures, having this new insight on the naughty hauntings of The Oaken Snuggery.

     There are times when I grow weary of hunting wayward spirits. Tired of chasing down the pranksters who by all accounts, are no longer part of this mortal coil. I can find myself getting totally frustrated by what I can’t identify, and resolve within a sensible budget of time. Yet, there are times, and I’m experiencing them now, when all the frustration and exhaustion seem to react upon their own energies, suddenly, and quite accidentally, revealing truths and facts that previously seemed impossible to ferret-out from the available information and prevailing circumstances. I suppose then, it can be said with some shade of accuracy, that from frustration and aggravation, comes the mortal fortitude to swim when everything had pointed to “sink” as the only real option. The more confused and frustrated I become with this place, and these ghosts, the more colors I see painted onto this black and white picture, of the true Oaken Snuggery, and those living and deceased, who dwell here happily or not so much! The quest must continue. I shall live with my shortfalls, knowing that apparently, and with some amazement on my part, I do my best work suffering from self imposed loathing and defeatism. These wee lasses have a lot of explaining to do, and I’m in a listening mood.

The Oaken Snuggery Part 19

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

BY TED CURRIE

     “The parson never openly professes his belief in ghosts, but I have remarked that he has a suspicious way of pressing great names into the defense of supernatural doctrines, and making philosophers and saints fight for him. He expatiates at large on the opinions of the ancient philosophers about larves or nocturnal phantoms, the spirits of the wicked, which wandered in exiles about the earth; and about those spirited beings which abode in the air, but descended occasionally to earth, and mingled among mortals, acting as agents between them and the gods. He quotes also from Philo the rabbi, the contemporary of the apostles, and according to some, the friend of St. Paul, who says that the air is full of spirits of different ranks, some destined to exist for a time in mortal bodies, from which being emancipated, they pass and repass between heaven and earth, as agents or messengers of the deity,” wrote author Washington Irving in his 1822 book, “Bracebridge Hall,” the book responsible for the name of Bracebridge, Ontario, the town a few miles south of this place where I dwell today, Rose Hill.

     Irving adds to his story that, “I am now alone in my chamber, but these themes have taken such hold of my imagination, that I cannot sleep. The room in which I sit is just fitted to foster such a state of mind. The walls are hung with tapestry, the figures of which are faded, and look like unsubstantial shapes melting away from sight. Over the fireplace is the portrait of a lady, who, according to the housekeeper’s tradition, pined to death for the loss of her lover in the Battle of Blenheim. She has a most pale and plaintive countenance, and seems to fix her eyes mournfully upon me. The family have long since retired. I have heard their steps die away, and the distant doors clap-to after them. The murmur of voices, and the peal of remote laughter, no longer reach the ear. The clock from the church, in which so many of the former inhabitants of this house like buried, has chimed the awful hour of midnight. I have sat by the window and mused upon the dusky landscape, watching the lights disappearing, one by one, from the distant village; and the moon rising in her silent majesty, and leading up all the silver pomp of heaven. As I have gazed upon these quiet groves and shadowy lawns, silvered over, and imperfectly lighted by streaks of dewy moonshine, my mind has been crowded by thick coming fancies concerning those spiritual beings which ‘…..walk the earth, Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep.”

    Did you know that Charles Dickens once admitted, that he never retired to bedlam, without taking a book written by Washington Irving for the final reading exercise of the day? I couldn’t attend this assignment at the Bosevelt’s Bed and Breakfast, without sneaking aboard my dog-eared copy of “Bracebridge Hall,” which has been a favorite book of mine since I was introduced to Irving back in Public School, then being, of course, “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.”

     It was most unfortunate that Angela Collins and her husband were forced to leave early from The Oaken Snuggery, one day earlier than expected, the result of a serious fall taken by her mother, at their home in Toronto. Before she left, later that evening, and having shown me the welded together crucifixes she had found in a shallow pool of water, at the side of the walkway at the front of the farmhouse, removed from the earth by a strong flow of run-off water during the afternoon thunderstorm. The two crosses, joined at the centre by some forging of time and elements, was found in the same general area that it was originally discovered, and rescued, by a guest of the Bed and Breakfast a week or so earlier. I had been awarded custody of the crosses by Mrs. Bosevelt, the Bed and Breakfast proprietor, but not because it may have been connected to the resident haunting go on here in Rose Hill, at the Snuggery. We laughed about it at the time, but it really wasn’t even a clue at that point, in our research about the ongoing paranormal events in the old farmhouse. It was just an oddity found on an old homestead property in the northern clime of South Muskoka.

     Before Angela Collins left the Bed and Breakfast, she gave me back the crosses once again, and explained how she had also experienced a curious dream involving the two young girls, seemingly at play, also running through the pasture and even tossing found stones in the black water of the same pond that we can look out upon each day, from the comfortable chairs by the massive picture windows in the Great Room of the Snuggery. She didn’t know their names, and I know that mine were dream-created and without any hard fact attached to their true identities. In her dreamscape, she felt there was some dire consequence the girls experienced past this point of frolic and outdoor recreation. She felt a deep sense of sadness edging the boundaries of the dream, which was short and mist shrouded as if portraying an end to what appeared initially as endless fun, as sisters enjoyed every opportunity afforded them, possibly after attending a nearby church on Sunday mornings. Angela got the impression the short-cut home was a ritual each Sunday, as they preferred to run than ride with the rest of their family.

     I am sitting here this evening with pen in hand, and notepad opened and ready for something to be written onto the shiny white paper. I could have written copious amounts of editorial filler about how wonderful it was to be sitting in this spacious, attractive room by a crackling fire on this chilly spring night, and about the din of conversation with four new guests who showed up late this afternoon just before the Angela and Mr. Collins said their farewells, promising to return in the summer for a longer stay. The longer period of daylight stretching into the evening has made this a most interesting portal onto the countryside, and just a few minutes ago the guests seated around me, were treated to a number of deer and fawn ambling along the far ridge, and before that, a large number of geese, finding that the pond and shoreline, made for a comfortable respite after a long flight. It was a wonderful panorama and the sky colorations were impressive, such that I wished to have had my camera phone nearby to capture the image of the setting sun.

     The hauntings at the Snuggery have become more intense but in a more defined area of intervention. Mrs. Bosevelts doll collection hasn’t been toppled in two weeks, and the books have remained on the shelves, and neatly so, since I arrived for my stay on the first of April. I would have like to see the havoc that was allegedly inflicted upon the kindly hosts prior to me arrival, so that I’d have something more to add to my story than vague accounts that might be explained in many other ways beyond the pranks of two neighborhood sisters, of long ago, with unresolved issues with this property. As for interactions with Cynthia age 12 and Francis age 10, Angela Collins actually had a clear sighting of the wee lasses, as they were lounging on a small couch in the hallway of the Snuggery, when she and her husband checked in that first night. She knew I had experienced them as well, in a variety of spirited forms, and knew as well of the fused together crucifixes found in a puddle alongside the path. She explained that she had been gifted in life, since childhood in fact, with psychic capabilities, even her husband wasn’t aware of, or did she ever want him to know about. We agreed before she left, after a short discussion about ghosts and their interests  in securing validation, for their unsettling appearances, that both girls were determined as paranormal qualities, to have someone at the Snuggery, at some point soon, appreciate why they were unsettled spirits in the first place, not being able to leave this property being unresolved. The fact that Angela left me with this burden of investigation was unsettling by itself, beyond simply worrying about the obsessive interests of two youngsters playing games with mere mortals. Wouldn’t the spirit-kind have the upper hand when it comes to communicating with humans. If they can pull out books, as if to read them, dump them on the floor to get attention, knock over a row of neatly positioned dolls for sport, invade my dreams and steal icons from my room, why can’t they just whisper in my ear what they’re looking for, in terms of redemption or resolution. I wrote these questions on my notepad so that I wouldn’t have to stare down at an ink-less page any longer. I was stumped by the children, presently unknown but often experienced by the inmates of this fine establishment.

     There was something about the welded together crosses that I needed to know, and based on my level of frustration, I decided that it was probably best if I just asked they questions audibly, and as a backup plan, in psychic messaging, to see if I couldn’t connect directly to Cynthia and Francis, and give them an opportunity to bypass the Hollywood script stuff, and tell me why they feel it necessary to impose upon the Bosevelts, who run this Bed and Breakfast. Based on the reality that they didn’t own it when these rascals were running through this property in their heyday, it doesn’t seem at all fair that they should be burdened with a haunting-without-portfolio, so to speak. I would ask these questions in private, in fear that I might strike these guests as a nutter-with-portfolio. My notepad was filling up with other questions I thought worth asking, if and when I was able to get their attention.

     Shortly after the Bosevelts had served another delicious dinner to guests, myself included, I offered my sincere thanks for their hospitality, and retired early to bedlam, to follow through on my mission, to engage the spirits of The Oaken Snuggery, if of course, they wished to play my game with my rules. I had a feeling I was opening a big, really big Pandora’s box by doing this, but there was no way I was going to pull out a Ouijia Board I knew was kept for the recreation of guests, kept on the board games’ shelf back in the Great Room of the Snuggery. I had been previously warned by psychic friends that by enlisting the help of a Ouijia Board I could inadvertently pull in some unwanted and undesirable spirits, that had been awaiting any opportunity to sneak back into the mortal realm, to scare the wits out of the unsuspecting players, believing that the board was nothing more than a folly of pure imagination.

     I had a plan. Mortal to spirit. Nothing more, nothing less. At the very least I would demonstrate a willingness to hear or, sense, their side of the story, and what could be done to satisfy their interests in this old farmhouse and property, that they once had some relationship with, or so we assume based on the fact they seem particularly at home here at present.

     When I look down upon the lower pasture and the pond, from the portal I have been afforded in the Snuggery’s Great Room, especially interesting as panoramas go, at dusk, imagining for a fleeting moment, the ride of Washington Irving’s Headless Horseman, thundering along the handpicked dirt walkways trailing down from the hilltop pinery, into the open of this picturesque field. I am guilty of an over-active imagination when it comes to the work of Washington Irving. I have to keep it all in check when sleuthing here at The Snuggery for ghosts and assorted hobgoblins.

The Oaken Snuggery Part 18

Photos by Suzanne Currie

 THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 18

BY TED CURRIE

     I have these strangely recurring dreams for most of my adult life. I find myself wandering about a graveyard for no apparent reason, always in anticipation of course, that I might find an inmate digging his or her way out of their respective graves. I suppose it’s also a minor fear that, like Ebeneezer Scrooge, from the pen of Charles Dickens in his story of “A Christmas Carol,” that I might find a tombstone with my own name inscribed. Wouldn’t that be a drag. I have never yet come upon my own grave in these vivid dreams, bordering on nightmares, but I have come face to face with the ghosts that we all assume dwell in these hallowed places, home field of the deceased. I’m not at all frightened of cemeteries, and my research partner Suzanne and I are frequent visitors of Muskoka sites, for purposes of historical research and a bit of ancestry sleuthing for her clients. Yet dreamland is another thing altogether, and my adventures within these cemeteries are of a Hollywood theme, that’s for sure, full of specters and assorted hobgoblins and bandy-legged wee beasties, apparently finding it comfortable to knock-about community final resting places.

     I bring this up because since arriving at this Rose Hill Bed and Breakfast, courtesy the Bosevelts, who restored the old farmhouse on this former South Muskoka homestead, I have been have an increased frequency of these dreams, but short of anything horrible or blood curdling. I found an old engraving published in a former school text, in a pile of magazines the Bosevelts have set out for guests, and it seemed hauntingly familiar, as if I had seen it before. It is very Victorian and quite unsettling in the right light, showing a wee lass being shown the tombstones of her ancestors, although she doesn’t appear overly enthused about the field trip. I have been wondering if my invigorated dreamscapes have had something to do with the two Victorian era lasses who I believe are haunting The Oaken Snuggery, playing with all our emotions here, who wish to enjoy Muskoka without the melancholy of sad antiquity. I have this cemetery based dream four times since I arrived here, and although I haven’t awoken even once, it having raised a bead of sweat on my brow, it has been affecting my sense of humor throughout the rest of the day. What if this is a message from God that my times is drawing nigh. Maybe my name will be inscribed on one of those granite slabs at the head of where I will rest in peace. I’m certainly not living in peace at this moment, wondering if there is some forewarning to these short but poignant dreams, or is it further evidence that two young ladies have managed to play silly ass with the subconscious me? I like to visit cemeteries but honestly, I do prefer being awake at the time.

     Painted by the dreamscape artist, I tumbled into the unconscious abyss of abstractions and fascinations, none of my own control, and what hand was this then, reaching for mine, such that I might hurriedly enter the Wonderland where Alice might have played with strange fictions. These appeared less and less as fiction, the further I travelled behind the girls along this winding garden path, with the aching sense of profound sadness as if attending a celebratory party with a fettering of unresolved sadness. I was dreaming but it wasn’t like any dream I have ever had in my sixty two years of learning from experience. I was being thrust into a story-line, the writer / historian being taken against his will, into a most mystifying spiraling of what was someone else’s reality, and not mine, except at the moment in time, when I had nodded-off on the bedstead. The further I became engaged the more compelled I was to look back, and I could see myself, head bent to the side, sitting in the armchair by the fire in the hearth. It was the same sensation as one would feel falling into deep water, and being able to see the sky and objects above with ever increasing distortion, as the sound also becomes muffled and ever weaker as one sinks deeper and deeper. I eventually couldn’t connect with my dreaming self, and could only look around and ahead of myself, as a matter of defense is that was even possible. Was I having a medical emergency? A stroke or seizure possibly?

     They were running hard and fast down the hillside pathway, their long white church-going dresses flapped like boat sails in the rush down one decline and up the next, through these farm fields greening-up in the strong spring sunshine. From a distance the sisters, Francis and Cynthia, ten and twelve years of age respectively, appeared as if two small clouds had suddenly broken away from the heavens, in the April sky, and were rambling along with feet and arms flailing, along the well trodden paths through the undulating pastureland. From a distance it appeared as if they might actually lift off from the earth to fly up into the azure sky, golden as angels in the bathing light of the afternoon sun. The children were coming home from a neighboring farmstead, where they had stopped to play and enjoy a noon-time lunch with friends, and being behind their time to arrive home, as demanded by their mother, were attempting to outrun time itself.

     The voyeur could hear them coming from quite a distance away, their laughing and yelling resounding through the valley where the pond was still and black, its reflective character reduced by the blaze of sun diving deep to its bottom plants, now feeling the jolt of the new warmer season of the rolling year. The wee lasses never seem to tire of their run along the weaving paths, at times Francis becoming the front-runner, while Cynthia had stopped momentarily to tie a lace, or pick up an interesting looking stick, a gnarled section of bough, broken away from a border hardwood. Soon the order would reverse, when Francis would become distracted by the sight of a deer poking through the cover of thick cedars, or at the sight of a rabbit racing from one bit of shrubbery to another in, as they say, the blink of an eye. They were neck and neck as they rounded the end of the pond, and nearing the straightaway leading right up to the farmstead; the one where I am currently, at this very moment in fact, residing, and this I can recognize from this elaborate daydream, of which these girls are now apart.

     As I watch this dream advance, like the reel of film off a projector, one of the girls takes a serious tumble, and the other, Francis, stops and looks back at her prone sister, having injured her knee, most likely on a rock obstruction breaking through the packed earth of the pathway. Cynthia is now crying, and Francis has knelt down beside her sister, pulling up the dress to see for herself if there is a serious cut or just a scrape from the rough ground. It is not a long hiatus before they are both on their feet again, and the run through the countryside with their musical laughter and shouting carries-on as if nothing of a serious nature had occurred. They arrive at the crest of this hill, only thirty or so yards from where I am positioned behind this window, and after stopping momentarily, when they both look toward me as if I am to acknowledge their arrival, they disappear off to the side, continuing their journey homeward some distance down the country lane to the east of the old house.

     Angela Collins has stirred me from my afternoon slumber, having put her hand on my shoulder, asking if I would like to share a pot of tea. I was shocked to see her standing above me, especially after what I had just dreamt about, and the fact she entered the scene, as if poetic theatre, just where one would have expected, considering that as a psychic hobbyist, she had already set the stage several days earlier, by confessing that when she and her husband had arrived at the Bed and Breakfast, that first night, she had seen the ghosts of the two sisters sitting on the hall couch, making it clear they were making The Oaken Snuggery their familiar haunt. Now here she was, standing, smiling at my side, at the perfect junction between the paranormal and reality. The dream I had, one of three since arriving at the Snuggery, had definitely been colored by something paranormal, because they were all way beyond what my unconscious, dreamland capabilities were, especially the fact each was as if a component of a larger story. Much as if chapters of a book. This latest dream vignette was leading me to some awareness but Angela Collins was the only person in this old farmhouse, turned Bed and Breakfast, who was going to be able to make sense of the details of the girls’ latest intervention upon this writer-in-residence. I agreed that it would be a wonderful respite to share a pot of tea and some insightful conversation with Angela. We had a lot to talk about, and their names, I understand by this latest revelation, were Francis and Cynthia, the ghosts who challenge normalcy and its decorum here at The Oaken Snuggery much to the Bosevelt’s chagrin. Their mischief had already caused some guests of the Bed and Breakfast to leave ahead of schedule, as ghostly encounters were not joyously received by unsuspecting urbanites looking for a quiet and gentle escape from their fetters. I wasn’t so fond of these girls either, but I was willing to hear their side of the story, as I am confident they were willing to share with Angela and I, what could only be a sad tale, based on the fact they are the ghosts of children, the reality they had never attained adulthood.

     Angela arrived with a pot of tea and a small tray with two china cups and saucers. As she bent over to set the tea pot on the table beside my chair, the tray, as if it had been pulled down on my side, let loose an avalanche of china, as the tea set slid off and crashed down upon the table, and narrowly missing the pot only inches to the left of the debris field. Not one piece was broken, cracked, chipped or in any other way, damaged during the tumble down to the table-top. Angela couldn’t believe her good fortune, and as Mrs. Bosevelt came racing around the corner from the kitchen, she had expected the worse, being of course, that her guest had fallen and been injured. The china wasn’t rare and could be replaced. A scalded and cut patron would be most unfortunate. Both women studied the china pieces trying to understand how they could have survived the impact with the table top, from at least a two foot drop from the silver tray in Mrs. Collin’s hands. Impossible, they both agreed, but indeed, the impossible had occurred. Or had it been an intentional bit of mischief inspired by wee Francis and Cynthia, who didn’t get invited to tea?

     In one of my dreams where I am wandering through a very old cemetery, I often come across curious creatures of the wild, and in my last visit three nights ago, I kept getting distracted by a clanging sound, as if a chain was being lightly swung like a pendulum, hitting a metal object, such as a fence post. I heard it, or dreamed I heard it, throughout the episode, and it really started to annoy me as I strolled the plots, and weaved through the old stones. I guess, with whatever free will a dreamer has to control a scene, I decided it was of considerable importance to find out what was making this noise. I came to an area of the cemetery where it was the loudest, and with stealth, I hid myself behind a rather tall rounded-top headstone, and slowly rose in order to peak over the top toward where the sound was emanating at that precise moment in dream time of course. It was then that I spotted a large white owl with a small silver chain in its beak, shaking it as if it was a snake, and was about to be eaten by the creature. The very end of the chain was hitting the body of the cemetery fence post on which it had come to roost. The full moon is fully visible to its right, just above its right wing. I awoke almost immediately after this visualization during one of these repeat dreams. The most unusual aspect of this, was that later that same day, I heard pretty much the same rattling of metal on metal, in my tiny room here at The Snuggery. When I searched for the source of this irritating sound, I found the Bosevelt’s cat had snuck into my room, and apparently found my own cross and chain that I had left on a chair seat, knocking it in play onto the floor, batting it repeatedly against a metal leg of my fold-up cot. It wasn’t an owl that for sure, but it did involve a chain, and a cross, and both items factor into this weird haunt owned by the Bosevelts. Was there a message here from the great beyond? It sure seems like it, and if it was a puzzle, in my mind, there are too many pieces for the remaining holes, so something is out of whack. Me thinks the girls are having a laugh at my expense.

The Oaken Snuggery Part 17

 

Photos by Suzanne Currie

THE OAKEN SNUGGERY - PART 17

BY TED CURRIE

     I can so clearly remember the afternoon at Suzanne’s family’s cottage, on Lake Rosseau, in the Village of Windermere, when I came face to face with a most unusual weather related event that, at the moment, seemed more of a paranormal occurrence to this witness. It was on a windy day in late October of 1989, and I was getting ready to drive into Bracebridge with our sons to pick-up Suzanne from her job at the High School. Our family had been staying at the old Muskoka cottage, that her grandfather Sam Stripp had built in the early 1900’s, awaiting the closing date for our house here in Gravenhurst, which would be known in my writing thereafter as Birch Hollow. It was a grand two story house in the old Muskoka tradition, and it was set within a hillside cluster of tall pines and woodland beyond, and on a windy day as it was then, the wind made an eerie sigh as it passed through the low hanging boughs. The house itself always seemed to me a little bit haunted but not in a bad way. It was full of friendly family ghosts reliving the good old days of lakeside living and cottaging. It had begun its history in this place as a family residence for the Stripp family, and later was acquired by Suzanne’s parents, Harriet and Norman, to be used as a summer cottage. It was most definitely an enchanted place, and on this day, I had been working in the sunroom overlooking the lake, writing some feature material for the Muskoka Sun, where I was an Assistant Editor to Bob Boyer, a well known publisher and Muskoka historian.

     I was just locking the porch door, and felt as if someone was watching me from the woodlot adjacent to the driveway. When I moved from the porch to the steps, I was suddenly attracted to a strange situation happening at the top of the hillside, and the packed dirt driveway down to the cottage. From where the “Little Cottage” (for guests) was located, on the hilltop, across from a small garage, I watched as a small twister of leaves and dirt began a descent of the slope, weaving back and forth as one would expect a tornado to move forward, except this one was only about three feet tall. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was what you would expect of a tornado, from the news reels and movies, except its size. What was unusual more so, was that it had been formed inside a pretty substantial tunnel of venerable and imposing pines, that we providing a substantial wind block at the time. In other words, it was quite a protected area, and the fact that it had formed in an area of thick vegetation, and on the very top of the obstructed landscape, where the wind should have been diffused by the natural qualities and quantities, as well as the two buildings that should have inhibited the whirlwind’s route down the slope.

     The little funnel cloud, with leaves and dirt caught in its vortex, I watched as it proceeded down the long and fairly steep lane, bobbing and weaving only on the length and width of path, never veering off the travelled portion. I was still on the top step of the verandah that afforded a pretty good view of the weather event coming my way in miniature. The whirling air system bypassed my car, as if it had a mind to do so, and it slid down alongside the cottage, as would someone coming to visit, (or return), and as I stood there with my chin on my chest, the twister came right to the bottom stair, and took an immediate right turn, as if to go up the next step. It ended its journey coming up into the side verandah, right through my legs, finishing up at the far end where it rattled in a cluster of old metal porch chairs being stored in the corner. Having had a lifetime of strange situations like this, of the paranormal variety, I just assumed that I had witnessed the arrival of a former resident of this cottage, that wanted me to know of the visit, and the cottage was being watched by the ultimate in security personnel, invisible as they were except for this matter of a three foot tornado. I don’t remember now what Suzanne said when I told her this story, later that evening, but let’s just say she wasn’t surprised, as all her family members had greatly enjoyed their time spent at this welcoming place on the lakeshore. I told her that I believed it had been the ghost of her mother Harriet, who had visited with me on that afternoon. Harriet and I had co-written a book, “The Legend of Tall Pines,” shortly before her death, and it was largely based on the inspiration of the cottage and its forested property. In fact, the cover photograph of the book, looking up into the tall pines at the side of the cottage, was snapped only a few feet from where the mini-twister had brushed my legs on the verandah. Maybe it was a weather event. I think it was a good natured ghost. It certainly didn’t come with any malevolent intent, and there was no frightening aspect to the occurrence. In fact, I felt rather privileged to have had the experience.  

     By late morning, the following day, the Bed and Breakfast guests, the Collins, had joined Mrs. Bosevelt for a short road trip of the region north of the Town of Bracebridge, and its border with the Township of Muskoka Lakes. I believe they were headed to the Lake Rosseau shore in the Village of Windermere. It started out as a bright sunny morning, a credit to the month of April, but by mid afternoon a spring storm was mustering its turbulence to the west, moving east at a fair clip. I only just made it to the front door before the first deluge hit the property. A short while before this I had been quite a distance down the dirt road, taking a break from ghost hunting, yet interested in re-visiting a spot along the road where I am pretty sure, I experienced the wee lassies at play, along the side of the laneway back a week or so ago. But then, they were mere vapors possessing none of the attributes Angela Collins had spoken to me about, having witnessed the children, in spirited form, sitting on a small couch in the hallway of the Oaken Snuggery. The Bosevelts there to meet them didn’t sense any wayward spirits, and I wasn’t there to validate her allegation of a full fledged ghost sighting. Mrs. Collins accomplished what I have taken several weeks to experience, and even then, I’ve never had the exposure she was afforded, after only mere seconds inside the Snuggery door. 

     The wind was really picking up and the daytime had been turned into night-time in only a few minutes, as the storm cell was moving rapidly over this part of South Muskoka, being its northernmost boundary. Mr. Collins admitted to me, while we both stood looking out the glass door, onto the front yard, that his wife hated thunderstorms especially driving through them. “They should have been on the way back by now,” he said, “But hopefully she had the good sense to pull off the road, or stop for a coffee at one of the cafes along the way, instead of trying to navigate the backroads to get back here.” Just as he turned away from the door, heading into what they call the “Great Room,” I yelled back at him, that his wife had just driven into the driveway with the Collins. “Actually, Mr. Collins is driving the car, and from the look of it, your wife is riding in the back.” He came back toward the door and quipped, “Well, that was the other option. Let someone else drive who isn’t frightened of nasty weather.”

     The occupants of the car sat inside the vehicle for ten minutes or so, in order to let the heavy rain let-up, as it was still better than a hop, skip and jump to make it to the front door without drowning. There was no point unhinging an umbrella, even if they had one in the car, because the wind is still too strong, and it would only be pulled inside out before they took their first steps up the path. No it was better in this case, to wait it out, as it was already looking brighter on the western horizon. There had only been a few distant claps of thunder and a minor intrusion of lightning. It was a quickly moving spring storm without much capacity to cause serious property damage. It wouldn’t have been much fun driving in however, but as far as fearing a tornado might emerge from the black clouds, the conditions were less than severe to produce anything resembling a funnel cloud. What the storm did herald was a much cooler air mass, as it had been getting quite muggy for spring.

      In about twenty minutes, from their time of arrival, the Collins and Mrs. Bosevelt had navigated the flooded walkway, wind and rain, and managed to make it to the door without too much trouble. I did observe Angela Collins stop momentarily, and pick something up from the walkway. I assumed it was something dropped by one of the other two, in their haste to get back into the house. I moved out of their way upon their grand yet unceremonious entrance, and decided to retire for a few moments of leisure, in the Great Room, to here, eventually, about their motor trip and of course, the nasty intrusion of weather upon their casual lakeland outing. All of them, unfortunately, were, as they argued with Mr. Bosevelt, “Wet and miserable, cold to the bone, and we’re going to dry ourselves off first upstairs, so please put on the tea kettle and make us a nice hot pot for when we come back down,” commanded the lady of the house upon her partner, who immediately sensed his domestic place in this situation, and would even provide a plate of scones he had baked in her absence. Mr. Bosevelt had trained as a cook as a teenager, and kept up his culinary capabilities under his wife’s tutorship here at the Oaken Snuggery.

     I had time to stoke the fire before anyone else arrived back to the room, as it had run-down after the morning’s beautifully radiating glow. The big room always seemed in need of warming up, and being at fireside was my place of choice, and that had been the case for the two weeks of my inhabitation, thanks to the kindness of the proprietors. In exchange of course, for some historical research, and paranormal sleuthing in and about the old farmhouse, to determine why their guests have reported not only seeing ghosts, but having been victims of their foolery. These ghosts, possibly children once familiar to this property, were quite interested in causing minor mischief at the Bed and Breakfast. Nothing harmful or malevolent, but as several guests checked-out early, as a direct result of this intrusion upon their privacy, it seemed prudent to find out a little bit more about the possibility the property was being aggressively haunted by child pranksters in the spirit sense.

     Eventually the Collins returned downstairs to partake tea and scones as served by the diligent Mr. Bosevelt, and in short order his wife and business partner was at his side, offering minor critiques about the setting of the silver tray and the plate used to serve the scones. He laughed it off, and she returned the good humor. “I’m only kidding. You did a wonderful job for a carpenter trying to play host.” As the storm clouds continued to tumble and whip ominously across the horizon, as we could witness by the panorama afforded by the large windows looking out onto the back of the property, toward the pond, it was comforting to settle down in the spreading warmth of the small crackling fire deep in the hearth. It had turned quite cold in less than an hour, and the wind was still gusting long after the storm cell had moved off to the east. Conversation was light and lively, with the Collins, and I heard all about what had begun as a pleasant motor trip up through the hamlet of Beatrice along the town line, and then turning right at the crossroads at Bardsville, toward the community of Milford Bay, then turning onto the Dougherty Road, connecting a few miles of hard driving to the Windermere Road. This, they all agreed, was the sheer poetry of the outing, especially going down to the shore of Lake Rosseau, beneath the towering architecture of Windermere House on the promontory above, the lake only just becoming ice free after a long and bitter winter that dug in its proverbial heals by mid-November. It was a pleasant social time before the dinner hour, and when all the tea had been consumed and the last crumb of the scones had been enjoyed, all parties, including myself, adjourned to our respective quarters, to gather our wits about us, before being summonsed back to the harvest table for supper.

     As I was getting up from the armchair, which is ridiculously comfortable, making me want to sleep there by the fire, Angela Collins tapped me on the shoulder, informing me she had something I had lost previously from my room. She held out her clenched hand, unfurled her long slender fingers, to reveal the two fused metal crosses that may have belonged to the young ladies considered prime suspects in the Oaken Snuggery hauntings, if ever I was looking for a title for a forthcoming book on the subject. She dropped the strange bonded together icon into my hand, and took my fingers with her hand, and folded them up to hide the object of our mutual interest. I was hushed by the secretive Mrs. Collins. “We’ll talk about this later,” she whispered, “Keep this on you for safe keeping from the girls. They won’t take it if it’s located somewhere on your person. Only if you abandon it will it disappear again. We’ll talk more after supper tonight. They’ve got an incredible story to share with us, take my word for it; I’ve never had anything like this happen before, and I thought I had experienced a lot of weird stuff in my dances with spirits.” She turned quickly and rejoined her husband who had stopped at the bottom of the stairs to talk about the Stanley Cup playoffs on television that evening.

     I held onto the welded crosses with my bare hand for the next hour, sitting on the edge of my bed, pondering where the icon had been found this time, although I did have suspicion it was what she had bent over to pick up, on her way into he house during this afternoon’s wet arrival at the Snuggery. I was obviously anxious to hear more about Angela’s paranormal hunches about the children, and what they want from us mortal inmates of this curious old farmhouse in the ghost hamlet still fondly known as Rose Hill amongst long time residents who remember when it was a close-knit neighborhood made up of descendants of the earliest homesteaders to have braved the region in the late 1860’s.

     I don’t relate ghost stories in order to scare folks. I have been unsettled by ghost encounters in the past, but never to the point that I wanted to run-off or hide from whatever and whoever had just made my acquaintance, without prior notice of a social interaction. I think most of us are seriously tainted by Hollywood’s depiction of ghosts in the past, such that a chance encounter with a ghost-like entity is more threatening than enlightening. I would rather be enlightened by a so-called paranormal experience, than acquire all my knowledge of ghosts from books and film. In the case of the Rose Hill hauntings, I am invigorated to uncover the truths, rather than feeling as if my life might hang in the balance, if the spirits object to my bold investigation into their affairs. Of course, my opinion, in a document like this, won’t stop some guests at The Oaken Snuggery from being frightened, and begging out of their stay here, based on the mischief of two lasses with attitude, haunting those who wish not to be disturbed. The quest continues.

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!