​There—just ahead—stood a figure cloaked in white. Still. Silent.

Eleanor.

Her veil fluttered in the unmoving air, the folds of her dress trailing like smoke. She didn’t walk—she hovered, suspended inches above the planks.

“She’s here,” Addison breathed.

Eleanor turned slowly, tilting her head toward them. Her face was hidden behind the gauzy veil, but her presence was sharp. Intense. Like being caught in a storm without shelter.

“Why have you returned?” she asked, her voice soft and hollow, like wind through a chapel.

Alex’s throat dried, but he stepped forward anyway. “We… we want to help you.”

Eleanor’s head shifted. The movement was unnervingly slow, deliberate. “Help me?” she echoed, as if tasting the word. “You cannot help me. None can.”

“Please,” Addison said, moving beside Alex. “We didn’t mean to disturb you. But you said someone was waiting… Who?”

Eleanor raised a pale hand and pointed through the mist, toward the far end of the bridge.

“My lover,” she said. “I must find him. He waits for me.”

“Who was he?” Alex asked, cautiously. “What happened?”

Her form flickered like a flame in the wind. “He was to meet me here. We were to run away. But I was taken. Stolen from him.”

The trio stood frozen, the old stories unraveling before their eyes—not just legend, but truth wrapped in sorrow.

“Who took you?” Addison asked, her voice soft as snowfall.

Eleanor’s veil lifted ever so slightly. Just enough to reveal the hollow curve of a cheek, eyes sunken by grief. “I was betrayed,” she whispered. “He waits… but I cannot find him.”

The hum began again, louder now. Her figure wavered—dissolving into the mist like a breath in winter air.

“Wait!” Alex called. “How can we help you find him?”

Eleanor’s fading voice hung in the stillness: “Find the truth… and you will find me.”

They stood in silence as the last traces of her vanished. The humming stopped. The cold receded—but the bridge still held its breath.

“What does she mean, ‘find the truth’?” Matheo asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “We don’t even know who her lover was.”

Alex ran a hand through his hair, his thoughts racing. “There’s got to be something. Records. Letters. Anything.”

“The library,” Addison said suddenly. “If this happened over a hundred years ago, there might be something in the archives.”

Alex nodded.“Let’s go.”

The next afternoon, they gathered in the quiet of the town’s tiny library. The scent of dust and yellowing paper filled the air as they dug through old newspapers and brittle records.

Hours passed. Shadows shifted across the wooden floor.

Addison’s gasp broke the silence.

“Look.”

She held up a newspaper clipping from 1912, the edges crumbling between her fingers. The photo was grainy—faded—but unmistakable. A young woman on a bicycle, veil tucked behind her.

Local Girl Disappears: Mystery at the Covered Bridge.
“It’s her,” Alex breathed.

The article recounted her sudden disappearance and plans to meet a suitor whose name was never revealed. But one detail stopped Alex cold.

“Witnesses reported seeing her father riding toward the bridge shortly after she left.”

Matheo’s brow furrowed. “Her father?”

“It fits,” Addison said. “If he found out… maybe he tried to stop her.”

“But there’s nothing about him after this,” Alex said, scanning the rest. “No follow-up. Just that she was never found.”

“What if…” Matheo started, his voice tight, “he killed her? And buried the truth?”

Alex shook his head slowly. “But she said he’s still waiting. What if… he never knew what happened either?”

Addison stared at the photo, her eyes shining. “She’s stuck, Alex. Caught between grief and unfinished love. If we can prove what happened—if we can finish her story… maybe we can set her free.”

They sat in the golden hush of the library, the weight of the past pressing down. Somewhere, Eleanor was still waiting.

​And now, they had a way to find her.

“Fine,” Alex muttered, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets. He stepped onto the first wooden plank of the bridge. It creaked under his weight, the sound echoing in the stillness of the night.

“Remember what they say,” Addison whispered theatrically, her voice tinged with mock seriousness. “If you hear her humming, don’t look back.”

Alex snorted. “Yeah, sure. The ghost of some women that disappeared. Real original.”

Legend had it that over a century ago, a young woman named Eleanor was riding her bike to meet her secret lover at the old covered bridge. They planned to leave town together, fleeing the strict rules of her overbearing family and the life she longed to escape. But Eleanor never made it to the meeting.

Some claimed wild animals attacked her in the woods, leaving no trace behind. Others whispered that her father, discovering her plans, intercepted her and silenced her to protect the family’s reputation. The most chilling theory, however, was that the bridge itself held a dark curse, one that claimed Eleanor’s soul that fateful night.

Decades after her disappearance, strange occurrences began to surface. Travelers crossing the bridge at night reported fleeting glimpses of a young woman in a white dress, her figure faint and ethereal as she walked the length of the bridge. She was always looking ahead, as if searching for someone—her secret lover, perhaps, still waiting for her on the other side.

On quiet nights, locals would claim they heard the faint creak of a bicycle wheel, the gentle hum of a lullaby, or the soft weeping of a woman carried by the wind. Some said that if you were brave enough to walk the bridge at midnight, you might see her up close—Eleanor, her pale face full of longing as she searches endlessly for the lover she never reached.

No one could agree on what they saw or heard, but one thing was certain: the legend of Eleanor and the old covered bridge was a story Albert County would never forget.

The friends had heard the tale their whole lives, but tonight’s dare was Matheo’s idea of fun. They’d been bored, and the bridge wasn’t far from Addison’s farmhouse.

“Go to the middle and say her name three times,” Matheo instructed, his grin wicked. “If she shows up, we’ll come save you. Promise.”

“Gee, thanks,” Alex muttered. He stepped further into the darkness, the air growing colder with each step. The river gurgled faintly below, its sound muffled by the creaking wood and the rustling of leaves.

Halfway across the bridge, he paused. The mist clung to the beams like ghostly fingers, and the faint scent of damp wood filled the air. His friends’ flashlights flickered faintly behind him, their chatter reduced to murmurs. He was alone now, the bridge’s oppressive silence pressing in around him.

“Eleanor,” he said, his voice firm despite the knot tightening in his chest. “Eleanor, Eleanor.”

Nothing happened. He let out a shaky laugh, turning back toward his friends. “See? I told you it was just a —” A soft hum cut through the air.

Alex froze. The melody was faint but unmistakable, a lilting tune that seemed to rise from the very wood beneath his feet. He turned slowly, his flashlight trembling in his hand.

“Alex?” Addison called, her voice sharp with worry. “Are you okay?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but the humming grew louder, drowning out everything else. His flashlight flickered, then went out completely. Panic surged as he fumbled to turn it back on.

And then he saw her.

A figure emerged from the mist at the far end of the bridge. She was dressed in white, her veil trailing behind her like smoke. Her face was obscured, but her presence was undeniable—and terrifying.

“Run!” Matheo shouted, his voice cracking. Addison screamed, but Alex couldn’t move. His legs felt rooted to the spot, as if the bridge itself had come alive to hold him there.

The humming stopped, replaced by a whisper that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

“Why have you come?”

Alex’s heart pounded as the figure drifted closer. He tried to speak, to apologize, but the words caught in his throat. The air grew icy, each breath visible in the faint moonlight.

“Please,” he finally managed, his voice barely audible. “We didn’t mean to…”

The women tilted her head, as if considering his plea. Then, with a bone-chilling scream, she surged forward. The bridge shook violently, and Liam was thrown to the ground. Scrambling to his feet, he bolted toward his friends, the phantom’s wails echoing behind him.

The three of them didn’t stop running until they reached Addison’s house, slamming the door shut and collapsing on the living room floor. Their breaths came in ragged gasps, their faces pale with terror.

“What was that?” Mason whispered, his bravado shattered. “It was her,” Alex said, his voice trembling. “Eleanor.”

​The room fell silent, the only sound the ticking of the old grandfather clock. None of them noticed the faint humming that lingered in the air—a reminder that some legends are more than just stories. 
​

Cilck here or on the image above to get a link to a pdf of ghost stories.  You might be able to scroll down and see the pdf below "Read more" but that option is not available on all devices and browsers. Note that  you can also find copies available at locations throughout rural Albert County.

Naturally I’d read all about the history of the bridges, but it’s the local stories that have been told in the post office lobby, standing with ice cream or coffee in front of Crooked Creek Convenience Store at the corner, or shared while shuffling the deck at card parties.
 
It’s the old-timers that have the best tales. “If it isn’t true, it ‘oughta be!”, “Well, I heard it from a man who knows a fella who sez it’s true!”, and “Anyway, take it as you hear it; my salt shaker don’t spill”.... So who knows what story is factual, augmented, entirely made up, embellished; they’re the fabric of the stories of our rural county living.
 
Before heading out, we stopped at the Buddha Bear coffee roasting café in Alma, and asked for extra sugar -- “I’ll need the energy today!” I told Peter, one of the owners. When he asked what our plans for the day were, I explained our destination, shared my enthusiasm for exploring the last on our list of Albert County covered bridges, and asked if he’d been there yet.
 
Then I heard a harrumph at the coffee bar, and looked over to see an unfamiliar, older gray-haired man, with both hands wrapped around his mug of coffee, “Silly pursuits.” he muttered. I dropped my shoulders, and tsked. “Don’t say that!” I cheerfully responded, “It’s a beautiful fall day, and we’re off on a fun little adventure; you’ll spoil it.”
 
“SPOIL IT?!” he barked back, “I’ll tell you about spoiling things…..how ‘bout a spoiled LIFE?”
 
Not knowing how to respond, we just watched him. It was a little un-nerving, and we certainly didn’t want to engage with a hostile curmudgeon just as we were about to set out for a fun-filled day, but something seemed sad and lonely about him. So we hesitated a moment more to see if what he’d say next.
 
He shifted a little, looked up slightly, and quickly glanced back and forth at both of us a few times. “You married?”
 
“Yes! 36 years ago this week, actually” I was proud to answer. “That’s why we’re off this morning, an annual fall-colour outing to celebrate.”
 
“Yeah, well I was married once a long time ago -- longer than that in fact, and he looked back to his coffee cup with what looked like an odd mix of resentment and longing. He made me nervous, so I nudged us along and said, “We’d better get going….” and he said quietly said, “Oh, sure, you love birds head off to that Bridge # 3 …. You’re so young, you probably don’t even know why it’s named that”…...looking up he met our faces, looked boldly, challengingly, and waited; his silence demanding a response.
 
…..”um, no I guess not, really…..”
 
He leaned back, picked up his coffee cup, took a sip, and started a story we’ll never forget.
 
I was young, about to be married, working in the woods, logging, hauling timber, cutting lumber, and it was the loneliest work I’d ever done. Long exhausting days followed by dark cold nights spent in solitude that seemed even longer than the day.
 
For my wedding, I hauled myself out of the woods at the end of the work season, crossed the Crooked Creek Bridge -- that was the name of it in those days -- ready to see my girl, get married, and end my days and nights of loneliness.  
 
He took another sip of coffee, nodding, remembering….he looked at us again, we looked at each other wondering if we should interrupt and just head off, but his look compelled us to stay for more of his narration.
 
In those days, we hauled our loads out of the woods by ground-skidding. Horse teams, strong men, grappling, block and tackle, it was crummy work -- see what I did there? The crummy was the wagon that took the crew out to the work site….yeah, you folks have no idea…..I was a feller, all right -- but when I came out of the solitude of the woods, I was a son-of-a-***** of a fella. -- excuse me, for that last one, Ma’am”
 
He gave me a wink, and raised his cup to me for the apology, then to Peter for a refill on his coffee.
 
Well, that job got me enough to pay for my wedding and for a horse, so I bought it and hooked that old filly right up to our wagon, said “I DO”, and took my new bride out for our first ride together. She cuddled right up to me on the box seat, and it was right nice. But just as we were about to cross that Crooked Creek Bridge, that old filly reared, and jostled us all about, nearly tossing us out, and I worked hard to get her under control.
 
As he described the incident, it looked like he was still holding the reins in one hand while holding on to his now invisible bride. He bucked and jerked still seated on his bar seat, and we all felt the relief as he described the calm after the struggle.
 
“That’s ONE” he said.
 
Well, we continued on, all calmed down and back again my dear bride slid close next to me, and just as we exited the other side of the bridge, didn’t that old horse do the same thing again…
 
Now he stood, pantomiming the actions, grimacing at the strength it took, his dark eyes were fully recalling the danger, the power of that horse, and the skill required to rein it back to safely righting their wagon.
 
He sat back down, winded, took another sip of coffee, and said, “That’s TWO” and loudly clanked his cup back on the wooden bar as he sharply said the word TWO.
 
Well, by now, I’d had my fill of this uncooperative old horse, and decided to return it back to get my money back so I turned that horse right back around and headed back across the bridge to go home …. He paused in thought. Yup, so back through that bridge we go, and by now, naturally, my bride….she’s disappointed, and scared, and all discombobulated, and don’t you know it just as we’re about to go into that covered bridge, doesn’t she do it again,
 
The old man JUMPS up, startling us, and he WHINNIES loudly! We look over at Peter, who is captivated by what’s going on, and we are immediately redirected to the antics of this old-timer galloping, bucking, rearing, snorting, and pulling, imitating the horse’s actions this time instead of his own to control it. We watched, wide eyed until he sat down.
 
He mopped his brow, caught his breath, sipped his coffee and quietly, flatly, resignedly stated,
 
“That’s THREE.”
 
And then he slowly and dramatically silently play acted; pulling a gun out of his pocket, loading a bullet, cocking the imaginary gun, aimed precisely away from us, and yelled,
 
“BANG”
 
We ALL startled.
 
I shot that horse, and let her fall dead down the embankment. We walked home in silence, leaving the wagon behind.
 
Thinking that was the end of the story, we grimaced. Looking at Peter, back to each other, then around the cafe -- still no one else had come in, and it was awkward.
 
Well, it doesn’t end there, you see, when we got home, my new bride, she pouted and sulked. I put on a fire, set the kettle on for a boil. She just sat there. Wouldn’t say a word. Shock, I suppose.
 
We had some tea, and then I went round to the neighbour’s to borrow his horse to retrieve my wagon, and didn’t she insist that she come along, still quiet as a mouse. We walked that horse back up the road to the bridge, and there was my wagon, and that’s when she first spoke again.
 
He reached into his back pocket for his wallet and took out a 10 dollar bill, laying it on the bar securing it under his nearly empty cup. Then he opened his wallet wide to show us a very old black and white photo of a plain woman in a simple wedding dress holding a small nosegay.
 
That’s how she looked on our wedding day. The day that she left me at Crooked Creek Covered Bridge # 3.
 
You see when she finally broke her silence she cried, she nagged, she whined, she complained, she just wouldn’t stop talking saying things like …..”what kind of a honeymoon is this? First, your impatience with an old horse, your temper, walking all that way on the muddy road in my beautiful dress….she rattled on and on. Oh I listened. I took it all. When she got eventually got winded, and fell silent again, I simply said to her, I said.
 
“That’s ONE!”




Jane Chrysostom continues to share her love and devotion to local people and landmarks of Albert County.
​

Unfortunately, since the last time we’d been in the house about two years ago, it had suffered at the hands of vandals, who were clearly ignorant and uncaring of the historic value of the structure, which is more than 200 years old. Beautiful antique porcelain bathroom fixtures were smashed, hand-planed doors and windows broken, and the previous tenant’s possessions were strewn about in complete disarray. A leaking roof had allowed rain, snow, and small wild animals to invade and contribute to the decay and destruction.
 
There was a ton of work just getting things organized and cleaned before we could set to the task of repairing broken plaster, re-glazing smashed windows, fixing and replacing bathrooms, kitchen appliances, and getting electrical and plumbing reconnections working safely. It was daunting and exhausting.
 
With broom, shovels, rubber gloves, and dust masks, we started filling trash bins with the mildewed books and ruined photographs, suitable only for burning, scooping pile after pile of nasty, damp, and black mold paperwork into capacious trash bins. Among the debris, I spotted a leather-bound book with very old fashioned writing on the cover. I thought it was probably a fancy Harry Potter edition of some sort, since it looked newer and undamaged, unlike all the others there was no possibility of salvaging.
 
When I opened the cover, I saw a hand-written inscription that set my heart racing:
 
To a keen pair, suitably matched, joined today, 16 August, in the year of Our Lord, 1876. Gaius Samuel Turner and Lucy E. Stiles. May you find each day forward a gift and of accomplished industrious purpose.
 
We stopped work immediately, and promptly sat down among the rubble and started turning the pages. They displayed intricately cut-out his-and-her silhouettes, and unfamiliar ingredients and directions for short recipes, like: build a bigger fyre box than usual for a very hot oven and add several soft pinches of asafoetida to a spoon-drop dough.
 
Though the writing appeared to be feminine, it became clearer the more we read that it was Gaius’ writing, as he logged and accounted lumber orders, railway schedules, the death of his mother:
 
 “Elizabeth Colpitts, kindest model of motherhood and goodness has most dearly departed, I shall not bear witness to another woman as fine save my own dear Lucy, who shares this day’s sorrow with me.”
 
Page after page of daily notes, meals shared, notable neighbours, kindnesses extended, weather anomalies, trade business, lazy workers on the property and at the shipyard … and then of his increasing desperation as he described Lucy’s failing health, including doctor visits, elixirs mixed, tinctures administered, and finally her quietly slipping into an “unwakeable slumber” when she was pronounced dead.
 
“I feel she hasn’t yet left us, she is now utterly still but I cannot accept that my soul is not somehow still attached wyth her. How is it possible to not acknowledge what I have been told as fact, and begin to wonder if I, too, am facing such a journey as grief has gripped me in mind and body this cold spring of 1892.”
 
Entry after entry describes how he implored the doctor to revive her, that for several days before her burial he felt certain she was in a fast deep sleep, and that he was determined she could be woken.
 
“My mynd is not so beset with denial. Though my education did not benefit from study of the human body, I surely must be intelligent enough to know her spirit has not left, so must trust that quackery does not confound the good Doctor to know that her life has ended, as mine will one day, too.”
 
It was heartbreaking to read about, as he described his own failing health, his time in the General Assembly, and the distractions in Fredericton that served to take his mind away from Lucy’s impending burial.
 
“To bury a wife who in death is still vibrant is an abomination -- I am told tyme and tyme repeatedly that she is gone but how is it to be that our bond was too strong to allow me to believe it is not so, or for anyone else to think I’m not mad with grief to consider it true -- she did not perish; my final kiss to her cool, not death-cold, forehead still returned her familiar loving connection.”
 
He wrote less and less. The final entries were in early April 1892, became more scant -- then blank. We remembered from the archives that was the year he died – “after a lengthy illness.” How grief takes its toll.
 
We put the special book aside, a treasured keepsake to be sure. We somberly talked about how powerful the mind is, letting him continue to believe his wife Lucy never really died, and drove him to near madness, which must have contributed to his decline and death.
 
We resumed our task of cleaning and sorting -- now with a more careful eye to treasure hunting, hoping to uncover more valuable archives. We filled the bin and took it out back to dig a burn trench. Using an old mattock found in the shed and a brand new shovel from Kent’s, we both set to breaking up the overgrowth a safe distance from the neglected back lot behind the house, careful to spread dirt wide so the dry grasses wouldn’t catch fire. The new shovel was more helpful than the mattock, and each shovelful produced good moist soil we piled on the sides of the trench.
 
A hollow CLUNK stopped us both short in our efforts, and we realized we had hit something wooden. Worried that we’d unearthed the top to an old septic or cistern, we brushed away the dirt, and found that it (whatever ‘it’ was) was still under more soil. We quickly cleared away several rocks, cut off a few hindering roots, brushed away the remaining dirt, and found it was a thick plank of wood. More treasure? We guessed it was decking from the shipyard, and started to pry it out. For this, the mattock was of more use, so we nudged its broad curved end under the longest edge of the plank, and levered and leaned and pried back and forth until it SPRANG up with a crack so loud it startled us! We both fell backward on the mounds of dirt behind us.
 
What we thought was just a long and wide plank was, instead, the lid of a coffin. And within that coffin was a tangled cluster of bones, cloth, hair, and STINK.
 
We just sat and stared, horrified but fascinated. Time seemed to slow down. The smell slowly assaulted us, and it took a few minutes for the reality of what we were looking at to set in. We held hands and just stared.
 
Then we saw it. The underside of the plank. Those deep scratches in the wood were not caused by the mattock. The gouges, the splinters, the broken finger bones, so many broken finger bones. Gaius was right – Lucy hadn’t been dead after all.
 
Jane Chrysostom continues to share her love and devotion to local people and landmarks of Albert County where her ancestry in the Fundy area goes back even further than Gaius and Lucy Turner's time.

            In times when long winter evenings were spent at home or with neighbours, listening to stories told by those who could recall or invent them, ghosts, spirits and phantoms were often the topic. Repeated over and over again they became longer and more elaborate. Truth and fantasy became inseparable. Maimie Steeves, a local historian, recorded many of the local legends.
            Here are a few that can make your evenings shorter and your nights a bit scary.
 
Lost His Beard and Breeches:
The Hunt’s Hole Legend
            There is a “Hunt’s Hole”, an opening in the rock face on the southward side of herring Cove, through which a dory can still be rowed at half tide. The story goes that Jackson hunt, picking dulse on the rocks of Matthews head, delayed his return to the Cove too long and was caught by the tide.
            He was forced back over the reefs until a sheer cliff stopped his flight. He was clinging despairingly to a wedged drift log, when a huge breaker washed him loose, spun him dizzily past seaweed and barnacle and, in one wild rush of foam and brine, sucked him down and through the hole in the rock which now bears his name.
            Vastly astonished and relieved, Hunt bobbed up on the other side, still clutching his dulse sack and made his way to the safety of the Cove Breakwater. His claim that he left both his side-whiskers and his homespun breeches in the underseas passage is one of the facts dimmed by time.
 
The “Long Dog” Ghost
            “Hum’s Hollow” on the road to Alma has its ghost too, an unusual type, a great black dog of extreme length which travels on the darkest nights and always cuts across the road ahead, his long nose parting the bushes on one side of the highway while his rigid tail is still slipping out of those on the other side. For generations the “Long Dog” was nothing more than a darker shadow in a dark night, sometimes seen a little more clearly if the traveller happened to carry a lantern, but his fame spread with the coming of the first motor cars. Startled drivers would slam on the brakes as their headlights picked out the hound-like body spanning the road, and moving stiffly across it, never turning head nor eye.
            Legend has nothing to say as to why he haunts the Hollow but perchance it may have something to do with the skeleton stumbled upon by two boys playing truant from school They were making their way through the undergrowth to a small pond called “The Tipperknot” and were frightened half our of their guilty senses at the sight of a grinning skull, a few mouldy shreds of gray cloth and an old rusty sword or musket or both—they didn’t stop to investigate. Later a few half-hearted attempts were made to find the spot but to this day the ancient bones remain unmolested.
 
A Ghost Story
            The bridge at Bennett Lake has its ghost too, or rather the old bridge had, no one seems sure that the present structure is so patrolled. The Point Wolfe River runs through rich lumber territory and several dams are built across it to control the water supply at river driving season. One of these is the Bennett Lake Dam. The old bridge, a wooden one, was built over this dam. No traveller would cross it after nightfall for fear of being crowded off by a furiously driven horse and carriage, invisible but heard and felt.
            Always it came from the same direction, clattering down the incline onto the bridge with a drumming of hoofs and a rattling of wheels over the creaking planks—toward the wooded hills on the western bank and the road that leads to Sussex. Sometimes the sound continued the full length of the bridge, sometimes it broke off in mid-span and the horrified listener held his breath to catch the sound of a mighty splash or a horse’s scream of terror.
            A Syrian pedlar was held up, the story goes, at the top of the hill leading down to the river, murdered, stripped of his money belt and thrown into the gulch while his murderer turned back the way he had come, driving the pedlar’s horse and cart.
            Guilt and fear caused him to lash the horse to a gallop. Darkness hid the near approach to the water’s edge and either his own confusion or the horse’s frantic efforts to escape his unknown driver plunged them through the wooden rail and down over the face of the dam. Bits of the shattered carriage, scraps of harness, and the bloated body of the horse were found miles down the river—but the murderer and the money belt were never seen again.
 
Captain Kidd’s Treasure
            Mile Brook, Goose River and Goose Creek are all scenes of Captain Kidd’s adventures. His phantom ship has been seen times without number at the mouth of all three but it is at Goose Neck that the exact spot of his buried treasure was discovered. Driven by a dream of one of the treasure seekers, a party encamped on the bank of the Creek for days, digging at a spot left bare by the tides for a short three hours at a time, only to be forced by the incoming waters to give up once more, and next tide to find their excavations washed in. Nevertheless, persistent efforts finally hollowed out a shallow saucer in the sand and furious efforts took them down to strike metal at last. Sweating, panting, hardly able to breathe in their wild excitement, they cleared what was certainly the lid of a large brass box, but all their united strength failed to move it so much as an inch, it was apparently as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar—and the tide rolled in!
            The next low tide saw a repeat performance and the third the same, but this time the digging was done by lantern and moonlight. As the shovels struck the metal a great gleaming ship appeared bearing in from the bay, all sails set, beautiful and fearsome with the moon behind her spars. On she came, riding high on the crest of a great rolling billow that swept in and about the terrified four, tumbling over and over, up the steep slant of the beach in a choking welter of crashing sound and flying spray.
            Dawn found one dead in a tangle of seaweed and driftwood, one gibbering in frantic frenzy and the other two so broken and battered that it was days before they could make their way out for help. That ended the treasure seeking in that particular spot.
 
Wolfe’s Profile
            How Wolfe’s profile came to be etched on the cliff at the sea mouth of the Point Wolfe River is conjecture of course. Several tales are told, each with an explanation of its own. One has it that Micmac Indians* encamped on the bar, noticed the resemblance to a great face and that one of the medicine men, working stealthily by night, contrived with his hatchet to carve clearer features which he pointed out to his followers as that of “Manitou, the Mighty”, thus gaining their fearful respect.
            Later a deserter from Wolfe’s army, making his way along the Indian shore trail, was struck by its likeness to that if his erstwhile general, and he also added a few telling details. Years later the pioneers of that section recognized the stone profile and named the river for the point and the settlement of the river.

**The original text reflects the language used in 1977, language which makes many people feel uncomfortable in the year 2017. We would now use more accurate and respectful terms  to refer to people of the Mi'kmaq First Nation.
 
 
A Ghost that Rustles
            The by-road to Herring Cove has a ghost that walks with rustling footsteps through the fall leaves—looking for his missing head, the natives say, turning over old logs with dull thuds and following any late traveller reckless enough to pass through “The Hollow” on foot. No one has ever been harmed by him, but it is rather un-nerving, to say the least, to hear hurried footsteps yet see no signs of their owner (if footsteps can be said to be owned). Those who have experienced it say that the very air vibrates with a voiceless beseechment.
            At the time of the last Fenian Raid a small group of stragglers found their way up the shore road from St. Martin, plundering and pillaging as they came. No one knows why this poor unfortunate gentleman was shorn of his head but his body was discovered behind a clump of bushes in “Soiree Hollow” and though the sodden leaves were searched fearfully and even raked and scattered, no head ever came to light and the corpse was buried as it was found. Apparently it rests quietly enough through the seasons of the year, but when the Hunter’s Moon rides high over Point Wolfe, then the dead arises to seek its own.

                                      
        I saw a light about four fingers up from the horizon, a steady white light rising rapidly and in seconds it was directly overhead.
       Just a pin of light, much higher than the airplanes, and suddenly, as my head was inclining to follow it, it turned. I should say changed direction. A turn implies some curvature. There was no curvature. This object did a 90 degree angle change of direction instantaneously. It didn’t stop, it didn’t curve, it just ‘turned’ at right angles without slowing, and keeping the same speed went down to the horizon and disappeared.
        No plane or satellite or balloon that I’ve ever heard of travels at the high rate of speed this object did, and nothing I have ever heard of can change directions without a curve or slowing. One of the other guys saw it too, but the other two were too slow in reacting as this was all over in less than 20 seconds.
        I hadn’t thought of it in years, but a few months back I was trying to remember which of the guys it was who saw it. It’s not something you would forget, if reminded. I messaged Gary but he has no memory of the event. It might have been Blair or Hughie. I haven’t seen Blair in many years and don’t know how to reach him, so that left Hubert.
        I contacted Hughie on Facebook and he has no memory of it either. Unless someone else was there that night, it must have been Blair. I’ve searched the skies many nights, and for hours at a time. This is the only time I’ve ever seen anything that I couldn’t explain. But I know it wasn’t a Frisbee, or a plane or a satellite, or an hallucination. I’m not saying it was a flying saucer, or Aliens. It was, however, an unidentified flying object, or UFO.
      Another time I only thought I saw a UFO was out on the same deck, on another evening. It was just a brief flash as a small object flew by, very low. There was some lettering on the side of it—I think it might have been ‘Labatt’s’.  Hughie later apologized for the ‘near miss’ but more than likely I had it coming.
  
Discover more great stories in 'Grandpa Pike's Outhouse Reader'. It is available at all the usual online channels--Amazon.ca, Amazon.com, Kobe, Indigo.com, directly from Flankerpress.com, and at any Chapters, Coles, or Indigo store including Chapters in Dieppe. In (God Bless) Albert County it is available at The Albert County Museum, Jeff Cooke's Albert County Hardware, and Lindsay Butland's Crooked Creek Convenience.
The book is a collection of short stories most of which are humorous, some of which are inspirational or perhaps thought-provoking.  A number of the stories take place in Albert County.

          Thick raindrops smacked against the gravestones. Ursula grabbed the rubbings she'd made and dashed for the dubious shelter of her rusted Camry. Thunder growled across the sky. Lightning followed. Autumn leaves scattered in the wind.
               She saw it on the edge of her vision and froze. A small, crooked gravestone. Her own name inscribed upon it. Ursula Pendlethwaite. Died 1814.
               Ursula shivered. The wind tore the rubbings from her grip.
              

                A copper bell hung before the gravestone. Ursula had read of such bells. She knelt to check for an inscription on the metal. What was their purpose again? She couldn't remember.
               More thunder. She should go.
               She stood. A white light exploded through the air. Her muscles contracted in sudden, intense pain. Something sizzled in her ears. The universe narrowed to the lettering on the gravestone. Ursula Pendlethwaite. Died 1814.
               The light vanished. Ursula collapsed. The gravestone bore a jagged crack down its middle. One side crumbled, the words lost. The smell of burnt hair and flesh filled the air. A puff of smoke rose like a ghost from the broken gravestone. Lightning, she realized. She’d been struck by lightning.
               Ding.
               Ding.
               The copper bell sounded distant. It hurt her ears. What did it want?
               Ursula tried to get up, but her body refused. It lay limp and unresponsive in the rain.
               The ground beneath her shifted.
               Ding.
               Ding.
               The bell. Ursula remembered. People once had them installed on their coffins as a precaution against being buried alive. A means to alert the living. Her heart beat a strange, broken rhythm. Who was ringing the bell?
               Ding.
               Ding.
                               The ground heaved beneath her. Something was down there. She tried to scream. Her mouth tasted of smoke and dirt and no sound came.
               The undamaged half of the gravestone flashed in the storm. Ursula  Died.
               The wet ground squelched. Something dark and rotten pulled itself from the grave.
               Her breath came fast.
               The dark thing lurched toward her.
               “Please, just move!” Ursula begged her useless body.
               The fiend grew closer, dripping with rain or blood or something much, much worse. A glass eye peered from its misshapen head. It fixed itself upon her.
               The fiend staggered to her side. If only she could look away. It climbed upon her chest, weightless. Ursula thrashed inside her mind, desperate to escape. She gagged on the fiend’s cloying odour. Lilies and rotten lunchmeat. The glass eye stared at her from the blackened remains.
               She felt the fiend sink below her skin, steady as a chill. “No, no, no!” Ursula thought. She couldn’t bear to be trapped inside with that thing.
               The glass eye rolled across her belly as the ghoul disappeared beneath her skin. It fell to the ground.
               Ursula’s body convulsed with a violent retch. A dark unconscious overtook her.    
#
               She woke to a low sun shining warm onto the graves. Robins sang in the wet autumn leaves. Ursula struggled to sit up. Her body was stiff, but she could move.
               She had blackened burns on her hands. Her shoes were missing. The grass surrounding the broken gravestone was singed, but whole. Her head throbbed, whether from the ghoulish hallucinations or lightning strike she wasn’t sure.
               A gust of wind caught the copper bell.
               Ding.
               Ding.
               She sighed. “I must get Henry to fix that ridiculous bell.”
               Ursula froze. She didn’t know any Henry’s.
               Something rolled against her foot. She looked down. A glass eye glinted in the sunlight.
               Ursula died promised the gravestone.
​
Jennifer Shelby is known for hunting stories in the beetled undergrowth of fairy infested forests. This story, discovered in the boughs of graveyard maple, is a part of her ongoing catch-and-release program. If you would like to know more about story hunting or Jennifer, please visit her story hunting headquarters at jennifershelby.ca