Wraiths, shades and spooks more than just folklore to many rural people

Life in the country certainly has its share of perks, from seasonal vistas to fresh produce at your fingertips to the caring neighbours. But there’s another part of rural life that probably doesn’t come to mind that often, like the shades, spooks and hants that populate the landscape. Never encountered a wraith or silent spectre in the darkening country twilight? Doubters scoff, saying it’s the wind or a wild imagination. Just as certain are the people who maintain that—at least, for an instant—there was something there. 

Willful wisp

Talk of the local restless spirits was once less about entertainment and more about good advice for those not wishing to encounter…something. One such place best avoided was far back of the settlements on O’Brien Brook, where a tilting, dilapidated old camp stood. Wise fishers or hunters avoided the place with its rumours of strange happenings. But my thrice removed great-uncle Murray put no faith in such warnings. A veteran of the Great War, he made it clear he would haul over there for a spot of fishing despite stern warnings. After a miles-long hike to reach O’Brien, he spent a pleasant evening fishing and with a happy heart went to the old camp to settle in for the night.

What came next is of course third-hand, with decades separating the events, but as great-uncle Murray hustled up supper the evening wind dropped and across the clearing in the gloaming, he caught movement. According to him wisps of smoke or fog rose from the ground and began to twist together. Stranger still, the shapeless mass soon took on an increasingly larger form that seemed to move towards the camp.Anyone who survived trench warfare and artillery barrages didn’t scare easy. Murray stayed put to see what developed; first, making sure his hatchet and rifle were near. In the darkening twilight, the smoky wraith moved up the camp wall then over the roof, down the stone chimney and out the doorless entrance and paused. Then it seemed to notice Murray and began to drift towards him.

Deciding events had taken a turn he wasn’t keen to be any part of, Murray quickly gathered up his tucker, choosing to spend the night under the stars elsewhere. Swirling more quickly, the form seemed agitated, rising up tall and threatening. As he moved off, Murray swore the shape kept pace so close the form almost touched him, but he was a fast walker, darkness or not. Finally some border was reached: the wisps stopped their pursuit, slowly unwound then sank into the ground. Of course, the science of today will have answers; ground fog, a tired wanderer or maybe old memories stirred up by the darkening silence. Perhaps, but these answers had no place in the old veteran’s mind because he avoided O’Brien Brook for his remaining days. 

Silent walker

Country roads can have an association with otherworldly wanders and near my home, a traveller has traced his steps countless nights. For those who encounter the form, it is always moving along with a hefty rolled-up quilt across his back. A red-checked coat and thick knitted wool toque indicate a lumberman or trapper returning home. But the unsettling part—and on this, all agree—the shape is trudging along steadily on no legs! Unsettling enough to see a shade in the car head lamps, but one seeing drifting ahead in mid-air would certainly stay with you. Who is he and why he never reaches his destination no one can say. So, steady as the seasons, he walks this empty country road, with the way forever winding and endless.

A noisy hant 

Most encounters with a wraith involve actions meant to frighten people badly enough to never return. But sometimes a lonely spook just wants some company.

A young fellow from Blackville, NB went looking for work one harvest season but could find no one needing a strong back. Finally he was directed to a far-off homestead that might be looking for help.

After a long dusty day’s walk, Pierre arrived at a house surrounded with acres of crops. The farm family welcomed him in to supper and hired him immediately. The farmer even had an empty house nearby and Pierre was welcome to live there. Jumping at the chance, Pierre moved in the next day with the family’s help. Although dusty, the house was soon cleaned, the stove pipe assembled, and everything put in good order. Pierre slept upstairs at the far end of the old house and a better set up a young fellow in those times couldn’t have dreamed of.

Then one night Pierre awoke to sounds unnatural in an empty house. As he shook sleep away, he heard noises downstairs. The woodstove door creaked, and then kindling shaved up with wood was added. He heard the fire catch and soon smelled frying eggs and ham; even grease spitting. Pierre crept softly out to the stairs landing and listened as chair legs scraped, cutlery worked, and tea was poured. His temper now boiling down the stairs he rushed with fists ready to put the intruder out the door. But all he found was an empty room, a cold stove and the cooking outfit cleaned and hanging. Maybe I was just dreaming, he decided and stomped back to bed.

But over the next few weeks the unexpected roommate returned. Pierre awoke to boots stomping into the house and then smelled a meal being prepared. Afterward matches would strike and sweet smelling shag would drift up from a silent smoker. The spook didn’t come every night, but the interrupted sleep was exhausting and soon the farm family asked Pierre what was wrong.

Feeling they were owed an explanation, Pierre told them about the nightly visits and was surprised at the reply. The family knew about it and said it was the former owner, a jovial sort who enjoyed visitors and loved to hustle up a meal with a good long smoke afterwards. Assuring Pierre the shade was harmless, they asked if he would stay the whole winter to work. But the young man had heard enough, telling them he was leaving; and after squaring up his pay, he went to pick up his few belongings.

But this time the house was different. As he went indoors, there was the sound of walking and doors closing upstairs. Rushing up the stairs he found the rooms empty and as he rolled up his kit, the cooking sounds below began yet again. Now frightened, Pierre bolted down the stairs, through the cold silent kitchen and out the door. The young man never glanced back until well away and only after the sound of footfalls had faded. Years later, Pierre admitted to never being so scared—or happier to lose a roommate! 

Remember me

Country life is far from the oft-clichéd image of popular media; it’s not all haystacks and cowbells tinkling. Rural landscapes have their share of long forgotten murders, and one from my childhood was the Dagden Turn.

Legend had it that a beautiful lass from the Emerald Isle had lived with her pioneering parents, farming in a sea of stumps. Kind and beautiful, she sang songs 100 generations old. But a stranger was said to have appeared and a moment of rage resulted in deadly violence. Faced with a body to dispose of, the coward knew the nearby foot path was being made into a road, and he buried her now-silent voice deep in the soil where the path turned sharp.

By dawn the dark deed was done, and loads of gravel added over decades erased the heinous act—except for a single periodic phenomenon to remind the world of a lost life. On the sharp Dagden Turn whenever the road grader had scraped past, a section of soft ankle high grass called Maidens Hair would appear in a rectangular grave shape, silently waving in the evening breeze. Old residents cautioned it best to avoid the Dagden Turn after dark until the outline disappeared. I’ve witnessed it countless times—mind you, only at mid-day in the bright sun. No point in aggravating anyone or anything, eh?

Listen at your peril

Forests in the Old World abounded in spectral spooks and once settlers arrived on these shores, beliefs merely got modified—one of them being the sly Tree Squeak. Never heard one before? Stand quietly in a spruce forest and listen closely. Ever so softly, a “squeak” will call out to you. Is it the rubbing of trees, or something more sinister? Advice from any woodsman is very clear; do not go towards the sound as it will draw you further in until you’re lost. Some describe the sound as a distance cry for help or a lost child sobbing in sad desperation. But be warned: the more you follow the farther away it seems, often coming from several directions or even saying your name in a gentle tone. In the tall timber, confusion can lead to careless actions with dangerous results. Just like a fairy ring, it’s best to avoid the deceitful “squeaks” and keep on your way, lest the journey end in mishap.

The sophisticated modern person might say country folk are foolishly ruled by silly superstitions. Perhaps, but the power of belief provides us with structure and strength in the face of events greater than ourselves. So if you happen to find yourself at dusk walking an old hayfield or a lonely lane far between farms, pause for a moment and close your eyes. Whatever was once waiting for the darkness to descend is probably still there.

You just have to listen and believe.