Ghosts on the Coast of Maine
GHOSTS ON
THE COAST
OF MAINE
GHOSTS ON
THE COAST
OF MAINE
By
Carol Olivieri Schulte
Illustrations by Jo Going
Copyright © 1989 by Carol Olivieri Schulte
All rights reserved.
Reprinted by arrangement with the author.
ISBN 978-0-89272-390-4
Cover art by Anita Crane
Original text design by Dick Nixon
Printed and bound at Versa Press, Inc., East Peoria, Illinois
12
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Schulte, Carol Olivieri, 1947–
Ghosts on the coast of Maine / by Carol Olivieri Schulte.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-89272-390-4 (pbk.)
1. Ghosts–Maine. 2. Haunted places–Maine 3. Maine–History.
I. Title
BF1472.U6S34 1996
133.1’09741–dc20 96-7900
CIP
PREFACE
This book is about ghosts. All of the stories are based in fact, but some names were changed to protect the identities of those who actually experienced these happenings.
I thank all the people who generously allowed me to be a part of their lives during my summer’s research on the coast of Maine. They shared their families, their secret thoughts, and their dearly held memories. I will not forget them.
Carol Olivieri Schulte
A Note About the Illustrations
Jo Going illustrated Ghosts on the Coast of Maine, bringing to the book her experience as children’s book illustrator for Houghton Mifflin Publishing Company and art director for Boston Now magazine.
Her work has been exhibited at Harvard University; Siegel Contemporary Art, New York City; and Anton Gallery, Washington, D.C.; as well as Maine Coast Graphics in Camden, Maine; and the Root Cellar Gallery in Rockland, Maine.
CHAPTER ONE
THE BENNETT BOY
Old-timers don’t much like talkin’ about it. A glint of fear and then annoyance escapes through their seawater eyes whenever a “tourist” broaches the subject. The way these lobstermen figure, if something bad happens to somebody it’s because he deserved it. It’s also a matter between that person and His Maker, so it’s nobody else’s business.
Only a person who’d grown up in Port Clyde every summer of her life would get to hear the whole Bennett story. That’s why I lucked out.
Carl Bennett was a hard-working man in the early 1900s. Every lobsterman was. Out haulin’ from 4 A.M. till 2 P.M., when your catch got weighed, made for long days. When you weren’t haulin’ or settin’ traps, you were fixin’ your nets or lettin’ your skiff swell up so she’d quit leakin’.
He was a good deal fonder of his lobster boat than he was of his wife, Cora. Everybody knew this because Carl did not follow the Maine custom of naming his boat after his wife.
Carl came from a high-strung Scandinavian line. He liked things his way, and he liked them his way here and now. He tried to control his temper, but more often than not, it got the better of him. His face would redden underneath that almost white thatch of hair, and he’d bellow so loud the natives of the neighboring island could hear him. He wasn’t a drinking man, but when he got mad he lashed out at anything—the kitchen dishes, the living room lamp, Cora’s favorite vase. Sometimes even Cora became injured in the fracas.
Cora put up with him long enough to bear him two blond, handsome sons. Ben, the youngest, was Carl’s favorite. Carl took him everywhere he went. He taught him how to row a dory, how to make traps, bait them, set them, and haul them. On bad weather days, Carl and Ben could often be found painting buoys or tarring unraveled rope in Carl’s little lobster shack. In summer they’d catch flounder off the wharf with hand lines made by Carl. In the colder months they’d go deer hunting around by Turkey Cove. Carl put all the love and affection he didn’t give to his wife and older son into his relationship with Ben.
Cora saw her sons grow till the youngest was twelve. Then she jumped off the town wharf one night and ended her torturous life.
Ben took it hard. He quit paying attention in school and got into a lot of fights. When school was out for the summer, his dad had a hard time getting him up mornings to help lobster so they could have food on the table. Ben turned to his companions for friendship, but they were not the kind of people he needed. His friends would steal cigarettes and then go on ventures that kept them out all night long. They were always looking for trouble.
One night, during the full swing of Prohibition, they found it. There had been stories of rumrunners on the coastal islands, but no one thought they’d ever come into port. These outlaws were reported to be ruthless in their endeavors, tough men who’d shoot you dead rather than ask questions.
Ben and his friends were walking down the lighthouse road, cigarettes in hand, when one of the boys thought he spotted the light of a ship through the thick pine trees. They crept closer to shore to investigate. Sure enough, a bunch of strange men were unloading huge kegs onto the rocky shore just in front of the lighthouse. They were strong and dangerously armed.
What happened next is hard to say. Either the boys made a noise, or the tips of their lit cigarettes betrayed their presence. In any case, the rumrunners chased after the boys and caught up with one of them, Ben. With blade held high, an outlaw severed Ben’s head in one blow. The other boys got away.
The ruffians threw the remnants of Ben’s body in a swamp off the lighthouse road. Realizing that they were in danger of a potential attack by townspeople, they loaded the kegs back on board and continued their nocturnal journey.
Carl was beside himself with grief when he learned of the violent death, and he lived out the rest of his days a heartbroken man.
About twenty years after Ben’s death, a man was walking down the lighthouse road with his wife and daughter. The little girl turned to see a man following them. He was described as heavy set with dark hair and beard, old-fashioned clothes and high black boots. The little girl started to run, and the man ran after her, brandishing a huge knife. Her parents turned around and they too became alarmed, scooped up their daughter, and ran full speed ahead. After several yards they checked back, and saw only the tall pine trees behind them. The menacing figure had disappeared. When they came to their senses, they realized that the “man’s” boots had made no sound on the road.
Since then, several townspeople have reported seeing a huge, gruff-looking man with a knife chasing after a blond youth, down by the lighthouse. The sighting was reported being in the area of the swamp that lined the road just before the lighthouse.
Ten years ago, people on four separate occasions witnessed a big man with a blade chasing after them. The faster they’d run, the faster he’d run, until he vaporized into nothingness. Again, no sound of running footsteps was noticed.
Others have seen only the figure of a light-haired boy standing above the swamp water by the lighthouse.
Either one or both of the figures were reportedly being seen up until about five years ago.
“Tourists” still seem to have an immense fascination with the lighthouse road. The townspeople have tried to discourage them by erecting a sign that says “Dead End.” It certainly was, many years ago, for a boy named Ben.
CHAPTER TWO
JEWELL’S BOUTIQUE
Jewell Stone is her real name. This sapphire-eyed lady, once my Maine neighbor, carries her name well because she is a gem of a person. Those star-bright eyes harbor a sense of playful daring and hilarious laughter, but there is a no-nonsense side to Jewell that has made her the successful businesswoman that she is tod
ay. This is why, when she told me her place in Rockland was haunted, I had no trouble believing her story.
This dainty, well-coiffed effervescence of femininity described what happened one day when she was minding the store. At that time, 1979, the store was loaded with antiques, costume clothing, and secondhand articles. It was not the plushily carpeted house of high fashion that it is now. The floorboards were bare, and there was more of a funky, offbeat atmosphere to the place. Purses decorated with moons and stars hung in the doorway instead of big bright leather bags with silver clips. The aroma of incense tingled the nose.
One day in broad daylight, when Jewell was alone in the store, she heard the distinct sound of booted footsteps in the next room. When she walked over to investigate, she found no person. She did notice that a pair of Civil War boots on display amid some antiques had moved from one end of the room to the other. It gave her goose bumps, and it still gives her goose bumps to talk about it.
Jewell summoned her courage and continued to relate more curious happenings. She told me that within the first five minutes of being in the place, before she bought it, she knew that there was a ghost about. This statement was interesting, because a bed-and-breakfast proprietress in another Maine town had told me the same thing about her establishment, two days before. I asked Jewell what she thought of her first ghostly impression. She said that she put it in the back of her mind because she had too many other things to think about at the time, starting a new business and turning the house into a store.
Her impression could not be forced to stay in the back of her mind, however, the day she turned on a light which was immediately turned off by someone not visible to the physical eye. Later on, a door shut that had just been opened. No wind, no cause, no person. For no apparent reason, she started calling him George. Every time an article was moved out of place, it was “George’s” doing.
I sensed a military presence in the house, based on the connection with the war boots, but I wasn’t sure which war. Jewell said that anything was possible, since her place had been a funeral home prior to her ownership, but she didn’t know exactly when.
“Funeral home” started buzzing around in my mind after I left my gutsy neighbor. (Jewell was the first person to give written consent to use her name and that of her establishment, in this book.) “Vietnam War Era” came to mind next, and that’s all I knew until I talked to the former operator of the funeral home.
Dewey wasn’t sure he wanted to talk to me. I suppose my non-Maine accent made him wary. Figuring this, I gradually slipped into my best “ayuh” kind of speech, and we had ourselves a grand old chat. As it turned out, Dewey knew my family because last fall he had taken care of my grandmother’s body before her Providence undertaker could make the 365-mile journey up here. That put us on even better terms.
Come to find out, there had been a young chap from Rockland about twenty-seven years old, whose body had been flown in from Hawaii. Dewey didn’t rightly know which year, either 1967 or 1968. The fellow had quite a nice service, as he recalled, an outdoor military funeral on a beautiful day in May, with guns smokin’ and practically the whole town out to mourn him. He had died in a car accident in Hawaii while stationed there in the army. His name: George Golden.
His widow was quite shook up about it. She was just a young thing, no kids or anything. She ran a small ice cream shop on the outskirts of town, that is, until George died. Then she took up and moved away, and nobody’s seen her since. There was reason for her to be upset, as well as the whole town, actually.
George had sort of been their fair-haired boy. He was an all-star basketball, football, and track athlete. Many a time he had put his high school on the front page of the newspaper. After George graduated, he continued lobster fishing with his father, a decorated veteran of World War II. Their whole family was very patriotic.
When George signed up for the army, he was determined to make himself a hero. Ayuh. He was going to fight them Commies, yes sir, the finest kind of fighter there’d be. He’d put his hometown on the map, by God. George Golden, from Rockland, Maine.
And then his life got cut short. George wasn’t a wild one; he was in the passenger seat of the car when it happened. One of his army buddies got drunk and drove the two of them right smack into a tree. There he was, halfway to Vietnam, but he never made it.
Dewey wanted to know why I thought the Golden fellow was the ghost. I explained to him about my “feelings” with regard to the presence in the house, and why George would make a perfect ghost. A violent death is a prime factor, since the spirit is jolted from the physical sphere to the non-physical sphere. The soul may be confused, may not understand that its body is dead. Secondly, George’s death would have been a huge frustration to him. He didn’t want to die in some silly accident, he wanted to go out in triumphant glory, fighting for his country. He had anticipated a more honorable death, one with an enemy bullet lodged in his chest or something. That’s why he’s been bugging Jewell for attention. He’d like to relay this emotional burden to someone in hopes of being relieved of it.
All I can say is, George, you did your best. Let it go at that.
CHAPTER THREE
HAUNTED MOUNTAIN
Sarah Whitesell was surrounded by her loving family when she died. This cushion of strength and goodwill allowed her to pass on gracefully, without much confusion, but her spirit has remained here as a testament of youthful innocence and gentility. Even if you cannot see her, her presence unmistakably permeates the last bit of ground her feet trod upon, the Mt. Megunticook trail.
Her life story was short but meaningful for those around her. It was full of energy and sensitivity toward others. It ended May 6, 1865, two days after her thirteenth birthday.
On that day the Whitesell family decided to go “Maying,” in celebration of a crisp, sunny Lincolnville morning. They hitched up the buggy and rode west, discussing which place was best for a picnic.
Father Whitesell didn’t have much to say. He was too busy driving the buggy. Sarah and her two little brothers were arguing about their favorite spots, so Mother had to play arbitrator. The boys wanted to go to the shore because they loved to play in the water, and they didn’t want to spend time climbing up a mountain. Sarah kept talking about the mountain because she liked to skip through the leafy passages of light where birds sang to one another in the treetops. It was so pretty, and there were interesting rocks and flowers to collect all along the way.
Mother hesitated to interrupt long enough for Father to intervene. “We’ll go to the mountain,” he said.
Sarah hugged her father. He was so strong and kind and mostly gave in to her when there was a choice to be made. Zachariah Whitesell felt close to his daughter, the family member most interested in the profession he had chosen, the practice of law. Even though she did not understand everything she read down at his office, she loved to keep her father company, poring over the dusty old books full of big words. As with her father, criminal cases were her favorite.
Mary Whitesell shrugged her shoulders in acquiescence. She wasn’t about to take on daughter and husband at the same time, both strong-willed personalities. She gave Sarah a knowing glance, however, because she knew that her daughter would be concerned about her feelings. Mary then settled down the boys, and they were all off to Mt. Megunticook in the Camden hills.
The air was so clean and the sun so bright that they caught Sarah’s spirit from the beginning of the trail. She bounced up the path like a mountain goat, checking back now and then to make sure that her little brothers were not too far behind. She wanted this to be a pleasant trip for them, since it had been her idea.
By the time they reached the top, Mary had grown tired so she sat down in the soft long grass. Sarah went over and rubbed her mother’s shoulders, then proceeded to help her father spread the blanket and take food out of the picnic basket. “Wouldn’t it make a nice touch to have some flowers with our spread,” she thought. The most colorful blooms were growing ab
out twenty feet away, on the edge of the precipice. Sarah picked some, then turned around to show her mother. At that point a gust of wind knocked her off balance, and she tumbled off the thousand-foot cliff onto a rocky shelf several hundred feet below.
Zachariah was first to reach her, after much difficulty. There lay her form, small for thirteen years of age, unbroken but unconscious. Now it looked even smaller, unmoving, helpless, and extremely bruised. The little girl’s condition paralleled her father’s feelings.
It took a while to gather rescue team members, but they did their best, lashing her to a plank and lowering her from crag to crag. It was a painstaking operation that lasted several hours. Sarah was brought to the nearest house, where everything possible was done to save her life. She passed away that evening, however.
Sarah’s family, along with the family in the house, knelt down at her body and prayed through most of the night. They wanted her to be as happy now, as she had made them during her lifetime. The next morning Zachariah talked with Mary about erecting some sort of memorial on Sarah’s mountain at the spot where she had slipped. A white wooden cross was decided upon and placed on the small hill overlooking the cliff.
Many people have traveled the path up Mt. Megunticook since then. It’s a long walk, but it is so beautiful that a sense of purification captures the soul. The higher altitude might produce some lightheadedness, but that’s to be expected. One might be tempted to walk over to the edge of the mountaintop and catch sight of the whole expanse of Lake Megunticook and miles of surrounding lands below. Be careful, especially when the wind is blowing.
It is the wind that blends with the spirit of Sarah and enfolds a person standing on top of the mountain. It bends the gentle grass backward and turns one’s head ever so slightly in the direction of the tall weather-beaten cross several feet away. It creates a chilling effect that might be heightened by the sight of a little girl hovering in the flowers with an angelic smile on her face.