Ghosts on the Coast of Maine Page 7

  No one fixed the hole, and the broken window made noises from the house more audible. Neighbors were startled one night by a loud popping noise. Not knowing what to expect, they ventured near enough to see a liquid rushing over the wooden floor. The smell was very strong, very ripe. That was the end of their nocturnal investigation. The morning light induced sparks of courage, so they actually opened the front door and walked over to the soaked floor. Rum was the liquid. It had flowed out of a barrel hidden away in the wall. More barrels were found, and more secret places, whereupon they came to a series of tunnels that led to the shore. Thus was the true nature of Jones’s character revealed and talked about for many years to come.

  As for George Vigny, he is still angry about his untimely death and continues to make his presence known to those who dare trespass on Jewell’s Island.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE CURSED FARM

  Freeport’s southeast wind blows the sunset sands of a large barren area extending the arm of Thomas Grayson’s curse just a little bit farther. The time is the present. What was once a thriving farm has turned into a Sahara-like desert in the space of about one hundred years. There is no other place like it in the world, primarily because of its young age and also because it still sustains life. Seventy-foot birches and even an apple tree grow out of the sand, although they are so buried that they appear to be small bushes at ground level.

  The curse was kind to the few remaining trees, but it totally wiped out any chance of survival by the last farmer who owned the land. The first farmer was Thomas Grayson. He was of muscular stock from his mother’s side of the family, and he had inherited the long body and intelligent eyes of his father’s side. Like most men of his era, it took him till he was forty years old to have accumulated enough assets to be able to provide for a wife and family. In 1797 he bought a three-hundred-acre farm and married Elizabeth Donaldson.

  Elizabeth died in 1815, leaving behind three teenage sons to help their father till the land. This they did with great energy, harvesting crops of potatoes, green vegetables, and hay. They cultivated the blossoming apple orchard and tended their herds of sheep and cattle. Blueberries and strawberries abounded. In the winter they cut down their choicest trees and sold the lumber to the railroad for a good price.

  A year later the oldest boy went off to sea, and the middle one was about to follow on his heels. There was quite a discussion about that, but Tom, being a loving father, would not stand in the boy’s way. Besides, Tom was becoming good friends with a widow lady named Hattie, who had a strapping teenage boy and a good head for business. Soon after the second son left home, Tom married Hattie.

  Tom, his youngest son David, Hattie, and her son Jonas fostered a new family unit. By 1836 they were among the most financially stable of anyone in the community. That was the year Tom died, but before he died, he made Hattie promise to give the farm over to David. There was no legal record of this, because Tom distrusted lawyers, but he did trust Hattie to honor his wishes. She didn’t. She gave the place to Jonas, and David moved away.

  The farm went well for mother and son for about fourteen years. Then one day Hattie noticed a saucer-sized spot of white sand by the barn. She thought it odd at the time but not important enough to bother her son about. Two weeks later that little spot had turned into a small mound, noticed this time by Jonas. The prevailing winds from the east had swirled the sand to form a peak, but what in the Devil’s name had pushed it up and out of the brown soil?

  The Devil’s name entered Jonas’s mind more than once as he fought to ground the sand with cutup brush. In a few months, the mound had become a dune, and mother and son were filled with trepidation. Visitors remarked about the sand mass; they had never seen the like, amidst so many acres of fertile ground. Tongues wagged all over the place, some of them making mention of Tom’s dying wish to have David own the property. Maybe if David had been allowed to work the land, this would not have happened.

  The spirit of Thomas Grayson seemed to be more evident as time wore on. Jonas stayed awake nights listening to the wind, witnessing out his window the handiwork of an invisible force that kept pushing the sand out of the ground. Its sparkle glinted in the moonlight, as it spilled over the fruitful fields and vegetable gardens that had taken so much work to keep alive. Mornings found him too tired or too despairing to go and fight the sand. He had to spend more time building blockades than tending to the livestock.

  The sand did not relent. After killing the farm flora, it played a waiting game with the healthy timbers that bordered the fields. It crept over the tree roots and settled in layers until the trees bent over and died. The wind made an eerie sound, whistling through all the dead trees.

  By 1860 Jonas had sold almost all the land that remained normal, which was about half the property. No one wanted the desert land. His mother had died the previous year, and his enthusiasm for life was waning.

  One morning in 1875, the old man looked out his door to find his plow totally buried. He tried to move the wagon, but it wouldn’t budge. It too was a victim of the sand. Jonas went back to the house to pack his belongings, then turned his back forever on the land that had held such great potential.

  The “farm” lay dormant for about fifty years. The desert grew to include eight hundred acres of valleys and dunes. Tall trees were underground, as well as half the barn, and the springhouse that used to supply cool storage for food. One twilight evening a couple from Massachusetts, prospective buyers, were inspecting the grounds. They were wading through the sand around the springhouse when they noticed a stone structure nearby, half buried. They uncovered the whole piece, then recoiled in terror. The structure was a sculptured head with huge pointed ears and a wide mouth. The facial expression was sinister, as if to say, “Hah hah hah, the joke is on you.” As if that weren’t enough of a bad omen, as they were leaving they heard what sounded like male laughter echoing across the dunes. The couple did not return.

  When people visit the desert, they note the shortened trees, the old barn, and the picture of the diabolical head that is now totally buried. The caretakers are constantly sweeping new sand out of the barn in hopes of keeping at least one relic uncovered. When asked what will be next, they shrug and say, “wherever the wind decides to blow.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  MASSACRE POND

  It is not surprising that a very disturbed ghost haunts Massacre Pond in Scarborough, formerly Black Point. Most of the west’ard (what Maine people call the coast from Kittery to about Portland) was at one time a veritable blood bath, the result of innumerable Indian/English battles. The account of one massacre pretty much sounds like that of another, except for the one in question that occurred on October 6, 1703. Massacre Pond is special because it was the culminating point in a series of tragic events that befell a certain man. This final incident in the life of Richard Stonewell gave the term “irony” new meaning.

  His suffering began at age twenty-two after he had built his first family home, a three-room bungalow on Black Point River. He happened to be away on business one afternoon when a group of Indians attacked the cottage. They scalped his wife, then held his infant son by the feet and beat his head against the living room timbers until he died.

  Stonewell never recovered from the shock. Not only were the deaths themselves devastating, but the manner in which they occurred was overwhelming. The Indians inhabiting the state of Maine (which was then part of Massachusetts) in 1667 had not yet reached their breaking point with the English settlers. Out-and-out war was not distinguishable until 1675. Besides, the French paid much higher bounties for women and children captives; adult male scalps were the grand prizes.

  The English were also in the scalp business, and they paid well too, but Dick Stonewell did not care about money when he abandoned farming and joined the military service. His heart was full of vengeance, and he vowed to kill every Indian he could get his hands on. One of his favorite means of attack was to crash Indian meetings with white se
ttlers, peaceful or not. He’d burst through the door and shoot indiscriminately until he ran out of ammunition. The Indians came to know him as “Crazy Eye.”

  And many came to know him, Maine through Canada. Now that Dick did not have a family, he was free to travel, and he volunteered for commissions that took him far from Scarborough. In an expedition to St. John’s, his Indian fighting was described as “passionate.”

  The practice of taking chances when other men didn’t dare caused him injuries. From 1690 to 1696 Dick sustained several wounds in his right arm and one arrow through the thigh. By 1697 he was so disabled that he came back home and petitioned the General Court for monetary assistance. It was granted.

  Stonewell turned from an active combatant to one who tended the cows that belonged to the Black Point Garrison. He and nineteen other men were tending the cows out by the pond one October morning when, unbeknownst to them, a band of two hundred Abenakis from Canada were crouching in the bushes, lying in wait. They had come in the name of Christ, who, they had been told by the French, had been crucified by the English. They had also come in the name of the French, their neighbors and comrades in the fur trade. It seems that the French hunters and trappers had much more in common with the Indians than the English farmers and shipbuilders. Thus, they were able to infiltrate Indian tribes and establish themselves as brothers.

  The Abenakis had been waiting, still as the trees, since the night before, October 5. They had done without fire and elaborate meals and had crept so stealthily as to keep the dogs unaware of their presence. The Indians sprung from the brush in bands of three or four, and their tomahawks fatally cut the flesh of all the garrison men except one. Richard Stonewell, yellow-haired “Crazy Eye,” was among the dead.

  The tale of Dick Stonewell has been kept alive through appearance of his spirit roaming the pond’s edge. A description of one of these appearances came from an unexpected source, a Scarborough librarian. She was writing a newspaper article about Mr. Stonewell and in the process of digging up all sorts of information on him. The character’s deeds were so colorful to her that she visited his burial place out of curiosity. This venture brought her straight to Massacre Pond, because the Black Point Garrison did not take the time to transport the massacre victims to their home burial plots. The threat of a repeated ambush was too great for that.

  Lindsay, the librarian, did not get off work in time to visit the place during the day. It was way after supper when she went down to the parking lot where a footbridge spanned the pond and eventually led to the public beach. In the middle of her trek across the bridge, a swift movement caught her eye. It was just a play of shadows, she thought. It moved again, but this time she braved a little closer. She parted the tall cattails to see lying on the ground an old-fashioned knife-like weapon. It was surrounded by a five-foot circle of freshly cut reeds. Fearing some sort of strange person lurking about, she ran back to the car and drove off.

  Dick Stonewell continued to fascinate her, however, and one week later Lindsay made the trip again, this time with a flashlight. She never did turn it on. There in the light of a full moon, on the edge of the pond, stood a figure with terrified, bulging eyes, bloody sockets where arms once were, and an arrow sticking through his thigh. It was the pierced thigh that gave him away. Lindsay had no doubt that she was witnessing what must have been the last pose of Richard Stonewell. The thigh with the arrow was probably just a symbol of recognition. Ghosts who want their identity known will do such things.

  I asked about the weapon she had seen on her first visit, but she said “that was it” for her. She wasn’t going to go traipsing around that area again, looking for anything. She told me to talk to Dave Simmons, a lifeguard at the beach.

  Mr. Simmons was on duty at the time, and very slow to speak, but he admitted seeing something strange back by the pond. He wouldn’t tell me any more. He didn’t have to. I could see by the expression on his face that the spirit of Richard Stonewell had reached out to him.

  I wondered if the lifeguard had understood the ghost’s plea for help in comprehending the violence that had so plagued his earthly existence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  MEADOWLARK PLACE

  There is something about a 1760 sign moving in the breeze, a half-buried plow, and a horse’s tethering ring embedded in moss-covered rock that strongly signals a ghostly presence. These things so drew my attention that I had to stop the car and have a look around. They were the tip of the iceberg. Down the lane that led past this rural setting lay a broad marsh of kelly green reeds at the base of a small white cemetery. The stones were leaning at difficult angles, probably out of proximity to such moist ground. Immediately magnetized, I plowed through some of the marsh before I realized that the cemetery was inaccessible. Now I had to find the meaning behind this mysterious attraction, and I knew that at least one of those stones held the key.

  The house that went with the farm stood watch over the grounds that I had just explored, but it looked friendly. The woman inside, Barbara Pearson, recited the story that I was seeking.

  Many years ago Ms. Pearson’s ancestors prospered on the land that still supports the original house and barn built in 1760 by Thomas Jenkins. The Jenkins family fared well from the land that grew all their food, raised their sheep and cattle, and nourished their horses. They also made a substantial living from the sea that was barely visible at the end of the spacious property. Thomas Jenkins was the ablest and luckiest sea captain of Old Kennebunkport. He never lost a ship during his whole career. What he did lose was something more precious than a ship: his second youngest son.

  Twelve-year-old Tim Jenkins had a quiet way of enjoying life. He’d find a walking stick and go exploring the woods behind his house, while his brothers wrestled in the dirt. He loved to collect things like rocks and some insects, although he never killed any toward that end. His biggest collection comprised items from foreign lands brought back from overseas by his father. Tim had an ivory-handled spoon from Africa, a delicately tooled leather pouch from Spain, and a wooden box valentine decorated entirely with tropical sea shells. (Barbara showed me the only remaining piece of that collection, the African spoon.)

  Ms. Pearson’s facts were so detailed because of two diaries, one left by the boy, the other by his mother. Tim’s brown-inked words were at times illegible, but the handwriting showed strong sensitivity. A great deal of this sensitivity seemed to be directed toward a girl his age, Rebecca Easton.

  Ms. Pearson continued: Rebecca was the daughter of the man who lived next door to Jenkins. She was a pretty little thing who had exactly the same interests as Timothy. Growing up in a family full of brothers had made her somewhat of a tomboy, and she readily made friends with Tim. The only strange aspect of their friendship was that their families were not speaking to one another. A short while after Tom Jenkins had settled here, Mr. Easton had come along and laid claim to some land that supposedly belonged to Jenkins. It was the beginning of a feud that would not die, despite a much later intermarriage between the families.

  Tim and Rebecca, therefore, had to have a secret friendship. Their favorite meeting spot was the big rock next to the stone wall that separated the families’ properties. Tim would tie up his horse at the rock and wait for Becky to cross over the wall, onto the Jenkins side. There the two friends could sit unnoticed for quite a long time, or at least until the horse got antsy. They couldn’t wait to tell each other the latest gripe of their respective households, and then laugh about how silly the whole thing was.

  One day as Tim was plowing the small field down towards the water, he heard Becky’s call, somewhat similar to a crow’s. That was their signal for meeting. It must have seemed urgent to Tim, because he left the plow right where it was. Instead of crossing the wall at the usual place, the Eastons’ sheep pasture, he started wading through the marsh, which of course was unbound. The marsh unexpectedly got too deep for him, and not knowing how to swim, he drowned.

  His was the first marker
to be erected on the Jenkins’ cemeterial plot. The family was beside itself. In order to preserve Tim’s memory even further, they left his plow stuck in the ground exactly as he left it, where it remains today.

  So does Tim’s spirit. More than once, Barbara’s son Evan, who helps take care of the property, has felt the young ghost about. Once when Evan was pitching hay in the barn, the sun got so warm that he shifted his position about fifteen feet. There he continued his work until he got thirsty enough to put down the pitchfork and go outside to get a drink. Within a minute’s time he returned but found the pitchfork standing upright, directly in the sunlight.

  Another time Evan had finished grooming one of the horses and went down to the west end of the barn to tend to the second horse. He heard nothing out of the ordinary, and certainly no disturbance from the first horse. When he looked over, however, he found the first horse all bridled and ready to ride bareback—just the sort of thing a young boy would do.

  In the many years they’ve lived on the place, Barbara has witnessed one odd thing. She has seen the tethering ring in the big rock flop back and forth all by itself. The oddest thing, though, was the time … Barbara asked Evan to tell the story.

  Evan poured himself a strong one and seemed hesitant to talk. Maybe he thought that I wouldn’t believe him. I tried my best to convince him that anything was possible as far as I was concerned, and finally he spoke.

  The afternoon was in its last moments one June day, when Evan was mowing the small field down towards the water. He came upon Tim’s plow and stood staring at it a few moments as he was sometimes wont to do. All of a sudden before his very eyes the plow began to shake, then shook some more until it reached a violent peak. Evan left the mower and ran up to the house. By the time he and his mother returned to the spot, it had started to rain in great pelting drops, like huge tears. It rained for two days like that. Nobody has seen anything like it before or since—except for the day of Tim Jenkins’ funeral.