Halloween is the month when the veil between the land of the living and that of the undead grows thin. It’s the season of ghost stories and horror films. It’s the time of year of when we thrill to the sensation of fright tingling the back of neck.
I love stories of the restless dead and sought to chronicle those from the Muskoka region in my two book “Muskoka’s Most Haunted” series.
Within them readers hobnob with spectres at Bigwin Inn, formers staff members who might have once served Hollywood stars like Cary Grant, Carole Lombard, and Humphrey Bogart. They investigate who resides within the shadowy confines of the log Walker Cabin. They explore Muskoka Heritage Place’s Spence Inn, the last coaching stop on the Nipissing Road and a remnant of a ghost town. And readers spend a night at Bala Bay Inn, built in 1910 and arguably the most haunted location in the region.
Here’s an excerpt, detailing a chilling experience from a private cottage.
Cottage Spirits
Bridget gazed down at the lake from the cottage. The sun reflected like sparkling diamonds upon the water. It promised to be another spectacular summer day. The lake called.
Excited for another day on the water, Bridget skipped down the concrete steps toward the shoreline. On the way, she popped into the boathouse to grab paddles for the canoe.
The boathouse was old. Really old. It leaned with age and the paint on the siding had faded. Pine needles and moss littered the grey shingles on the roof. The boathouse wasn’t the kind of place Bridget had any interest in lingering in – it was inhabited by mice, and she was pretty sure she had heard a squirrel or something larger skittering around in the rafters above – but was never actually scared to enter.
Not until after this day, that is.
The wooden door squeaked as Bridget pulled it open. She noted that something had been chewing through the plywood at the bottom. A sour smell and unpleasant warmth greeted her as she stepped inside. Bridget crossed the creaking floor and reached for the paddle leaning against the wall.
Suddenly, the door behind her slammed shut. The boathouse, so warm just moments before, grew chilled. Someone whispered, so softly she wasn’t sure she had heard it or imagined it.
“Bridget.”
Bridget’s stomach tightened. She was frozen in fear for a moment as the unnatural chill goose pimpled the bare flesh of her arms and legs.
“Bridget”
There it was again. Bridget snapped out of her panic and ran, pulling open the squeaking and gnawed door and raced out into the sunshine. All thoughts of the lake were forgotten. Instead, she ran up the steps to the cottage and the solace of her family.
Years passed, the terrifying episode in the boathouse became little more than a memory when Bridget, now a woman with a child of her own, heard a story that caused her heart to race. She was told that decades earlier, in the 1940s or ‘50s, a child of the family who had previously owned the cottage property had drowned in the lake.
Had it been this boy that had whispered her name and caressed her skin with supernatural chill? The thought filled her with terror and sadness in equal measure. But what haunts her is the idea that a young boy, his spirit unable to travel on to the afterlife due to his tragic death, might still be imprisoned in a watery purgatory of sorts.
