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

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.

O
ld-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.

J
ewell 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 today. 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.