DAN MURPHY
SPECIAL TO THE WESTERN STAR
CORNER BROOK, N.L. — I’ve sat on the fence for years when it came to ghosts.
A white picket fence sharp enough to keep me uncomfortable about whether I believed in ghosts — or not.
It wasn’t until I experienced two unexplained events I was moved to get down off that fence and stand on the side where the ghosts were.
For 12 wonderful years, I managed the Western School District’s outdoor education program at Killdevil Camp in Gros Morne National Park. Set on millions of years of geology, Killdevil Camp is brim-filled with ghosts conjured up by thousands of kids shivering in fear around hundreds of campfires.
But these ghosts, frightening as they may have been, are long gone on buses and their stories forgotten.
I would often arrive at camp a day ahead of the school groups to prepare for the week. I had a room in the "mansion,” the old homestead of the manager of the first sawmill in Lomond.
Stories abound there. The thousand-log raft that blew apart in the North Atlantic, croquet on the lawn on Sunday afternoons, home of Lee Wulff — the famous salmon guide, the ghost of George Simpson and more.
Old photographs and fading journal entries supported all of these, except the ghost of George Simpson.
I often stayed in the mansion alone. On the top floor, a four-paned window looks over the meadow where grassy fingers reached deep into the boreal forest where I led night hikes.
One morning, I woke to find all the room doors in the mansion closed and the sinks left running in the four washrooms. Taps were off and doors were opened when I last checked.
A trick, I thought. Someone sneaked in and did the deed before dawn.
There was a problem. No one was in the camp that night and kitchen staff were just arriving after I awoke.
I told my story.
“The ghost of Mr. Simpson!” replied the kitchen staff.
Interesting, I thought.
It wasn’t uncommon to have 80 students in the camp at one time. And after lights were out I would make myself a coffee and sit next to the dying campfire and reflect on a long day of teaching.
On clear nights, the sky would be flooded with stars. In October, after the first frosts, the Northern Lights would hang like sheets over Gros Morne National Park.
Unbelievable beauty.
What undiscovered mysteries did I sit beneath as I drank my coffee every night by the fading fire?
When all was quiet, I would make my rounds. Checking the buildings, jiggling doors, stopping outside each cabin and listening for sounds, wondering where the foxes went and if a moose had bedded in the field.
I’d turn in then.
My office was located in the old dining hall. One door opened to the outside facing the field. Another, on the opposite side, opened into a large meeting room and still another door opened from the meeting room toward the glassy waters of Southeast Arm.
Often, when all the doors were open, a wind would blow quietly through.
A sudden feeling of fear welled up inside me. A most unsettling fear I had never before experienced ... - Dan Murphy
On this night, dark as tar and unseasonably warm, I opened my office door for a final check. With flashlight in hand, I was greeted by a pile of papers striking me in the chest — as if they were thrown or blown. Teaching notes, students' notes, and sheets of drawing paper filled with happy faces and towering firs were strewn on the floor at my feet.
Wind, I thought, the opposite door must be open.
But the door was closed and there was no wind. Not a breeze.
Unexplainable.
Who threw the bundle of papers at me? My heart struggled to reach my throat.
A sudden feeling of fear welled up inside me. A most unsettling fear I had never before experienced — an unbelievable whine, an internal scream travelled up my spine to my arms to my fingertips. It came with the realization this might be it: A real ghost!
Primeval fear chased me straight to the mansion.
Bursting through the door I yelled, “Simpson!”
When I went to check again, fear’s electricity still boiled over and I ran.
The spirit of George Simpson, I realized. Lomond’s sawmill manger who lost an arm in an accident, still wandering there in the darkest of nights!
No rattling bones or white-sheet apparitions. Just two odd events difficult to explain.
I’ve experienced three more since then, two I will never tell.
On the long Camino walk across Spain, I learned there are always spiritual signs but you have to keep your eyes open, you have look for them.
My walks through old cemeteries are more comfortable now and those unexplained shadows leaning under streetlights on West Street, well, I'll tip my hat to them — then hurry past.
Dan Murphy is an educator, author and poet who lives in Corner Brook, N.L.
