Ghosts on the Coast of Maine (10 page)

Jones shifted from shipping to smuggling. It was the only way he could break into the big time. Instead of patching up his barn, he threw his energies into rigging his house with secret compartments and passageways. Underground tunnels led to inconspicuous coves where crates of illegal goods passed hands. Barrels of Jamaican rum were stowed away in the night by men of foul language and filthy breath.

Outwardly, the captain posed a respectable image, and the islanders knew none the worse. They wondered why he neglected his farm, but they figured that business at sea was keeping him busy. Also occupying his mind at the time was the story of buried treasure that had begun circulating while he was away on one of his trips. It seems that a man from a foreign land had been poking about the island, pick and shovel in hand. He had not stated his purpose.

The captain's imagination tingled at the thought of a chest laden with coins and jewels, right there under his nose. He did some digging on his own but came up empty-handed. Years passed, Elijah remained satisfied with his illegal trade and had forgotten all about the visitor with pick and shovel—until one day coming into port he found a man waiting for him on the shore.

The man hailed from St. John's, Canada, and he had recently been given a treasure map by a dying black man who had serviced the captain of a pirate ship. This time the stranger, Mr. George Vigny, had come prepared, but he still needed a mariner's compass. Elijah Jones was the only islander who owned one. When he realized that between him and the stranger they had a good chance of locating the treasure, he lustily invited Vigny to visit his farmhouse. There they spent hours planning, conversing, and drinking some of Jones's best liquor. In the dark of the night they stole away, unnoticed by anyone.

The next day found Captain Jones puttering about his garden and milking his cows. Soon afterwards he went to sea and came back with a sizable sum of money, which started him on the road to being the richest inhabitant of the island. No one ever saw the stranger again, but it was presumed that he had sailed back home after his meeting with Jones.

Elijah died the most prominent citizen of Jewell's Island and was buried in grand style. By this time everyone had put the Canadian stranger out of their minds. Two months after Jones's funeral, things changed.

A farmer was plowing his acres down by the southeastern shore of the island, when he came across a skeleton on the edge of the woods. It was wedged between two rocks. The years of ice and snow and weather had disintegrated all identifiable clothing, but a silver ring lying with the bones carried a clue. The ring bore the initials “G.V.” From all appearances, the Canadian had never made it home because a treasure had been found—and he had been murdered upon discovery of it! No wonder Jones had become rich so quickly; his wealth had not been acquired at sea, it had been acquired from the sands of Jewell's Island.

Vigny's murder began to make sense. That was the reason people had been witnessing weird visions in that area, the ghastly shape of a man with blazing green eyes and blood running out of his mouth and chest. Islanders thought perhaps they were seeing the spirit summoned to guard the buried treasure. They had poured fresh lamb's blood over the spot in an effort to quell the devilish haunt. Now they were beginning to suspect it was the spirit of the Canadian stranger.

The skeleton find also gave rise to an explanation for the paranormal activities around Elijah Jones's old place. A voice screaming out in the darkness, and the sight of chairs furiously moving about the kitchen had been experienced. One night a chair actually blew about the room and then burst through a window.

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.

F
reeport'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.”

I
t 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 settlers, 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.”