Ghosts on the Coast of Maine (4 page)

It was a humid, muggy evening, but any walk on Monhegan at any time is such a visual uplift that Cathy continued over the rocky road lined with wild roses and trailing yew. No one else was around when she passed through the trees onto the bare ledges of Burnt Head. There was no wind.

As Cathlin stood looking out over the sea, she felt herself being pushed towards the edge of the cliff by a pair of hands on her shoulders … step by step, slowly but perceptibly. Cathy turned to see who it was, but there was no one behind her. She started to run back toward town, but she was halted. Again the “hands” pushed her to within a three-foot distance from the edge of the cliff. “This is it,” Cathy thought. “I'm going to be pushed over the edge of the cliff by this invisible entity. No one will know what happened, and I'll never get a chance to explain.”

The “hands” stopped, but relief was not in sight. Cathy's feet remained planted, but something overtook her feelings and sensations. All at once she was mentally falling through the air, out of control. Her body became numb, followed by a huge force of pain surging through her brain, traveling all the way down her spine, legs, arms. The broken body that had dashed itself on the rocks was now filling with fluid, filling and filling. There was a terrific tightening in the lungs which pushed up to the head and burst there.

This took place in a matter of seconds. Then a distinctly female presence cried, “Help,” and departed.

Cathy was too overwhelmed to be afraid. She walked back to town thinking, “I can't tell anyone any part of this. No one will believe me. I will have to keep this one to myself. Besides,” she chuckled, “they'd start putting me away before I'd even get halfway through the explanation.”

She did not sleep well that night. The next day Cathlin tried to sort it all out and came to the conclusion that she would have to find out the meaning of what had happened to her before she could be at peace. At least now she was out of her depression. That much had been accomplished.

Between the libraries and local historians, Cathy discovered that one evening back in 1947 an eighty-year-old woman, living alone above the wharf gift shop, had jumped off Burnt Head and drowned. She had taken her cat to shore, had it put to sleep, settled her financial affairs, and come back to the island. Unbeknownst to anyone, she had walked the path to the cliff and ended her life. Her body was found the next day.

Did Cathy relive the experience of the unfortunate elderly lady? Was Cathy chosen to receive this information because the young artist could have empathized, and thereby helped relieve the lady?

Or was it some sort of warning from her own mother?

T
his house had come to my attention through four Maine residents who claimed it to be haunted, one of whom traveled with me to point out the location. Upon entering South Thomaston, I noticed a spot where a small bridge functioned as the belt between two larger bodies of water, known as the Gig. Around the bend, coming north on Route 73, we came upon a huge block of a house the color of creamed coffee. Its hip-roofed structure dwarfed the neighboring dwellings, some of which were older than the Victorian house in question. There was definitely something about the top of that house that drew my attention. It was not female.

No one was living in the house, so we peeked in the windows that were not sheeted over. The original velvet drapes framed what seemed like an age-old scene from an antique doll house. Wooden carvings of grape clusters studded the stocky legs of a low, wide piano, which stood in front of a conversation grouping of a brocaded settee and chairs. Keeping watch over the piano was the tall, slender sentinel of a lamp. It was topped with colored glass sections of a tulip-shaped shade. As we turned to continue walking, a sharp odor of fire hit my nostrils. Looking around and seeing nothing amiss, I quickly dismissed the sensation.

A room on the east side seemed like a lighthouse unto itself, with an ornate brass table lamp dominating a small area that jutted out from the rest of the house. It was this room that smelled of the sea, with old charts on the walls that hung opposite black-framed photographs of schooner ships. A sea captain's reading room, for sure.

Although these furnishings were of great value, the house itself looked sorely neglected. The walls were crumbling, the majestic front door was weather-beaten, and the barn attached to the house was leaning on the main structure for support. Above the barn door was a sign spelling out the exact name of the school I had attended for twelve years, and that omen spurred me on to research the place.

The local historian lived several miles down the road, so off we went. He said that a sea captain had built the mansion in 1855, the year after a fire had destroyed his first house constructed on the same plot of ground. This comment triggered my memory about the odor I had encountered. After perusing photographs and old records, we asked about the present owner and found a parallel between his circumstances and the captain's.

Ghosts will do this. They will often choose to communicate to a person or inhabitant who has been through a predicament similar to theirs. This situation allows for a sympathetic ear, on both sides of the line.

First, the captain's story: Josiah Thurston, in spite of his rural elementary education, went on to pursue an intellectual career. The Honorable Thurston practiced law for a while until he became interested in business. Then he reverted to family tradition and chose a marine occupation, operating a shipyard on the Wessaweskeag. Translation from the Indian is Tidal Creek Place, nicknamed “The Gig.” Within eighteen years, he had built nineteen vessels.

Josiah adjusted well. During the first seven years of marriage, which were childless, he spent most of his time bolstering his law and shipbuilding businesses. When the children came, he worked even harder to keep his family well fed and able to continue in the lifestyle to which they were accustomed.

In 1848 this father of a growing brood was elected a Selectman of Thomaston, a job which he took very seriously. He was appointed to a committee which traveled to Augusta, and his law training served him well in the devising of bills and in lobbying the State Legislature for passage of them. Shortly afterwards he became a state senator.

The 1854 fire dismayed but did not discourage Thurston. Politics was in his blood by this time, and he decided to go for it. He was going to build the biggest, most elegant mansion in the Knox/ Waldo County area, including a ballroom on the floor above the barn. It would serve as a good family home, but oh, would it impress his evergrowing list of Washington friends and cronies.

Ambition became reality. By 1860 Josiah was rubbing noses with the likes of Hannibal Hamlin, the vice presidential running mate of Abraham Lincoln. Thurston's single-handed campaign to swing Knox County for the Hamlin/Lincoln ticket was so impressive that the new President invited him to consider a high Washington office.

The Civil War intervened, and Lincoln's offer was disregarded. After a brief stint in Cassius Clay's Battalion, Thurston returned home in 1861 to find that he was a man deep in debt. Politics had kept him from being on top of the shipyard's finances, and it had also inspired him to borrow lavish sums for the construction and decoration of his house.

Determined to keep his “dream house,” Josiah switched gears and assumed a new career, that of sea captain. In one winter he absorbed all the books on navigation that were available to him, then took command of a ship the following spring. It was a valiant effort but not quite sufficient to bail him out of his money troubles. His brother made him a deal, which rendered the unfinished mansion to the brother. Josiah moved to another town and remained a sea captain as long as his physical constitution permitted.

Just as Josiah's highest aspiration was all wrapped up in his mansion, so was Avery Henderson's. Avery, the present owner, a man of books and letters and local politics, tackled the business of buying the Thurston house in 1986. He told everyone of his restoration plans and how much he wanted the place to be beautiful again.

Avery was enthralled with the new purchase. He tried to raise money for the restoration by having huge lawn sales. He dragged valuables from his Massachusetts home and sold them on the lawn of the mansion. He tried for two years.

During those years, he knew that he and his family were not alone in the house. While he'd be busy in his workroom, he'd hear footsteps on the floor above. His wife heard a knock on the front door once and opened it to vacant space. After one of his lawn sales, when everything was put away and in order, Avery looked up to the semi-dark sky to see the figure of a man in seafaring clothes watching him from the roof. Two others saw it; then it disappeared. The “man” seemed to be concerned about the outcome of the sale. Would it be enough to help the owner make a go of it?

The third year Avery realized that his attempts had failed. The house was just too expensive to finish and restore. The neighbors hardly ever saw his Massachusetts car in the driveway. That is why we were able to look into the windows and catch a glimpse of a ghostly past, along with the ghostly present.

M
aine coast towns were perfect targets for British depredation during the Revolutionary War, and Goose River was no exception. The town took its name from the high-banked stream that flows over chunky greenmossed rocks to become part of the great harbor. Across the river spanned a small wooden bridge, the significance of which will be revealed in the course of this chapter.

The British took it upon themselves to pester the inhabitants of Goose River, notwithstanding the hardy temperament of these early Americans. They would sail down the coast in vessels called “shaving mills” and disembark to steal cattle, butter, or guns. Sometimes they made women and children take to the woods while they burned their houses.

The husbands of these women fought back with everything they had, ambushing the invaders from the woods or volleying shots from the shore line shrubbery. There were no soldiers assigned to protect this little town, so the settlers had to be ingenious. One fellow, upon sight of a British barge, ran for his drum and started to beat “roll call,” while another fellow shouted military commands to an imaginary band of troops. The barge passed on.

The patriot from Goose River who gained the most recognition during this time was a fisherman named William Richardson. Bill happened to be at the right place at the right time for his greatest act of valor. It was 1779 and Revolutionary sentiment was at fever pitch, especially aboard the privateer of Commodore Samuel Tucker. This ambitious American captain spied an English East Indiaman bound for the coast of Maine, loaded with a bountiful cargo of East Indian goods. He captured the ship, stole the cargo, and was heading toward Goose River when he realized that he was unfamiliar with the area and needed guidance. Meanwhile another English ship had been alerted to Tucker's deed and was in hot pursuit of the miscreant.

The bright eye of Captain Tucker rested upon a small fishing boat and he drew up to it at once. He immediately enlisted the services of the pilot, William Richardson, and together they journeyed about sixty miles up to Harpswell. Here they anchored by the ledges and remained out of the enemy's reach, since the British vessel was much larger and could not come close to shore. This did not deter the English captain, who blockaded the port and was awaiting reinforcements.

Tucker feared for his ship, but Richardson told him to hold on until the first storm. It was then that the American ship, guided by the skillful hands of the Goose River navigator, slipped past the enemy in the thick black of night. Driven by the northeast wind, she sailed on to Portland.

The British captain was not aware of the escape till morning, at which time he hightailed it west. Richardson had done his job well, however, and only allowed the enemy a fleeting glimpse of the Yankee privateer rounding the bend at Cape Elizabeth. She had passed the point of being overtaken and safely continued on to her destination, Salem, Massachusetts.