A Haunted Attic And A Writer In Residence And An Antique Shop

A HAUNTED ATTIC AND A WRITER IN RESIDENCE AND AN ANTIQUE SHOP

The year I graduated from York University, in Toronto, with a freshly inked degree in Canadian history, I arrived back in my then hometown, of Bracebridge, and commenced getting involved in everything I could. Community events and initiatives that had even the slightest heritage fringe, must have needed my help. Or so I thought. I guess you could say I was "pumped" to get involved.

It was the spring of 1977. Within weeks of settling in, we had launched plans for a family antique business, which involved a move to the mainstream. I begged some column space from a local publisher, and got my very first byline on a weekly column entitled simply, "Antiques and Collectibles." Before the end of the year I had held an inaugural meeting of a proposed Bracebridge Historical Society, in the attic of the wonderful old McGibbon house, we had just moved to, in order to operate Old Mill Antiques. The Historical Society's objective, when officially launched, would be to save Woodchester Villa, an octagonal home, built by Henry Bird of the well known Bird's Woollen Mill on the Muskoka River. It wouldn't be until 1978 that the Historical Society was officially recognized but it had its seed in the attic of Dr. Peter McGibbon's former Manitoba Street home.

I was overflowing with ambition, some of it misspent. I somehow believed that the rolled up diploma, now tucked into a dresser drawer, entitled me to fire off in all directions, and be successful no matter where I hurled myself. It didn't proceed quite as I'd hoped, but 1977 was a good turn-around year, particularly as a writer in this splendid, early 1900's residence. The best part of the new digs, was that I was able to turn the large attic portion, in the three story house, into a great place to write. With a huge window at the front, affording a panorama of Manitoba Street's, maple-line Memorial Park, I could watch a lot of comings and goings at all times of day and night, over the four seasons. As a fledgling writer, there was always something to make notes about, or expand from observation, into another short story. It was a luxurious, inspiring location that most writer's would have killed for, especially the solitude. Street noise was always muffled, it seemed, even if the window was open.

We had a three room shop that first year, an apartment in the back, and access via the back stair, to the attic room, which stretched from the back of the main house to the front, as the south wing, along the main street, had only two stories. I would work in the store, or in the basement refinishing through the day, and following dinner, I'd spend the rest of the night, and well into the morning, working at the attic window, where I set up my desk and typewriter. For several years, I wrote like a man possessed, and I dabbled in poetry, play composition, short stories, non-fiction, and of course my weekly columns for the local press. Sometimes I'd wake up with a start, head hung down over the typewriter, where I'd fallen asleep mid-sentence. It was a non-threatening, comfortable, subtly inspiring studio set-up, and I wanted to tap into it for everything and anything it could, as inspiration, to motivate a budding but unaccomplished author.

Even as a kid, I've always been keenly sensitive to my environs, and whether I'm writing, or just lounging, the aura of the room or the abode generally, factors deeply into my psyche. It will show up in my writing in any number of ways. It has taken four places of lodging, since, to have found my perfect writing place again, after leaving the McGibbon house, when my wife and I got married. Even though Birch Hollow, for me today, is a great and nurturing place to write, it is nothing like what I'd benefitted from in that main street attic.

As I've been aware of house-vibes, every place our family has ever called home, during the past 56 years, I instantly knew the McGibbon house had a positive aura, from the moment I stepped foot inside the main foyer, on that first look-see with the property manager. Working in the attic, I always had the feeling there was a resident spirit, or more, moving about the house, on the back staircase, and occasionally around me in the attic. I'd suddenly feel a strange draft of cold air, and hear footsteps coming up to the landing-door, when everyone else in the house was sound asleep. I sometimes felt as if a watcher was looking over my shoulder while I worked. Admittedly, I had moments when I felt mildly uncomfortable, but a lot of that came from Hollywood depictions, of ghosts and hauntings, such as the move "The Changling." But the positives of the place far outweighed the occasional sensation of spirits wafting around me. I got used to their presence.

Until one late night encounter, that is! I had worked late to finish a newspaper column. As I did every night, I began at the desk, turning off quite a number of sources of light, two floor lamps and two overhead fixtures, before I'd reach the attic door that was kept closed when I was working. Once the last overhead light was turned off, the only light to guide me down the back stairs, was the hall light on the next floor. When I'd get to that landing, I'd flick off the switch, close the door, and count on the illumination of the ground floor kitchen lamp, to get me down the last flight of stairs. On this occasion, when I had turned off the landing light, and taken a few steps out onto the platform of the second floor, I had an experience never to be forgotten. I had walked into a brilliant, white, cold, scented vapor in the otherwise dark staircase.

For several seconds, I was consumed by this cloud, and could see nothing else but the brilliant light all around me, and the chill-air like one would experience walking into a freezer on a hot summer day. It wasn't a frightening experience at all, but unsettling by its sudden arrival in that location of dimly-lit house. It passed as if it was moving up the stairs, as smoke, and I just happened to get in the way. But there was no doubt in my mind, once it had passed, that I had just enjoyed a one-on-one experience with an apparition. I got down to the bottom of the stairs, sat down on the last step, and tried to recall the sequence of events. Could there be any other explanation to the encounter, than to admit to myself, "I'd just seen a ghost?"

As I sat there, I felt a similar cold draft of air, slide down the back staircase, and it was so strong, it actually ruffled my hair. Seeing as this was mid-winter, and the furnace was directly below where I was sitting, and hot air rises, it seemed as if I'd had a second encounter in only a few moments, with the same passing spirit. I wasn't scared but I was definitely alerted to the potential of paranormal energy, flitting about Dr. McGibbon's former residence.

Several days after this adventure on the back stairs, while I was working in the shop, a group of people came in for a look around. I immediately noticed that they were formally dressed, predominantly in black, and seeing as we were neighbors of the local funeral home, I assumed they were visiting the recently deceased. When I heard them talking amongst themselves, about where they remember a family member sitting, in one of the rooms we had turned into store-space, I felt strangely compelled to listen more closely to the conversation. They had obviously lost a family member who had lived, for some time in the past, in the McGibbon house. They weren't of the McGibbon family, but came much later in the building's history. When I asked them a few questions, because I'm a "Nosey Parker," as my mother used to call me, one of the relatives said that a family member had died on the night I had witnessed a specter, climbing up the back stairway. Then the hair on the back of my neck, really did rise in salute, to the ways of the hereafter. By golly, I think I walked through a ghost, or possibly the ghost walked through me. If you've heard about a spirit taking leave of the places it dwelled in mortal form, during life, then it isn't so much of a stretch, to think that this sighting was just a final re-tracing of the good old days, for one last time.

I didn't say a word about my paranormal introduction, to their newly deceased relative. It wasn't the appropriate occasion, to blurt out something like, "oh, yes, I met your relative on the last go-around of the old haunt," and, back in the 1970's, it was still at a time when folks assumed you were a nutter, if you dared to admit even a slight, half-belief in ghosts. So it was our secret, the ghost and I, until much later when it was shared with Canadian Ghost Sleuth, John Robert Colombo, and it got a mention in one of his well known publications.

It made working in the attic much more interesting and event-filled after this.