Free The Stories That Haunt Us by Bill Jessome Page A

at once. But still they remained where they were. Her husband held up a newspaper and pressed it against the window. Nettie stared at the headline in disbelief “ Railway cross ing accident takes the lives of entire Cudmore family .” Nettie Cudmore realized finally that it was she who was the intruder!

Ghosts of the Halifax Explosion
    T he morning of December 6, 1917, dawns clear and cold. The streets are bare. A God-awful blizzard is still a day away, and the people of Halifax are blissfully unaware that two horrific and tragic events are just moments away from happening. Nature causes one, man the other.
    At close to 9:00 a.m., mothers are getting their children ready for school—winter classes in the city begin at 9:30 sharp. Many children suffer from whooping cough, and will stay home, but they will not be protected from the catastrophe that is now just minutes away. Halifax Harbour and the Bedford Basin are filled with ships of war. A ticking time bomb, the munitions ship Mont Blanc, is low in the water and moving north through the narrows of the harbour to the basin, where it will join a convoy headed for Europe. Unbeknownst to its crew, the Belgian relief ship Imo is moving out of the basin and bearing down on the incoming Mont Blanc .
    It’s now a few minutes past nine. Fathers are on the streets heading for work. Children are also on the streets on their way to school.
    In a twist of fate and as a result of a chain of miscommunications, the two ships collide and the face of Halifax is changed forever. As if by design, the bow of the Imo slices halfway through the deck of Mont Blanc, setting it on fire. The two ships reverse engines to pull apart. The ensuing sparks ignite Mont Blanc’s precious cargo. The crippled Imo drifts toward the Dartmouth side of the harbour. Mont Blanc , now on fire and billowing smoke, drifts closer to the Halifax shore. Very few people know of the dangerous goods below its deck.
    The time is now 9:05 a.m. The Mont Blanc explodes and the blast levels the north end of Halifax. Houses are blown apart or crumbled on their foundations. Two thousand people die. Of this number, five hundred are children.
    Some of those were children on their way to Richmond School that fateful morning. After the explosion, one wall of the school was all that remained. Although the school was rebuilt in 1919, it was eventually closed until the mid eighties when Halifax’s family court was moved to the building. I spent some time in the building and even though it was crowded with families and lawyers I had a strong sense, an impression if you will, of another presence. John Campbell, the court administrator, felt the same, and he told me about the ghost children of Richmond school:
    â€œWe hear the children practicing Christmas carols. We also hear their laughter, their chatter. Other times we hear running footsteps and the slamming of heavy oak doors. Some staff members report seeing children coming down or sitting on the stairs and these workers stand and watch the children until they vanish.”
    I was seated across from John Campbell listening to this amazing footnote to the Halifax Explosion when I observed the beginning of a smile on his face; he began to tell me of a painter who had a run-in with the ghost children.
    It was agreed that the painting would be done at night, when the court building was closed. When John Campbell arrived at his office the following morning, he noticed that not much painting had been done. He understood why when the painter burst into his office.
    â€œThat’s it,” said the painter. “I quit. I won’t be back.” John Campbell had a pretty good idea why the painter quit, but he wanted to hear him say it anyway.
    â€œWhile I was painting, objects were moving about the room and when I got down to move the ladder, it moved on its own. That’s when I left in a hurry.”
    The painter was a man of his word. He never