Out of the Mist (18 page)

Again, I didn’t know what to say.

“
I could have warned you,”
he continued. “But then you probably wouldn’t have believed me. And
the chances are you wouldn’t have seen anything anyway. I hope you
understand.”

I told him that I did, and that, up until
that day, I had never believed in ghosts. I’m still trying to think
of a logical explanation for what I saw and heard that stormy,
early evening in October. I don’t think there is one.

A few days later, we took
the Grade Four students to the church and graveyard. It was a
bright and sunny fall morning. Not a day for ghosts.

But I did make sure I was first one into the
church that day, just in case.

~~~***~~~

The Ghost Truck of
Russiantown

Janet
McGinity

On a crisp late-October
day, two men in orange vests parked their pickup truck on the
gravel shoulder of a road in rural Albert County, across the
Petitcodiac River from Moncton. The two men dropped the truck’s
back gate and drew out gun cases holding .30-30 rifles plus extra
ammunition. Two large rucksacks carried their water bottles and
food for the day.

Jack and Fred Sinclair weren’t familiar with
the area. Usually, the brothers hunted near the Bay of Fundy coast,
looking for deer-yards, tree-encircled fields where the white-tails
gathered for shelter and food in late fall. But this year, they’d
had no luck in their usual spots.

Bob McKinley, an acquaintance, had suggested
an area called the Russiantown Road.

“
You walk in about a mile
on an old lane off the Mitton Road,” Bob told them. “It should
still be visible. Talk to George Geldart at the general store in
Elgin; he knows where it is.”

On their way, the Sinclairs stopped at the
store to consult George.

“
Where you going, boys?
The Russiantown Road? Sure, I know where that is,” he said. “Used
to be a settlement in there, on a stream called the Calamingo. We
don’t know much about the people who lived there. They stuck
together, only came into the village for supplies. Folks heard they
were having a hard time, and then after a while, nobody saw them
anymore. They say these people came from Russia, that’s why the
road was called the Russiantown Road.”

George’s father had once checked out a piece
of land for sale up the Russiantown Road, but decided against
it.

“
Dad saw or heard
something weird back there,” he continued. “He said it was a place
best left alone. That was years ago. I haven’t heard of anyone
going in for a long time—60, 70 years. If there are any deer, they
won’t be skittish. Good hunting to you, boys. Drop by later and let
me know how you made out.”

A hazy sun shone weakly through thin clouds
as the Sinclairs got their hunting gear ready for the trek into
Russiantown. White birch, beech, and pasture spruce lined the
roadside and the abandoned meadow beyond. A ragged opening was
visible where the tree cover thinned out. Overhead, a Northern
Harrier soared in loose circles, watching for the tiniest movement
of mice and voles in the dried meadow-grass. Other than the papery
rustle of beech leaves, it was silent.

“
Let’s hope we find some
good hunting here,” grunted Jack, as he shouldered the gun case and
slammed the truck gate closed. “What I wouldn’t give to bag an
eight- or 10-point buck! That’d be enough to keep a family in
venison for months.”

“
Looks like decent country
for deer,” Fred answered. “Woods aren’t too thick. Deer get around
better where there’s a mix of open and wooded areas. At least we
might have better luck than we did by the coast—that was three days
of tromping for nothing.”

The brothers cradled their rifles in their
arms and lifted the rucksacks over their shoulders. Crunching over
dead leaves, they started along the lane and passed into thicker
woods. The ground gradually rose as they tramped. Grasses grew
knee-deep along the lane, which was little more than a wide space
between the birches and young maples.

After half an hour’s walk, Fred and Jack
came to a shallow, rocky stream where the lane ended. Hoof marks
pocked the wet mud near the water’s edge, a sign that deer were
drinking there.

“
This must be the
Calamingo Stream,” Jack said. “Looks like that’s where we are,
according to the topo map. Let’s take a look around.”

The brothers pushed their way through
knee-high grasses. The stream narrowed, and then meandered in an
oxbow curve. That shallow area was the obvious crossing point for a
bridge or a ford. The water was only a few inches deep. A level
plateau was visible on the far side of the stream. They sloshed
through the shallow water.

On the plateau, about 20
fallen-in cellar holes gaped where houses once stood. Bits of
weathered timbers, long-rusted metal and raspberry canes filled the
holes. Lilacs and rhubarb gone to seed straggled along the edges.
The brothers poked through stone rubble, finding broken glass from
an old canning jar, pieces of china, and a twisted fork.

It was very quiet. The brothers found
themselves looking nervously over their shoulders. Even the air
seemed hushed, as if it was holding its breath.

“
I wonder what happened to
them,” mused Fred. “Who were these people anyway? Why did they
abandon the place? Where did they go?

A sudden, harsh cry cut
the silence. Overhead, the harrier hurtled to the ground, and
swooped upwards with a meadow-vole grasped in its curved
talons.

“
What the heck is that?”
Jack pointed.

Piles of rock lay at
intervals on the plateau. There must have been 50 of them. Each was
about two feet high, five or six feet long, and rounded on top like
a whale’s back. Curious, the brothers moved in for a closer look.
Fred spied something on top of one of the larger piles. It was a
pair of white birch branches, tied in a rough cross shape with a
piece of twine. Beneath it appeared the dull glint of
metal.

He brushed away bits of loose birch bark to
reveal a twisted picture frame, containing a tintype of a seated,
unsmiling woman in a headscarf and full-skirted dress. In her arms,
she held a tightly wrapped baby. Beside her stood a tall, thin man
with a bushy moustache, wearing an ill-fitting suit. Fred handed
the picture to Jack, who shook his head slowly. They looked around
at the symmetrical rows of rock piles.

The hard noon-day sun beat
down on the silent field. Water pattered in the nearly-dry stream.
A thin breeze rustled dead leaves on the white birch trees. Fred
scratched his head under the hunter-orange cap and grunted. He
replaced the picture frame.

“
I think it’s time for
lunch,” he said. “Let’s find a spot to eat. This place gives me the
willies.”

The two brothers followed the stream a short
way to the lane. They found two large smooth boulders with flat
tops, which would do for a lunch table.

Each man took a sandwich
from a waxed paper package and opened a thermos. The crackle of the
paper seemed unnaturally loud. After their lunch, Jack lit a pipe
and lay back on the boulder, puffing. Fred sipped his tea and
meditatively watched clouds drift past.

A shimmer appeared in the air, like heat
haze on a hot summer day, but this was October. Off to their left
came a faint rumbling noise, like a stone rolling on rough ground.
Puzzled, the brothers sat up on the boulders, ears cocked.

“
Did you hear
that?”

They looked at each other. “Must have been
the wind.”

The rumbling grew louder.
They stared, but the road was empty. Something was approaching. In
the still air, they heard the chugga-chugga-chugga of an old
engine. The invisible vehicle clattered along the bumpy lane. About
20 feet away from them, the engine sound stopped. They heard the
sound of a door opening, a squeak of hinges needing oil, footsteps
crunching on gravel, a heavy
whump
, and then another
whump
. Again they heard
the sound of a door opening and closing with a bang. The
chugga-chugga-chugga noise started again, at first loud, then faded
as it moved away from them.

Fred and Jack looked at each other in
consternation, then stepped off the boulder and walked to where
they had heard the noises. There were no tire marks in the damp
earth.

“
What on earth was that?”
Jack said. “There’s nobody but us for miles. But I sure as hell
heard an old car or a truck.”

The light breeze died
down, and the air felt suddenly oppressive. The weird sounds, the
birch cross, a metal-framed picture, and piles of rock along the
stream… something was very wrong. Even the wind seemed to
whisper,
leave… leave…
leave
.

Fred and Jack hurriedly picked up their
belongings and found their way back to the stream and the
half-grown lane into Russiantown. It took them an hour to walk to
their truck. They drove back to the Elgin store.

Pickup trucks lined the front of it. A white
sign in the window advertised hunting and fishing licenses for
sale. Inside, the store carried everything rural folk needed: cold
glass bottles of cola in a red metal cooler, hardware, rubber
boots, sturdy clothing, tools, ammunition, a few limp vegetables,
and fruit in a fogged refrigerator cabinet.

“
We did make it to
Russiantown,” Jack announced to George, who was putting two icy
cold colas on the counter. “Didn’t find any deer,” he said. “But we
were glad to get the hell out of there. Kind of a creepy
spot.”

George pondered a moment, and wiped his
hands across the knee of his overalls.

“
Why’d you find it
creepy?” he asked. “Did you see something?”

“
Yes, we did,” answered
Jack. “But the strangest things were the sounds.”

He recounted what they’d heard, the sound of
the old car or truck, and the rock piles near the stream. By then,
several older men had gathered around the store counter, curious to
hear the conversation.

“
What happened out there?”
asked Jack.

George’s face crinkled, and he shook his
head.

“
Wiped out,” he muttered.
“They were wiped out, the whole damn lot of them.”

He remembered his father talking of a group
of Russian-speaking immigrants who’d arrived to claim the land
they’d been granted in the late 1800s. Most of them spoke no
English, and they practiced an unfamiliar religion. The Russians
worked long, back-breaking days to wring a living from the
soil.

For two generations, the settlers survived,
but didn’t mingle much with Albert County folk. Memories of the
persecution they had suffered in the Old Country were still fresh,
and they did not want to draw attention to themselves. Money was
scarce. During several particularly harsh winters, they had barely
enough food to keep them alive.

Then one spring day, a little girl got sick
with a virulent disease. She lasted only a few weeks before her
face turned blue as she gasped for breath. She died suddenly. No
one knew what the strange disease was. Next to go was the little
girl’s older brother.

The parents, overcome with grief, tried to
dig graves for them, but hit bedrock only a foot down. They decided
that at least they could build cairns to mark the children’s
resting place. One of the villagers, who spoke a little English,
was delegated to travel to the village of Petitcodiac to order
coffins from the local undertaker. Thus were placed the first two
small rock piles in the field along the Calamingo stream.

Over the course of a year, the mysterious
illness raged through the small community. The arrival of the
undertaker in his Model T pickup truck delivering more coffins
became a weekly occurrence.

Word seeped out around the
county about the illness. The locals wanted to help, but feared
they might catch this disease which felled entire families in a few
months. Even the undertaker was uneasy. Finally, he stopped driving
down the road into the community. He went as far only as the river,
stopped the truck, opened the door and dropped the coffins onto the
ground, where they landed with a
whump
.

The number of rock piles
grew. Finally, the last few Russiantown settlers abandoned the
little community and travelled to western Canada, where other
Russians lived. Such sorrow could not be borne.

“
People didn’t want to go
into the settlement, even after the last of them left,” said
George. “Nobody knew where this sickness came from. They were
afraid that maybe the water was bad, or that the Russiantown folks
had an inherited a disease from the Old Country.”

He looked at the two hunters.

“
You fellas are the first
to go into what used to be Russiantown for a very long
time.”

He paused.

“
Dad
went back there by himself. He told us later he’d heard an old
truck coming by, and then a
whump
, like something wooden hitting
rocky ground. But he only heard the one. I wonder why you heard
two.”

The little group around the store counter
fell silent. The two hunters gathered their cold drinks, and paid
for them. They walked to their truck and drove away, past the
abandoned road leading to a woods clearing with empty cellar-holes,
lonely rock cairns, and a ghost truck.

~~~***~~~