The tale of "Katherine" and the legendary crooked portrait
Shortly after moving into our new and present home here in Gravenhurst, that we now officially call "Birch Hollow" (we've used this name for the past three homes but this one has more claim to the title than the others because of the birches), the strange and mysterious events of the past seemed to have hitched a ride to the new digs We didn't think it had enough history on its own, to warrant even a minor haunting. It was a newer home from the early 1980's, and to the best of our knowledge it wasn't built on a lost burial ground or place of any great historical anything. It was a typical hilly pasture for a Muskoka homestead of the late 1800's. (Of course it was part of the outer security zone of the former German Prisoner of War Camp, known as Calydor, situated on the high rocky shore of Lake Muskoka, from 1939 to 1946). The closest historical events were two German officiated funerals for two prisoners who had died at the camp during this period. Funderal processions, soldiers wearing their full regalia German military uniforms, marched up Lorne Street on the way to the nearby Mickle Cemetery. Lorne is in our backyard. But this is moot to what might foster a paranormal event in our house. In this case we believe it was our antique enterprise that may have contributed to a few extra characteristics being added to an otherwise normal family household. We aren't the first to suspect that an antique item could carry the burden of a former owner's emotional tie into a present household.
We are opposite a beautiful 20 acre urban paradise, a bogland that is full of Muskoka-style quick sand, which we were warned to be aware of on nature walks with our young lads. Apparently there have been some lost animals and family pets succumbing to the bogland's muck. We are bordered by this great natural heritage and yes we've had a few wolves and owls that added some unsettling calls in the wee hours of misty, moonlit nights. As far as a haunted house on this lovely moor, well, the only way it could possibly house a spirit other than our own, was if we brought one in with us. This brings up the point of travelling spirits inadvertently brought into an otherwise safe haven. It can inspire some strange encounters and playful actions.
As antique dealers, collectors and historians, we have, as taste would have it, always brought home curious, often grotesque pieces into our household inventory ranging from funerary pieces to old, some would say oppressively designed Victorian furniture, that always added a funeral-home atmosphere my wife Suzanne deplored. As a former Victorian musuem manager, who had to deal with oppressive feelings every day on the job, it kind of grew on you over time, and slipping down into the soft padding of an old high back chair was like dropping onto a cloud. Some people find this furniture uncomfortable but with my aching old back I found very few pieces in the museum's parlor unworthy of my much-enjoyed lounging after a long day of guiding tours.
It is known amongst some of the more paranormally sensitive antique dealers that it is possible, every now and again, to unexpectedly, get a hitch-hiker when hauling home an antique purchase. Funny thing in the fictional, entertainment department, that during the haunted house ride at Disney World in Florida,......while enroute on a track through the rooms, you will find that when you look in a mirror ahead, a wee ghostie has hitched a ride in your moving car. This is a bit of video magic courtesy the enchanters at Disney World but it's sort of what we've experienced in our years spent in the antique trade. Instead of finding a ghost beside us in the car, we usually find out later that a doll, a picture, a cradle etc., is the means of transport from estate auction to Birch Hollow.....where the fun begins in our abode. There have been many reports over the years that hauntings related somewhat to articles versus the dwelling as a source. There is what may be an urban antique legend here in Ontario, with the story often repeated in the early 1990's, about a haunted doll crib that allegedly rocked itself. It had belonged to a little Victorian era lass who perished in a house fire. When the family was being evacuated from the burning building, the little girl snuck back in and went up the stairs to retrieve her dollie. By time she got the doll and attempted to exist, the smoke knocked her unconsious. She was found in the burned-out building a few feet from the cradle which had not been destroyed by the flames. After being hauled from the ruins, the family we assume kept the piece until it finally found its way, some decades later, onto the open market. When an antique shop acquired the cradle and subsequently sold it, the small wooden piece only lasted a few weeks in the buyer's home, being brought back to the dealer for of all things....being haunted. It seemed that no matter where the cradle was placed in the home, it would eventually begin to rock as if being manipulated by the hand of a playful child. After a period of trying to find the conditions that were influencing the cradle, the family decided it was a cursed piece and something they could do without. Each time from then on that the dealer sold the cradle, it was brought back for basically the same reason.
Eventually, or so the story goes, the store owners sold it to another dealer who put a sign on the piece that it was indeed haunted but that it was definitely not for sale. Well, we think that piece continued to be sold and returned but we can't tell you where it finally wound up. Would you find it surprising that a piece of wood, the hollow of a simple cradle, could be the accommodation of a ghost? What caused the cradle to rock? Even on level ground with nary a breeze from the window, or a vibration from below to set it in motion. Well, we had our own haunted piece.......a Victorian era portrait of a little girl we named Katherine.
We had been ghost-free since our former house in Bracebridge and life in the new bungalow seemed at first to be pretty tame in comparison to the paranormal acitivities of Golden Beach. It was expected life and the paranormal mix would provide an inert situation where a strange balance would prevail, at least for awhile. We had attended an auction sale in the community of Milford Bay, near Bracebridge, one Sunday afternoon in the autumn of the year....it was probably 1992 if memory serves. It was an estate sale and there were some neat pieces. On a tight budget, everything I was interested in that day went for way more than I had to spend. Our antique business in Bracebridge was just making rent at that time and I couldn't justify going crazy on any of the items at this sale.....which were all pretty much run of the mill pictures, prints, tables, dressers, and bric-a-brack. In fact it was one of the most discouraging sales I've been to, and it didn't even help that I was good friends with the auctioneer. That should have entitled me to a few favors....for a loyal patron. He was getting big bucks for damaged items and it was obvious the visitors to the region, with deeper pockets on this day than my own, were greatly influencing the upper limits of some pretty typical antique pieces. There were about ten major items I had told Suzanne we were going to acquire, even if we had to break the bank..... and even she (the tight-fisted accountant of the family) agreed we could be somewhat flexible......we just wouldn't eat for the next couple of weeks.
I lost ten out of ten. If I bid on twenty items in that final ten minutes of the auction, I wasn't even close on 19. There was however, one break in the action, and it wasn't intentional. I got mixed up about the item being auctioned, and found to my initial chagrin that I was bidding on a Victorian portrait of a little girl "with attitude"....a pout of epic proportion captured by the photographer of the day. It was in a large plaster and gilt frame with its original glass, and it did appear to be in good overall condition. But it was not what I wanted as store inventory. I won the bid. The one thing I got all day was an item I was bidding on by mistake. Get this.....I was writing an authoritarian column for the local press about auction sales, discussing how to bid, when to bid, what not to do, auction protocol and how to weasle into the best buys for the finest items. Well sir, I was pretty unhappy about my accidental purchase, (although I never let any one know it was accidental until this revelation today) and it was a twenty dollar or so expense I greatly begrudged handing over. I mumbled and complained to myself but certainly wasn't going to admit to Suzanne that I'd goofed and bought something I didn't want. I had a parallel look on my face to the little girl I was toting. Apparently we were kindred spirits. She didn't want to sit for the photographer and I didn't want to carry home a pouting child in a frame.
She had an intense snarl etched on her face and the color enhancements applied by the photo studio did nothing to neutralize the emotion of an angry kid. With that look and the feeling of being quite stupid as a bidder, I simply didn't look at her....... and she pouted in silence for quite a few days into our impromtu relationship. Now rather than being considered a wild story teller, by confession, I have previously indicated (in other published stories about Catherine) that I very much wanted the image because I'd been short changed and beat out all afternoon at this particular sale. It was pride you see that invented that tall tale. No I wasn't interested in the Victorian portrait because I needed store inventory, and these old framed photos are notoriously hard to sell. Who wants the portrait of a kid or adult you don't even know hanging in your family room. So as far as it goes, I was stuck with the wee lady. Suzanne wasn't impressed either because money was tight then and I had purchased a DUD! nothing to help net a business profit. We certainly didn't get off on the right foot. I decided that Catherine was going to adorn an empty wall in our house in spite of it all, and it didn't matter who was unhappy about it either. Turns out the feelings were mutual and this may have sparked the incidents I'm about to relate.
Admittedly, I have a first impressions problem. I often find myself unhappy with a purchase or the quality of a piece after I've bought it at auction. I've kicked myself alot in the proverbial arse over ill-conceived purchases. After about a week of staring at Catherine leaning against the fire place, pouting defiantly back, she actually started to appeal to me....for whatever reason. After a few more days I decided to hang her above an old washstand in the area of our living room, closest to two of three bedrooms, and beside the bathroom door. We had recently purchased a nice Victorian jug and bowl set with all but one of the pieces, and Catherine's portrait above would look strikingly museum-like. Suzanne wasn't thrilled but warned me repeatedly about the importance of properly hanging the heavy frame such that no matter what the conditions nearby, whether gale-force wind or banging bathroom door, it wouldn't fall down onto the expensive jug and bowl set. Well, you know us home handy-men who aren't really all that handy at all.......being about as "handy as a foot" my wifes chortles. I believed without question the picture was up forever which is about "four weeks" for any antique dealer who changes interior decor about a hundred times a year depending on the latest acquisitions. I tested that sucker ten or more times to see if it showed any weakness on the nail pounded into a wall stud. No wobble. Perfect stability.
About a week later, when we arrived home one Saturday night after a long day at the Bracebridge shop, we found Catherine had come off the nail and wound up face-down in the middle of the floor, having missed altogether the jug and bowl set directly below. The heavy picture appeared for all intents and purposes to have been lifted off the nail and thrust down on the floor, with the portrait facing up. How she managed to fall away from the wall, with the nail still in the stud and the wire struck across the eyelits as it was when hung, is an ongoing Currie family mystery. How it then rolled into the centre of the floor is quite beyond explanation. So what does a doting owner of a Victorian portrait do? Hung it right back in the same place. A week later it fell again, this time dropping straight down onto the floor behind the washstand and jug and bowl set, without failure to either wire or nail in the wall. There wasn't even a detectable movement of the china jug and bowl set....showing no influence from Catherine's tantrum. She obviously didn't like being hung above the washstand in our living room. So how were we going to make the waif content in our modest abode?
She was thusly headed downstairs to the family room and my library-office.
A Crooked Lady and a Stint in Theatre
From the beginning of her tenure in our house, even when she was hanging prominently in our living room, she seemed determined to hang crooked in between unceremonious flights to the floor. I would straigthen our Victorian lady at least once a day if not more because she obviously knew, in a spirit sense, that I have a phobia about anything askew, from piles of books to art on the wall. I've even been known to straighten pictures as a guest in someone else's abode. So indeed it was making me mad that no matter how I fixed the wire on the back or made sure it was unmovable except in the case of earthquake, Catherine continue her taunts.
For whatever reason, and I'm not sure that it was her spirited falls that made me want to unload the picture but I finally decided to take Catherine to our antique shop in uptown Bracebridge. I hung her above my counter on the back wall of the smaller first room in the two room shop. I didn't put a price on the picture because I wasn't sure whether I should sell it, or just let her look pretty and companion the other portraits I did have for sale at the time. People regularly commented about her sad face and asked if I knew who she was, and if she had been from a local family. I had a few offers to purchase but I just could commit to a price. As I had rescued her from the auction (or at least this is what I thought I had done for a waif in distress), there was some unspecified respect and admiration for the image gained over the first year of our enduring relationship. And as I may have been on her spiritual wave length, she possessed an aura of some discontent at being on display upon a wall she didn't approve. Every morning, and I mean every single morning, Catherine was hanging crooked. I blamed the building moreso than her impish behavior because it was old and full of curious knocks, creaks and vibrations from passing traffic on upper Manitoba Street. Maybe it was moreso the vibrations of main street traffic overnight causing the tilt in her posture. Yet strangely, over the course of a business day it was never askew, as it only happened when we were not present.
After the first week, and simply adjusting the frame each morning as a matter of routine, a number of my wife's restored 1960's dolls were found toppled over when we turned on the store lights. The dolls stood on the floor, some of them being quite large, and out of ten in a line, four might have fallen-over at night. To knock over these big and heavy dolls would take a fair bit of body mass and although I suspect we had a few mice around, it didn't seem the handiwork of rodents. This went on for weeks. On some mornings there would be one or two dolls face-down on the floor, and on other days it could be five or six which would have taken a cat or larger to get behind and topple over. While Catherine remained as crooked as ever, we really didn't tie the doll incidents into the spirited child. After awhile however, with numerous investigations into what was going on here in the wee hours, we simply decided it must be Catherine crying out for attention. Once we recognized that this was a case of mischief, and asked Catherine directly why she was doing this, and what she wanted from us, the midnight follies ceased. The case of the "falling dolls" had come to an unexpected halt. Although our Catherine continued to hang askew, her activity was reduced from every day to only several times a week.
When I would answer people who asked if Catherine was for sale, I'd routinely say, "Do you want to bring a ghost into your house?" Well you wouldn't believe the offers I had to purchase that haunted wee portrait. People were mesmerized. Even when they knew it was potentially a spirit-carrying antique, they wanted to own the naughty lady. One European lady stood and stared at Catherine for a long time one afternoon, and when she turned to me I could see by the look on her face that she knew something about the child. "She didn't want that picture taken. She hated standing there. She would never look at this picture where it hung in the house," the woman whispered to me while I was adding up the price of other items she was purchasing. "It's haunted isn't it?" she asked. Even before I could respond she said "She was a powerful little soul and she's letting us know now she wasn't happy that day," which I assume was the outing to the photographer's studio. "How much do you want for it?" she asked. "I can't sell it.....I don't know why but I just can't sell it." "I'll give you five hundred dollars," she blurted, and I think she would have gone much higher if I'd given any sign of hope that I would part with Catherine. (I have never told my wife that I was offered this much money.....for fear of being fired) I told the customer the story about her little evening tricks and her falls over the jug and bowl set in our living room, and it truly pained the woman not to be able to take the child home with her. She made me promise to contact her if I ever changed my mind. She wasn't the first or last to offer considerable money for the portrait, and our store patrons seemed to quite desire a good haunting at their abodes..... instead of fearing such an netherworld intervention. I recalled how our Scottish friend had felt about unresolved, wandering spirits being invited into the house via the Ouiji Board but here were people willingly opening their homes to a spirit-child who was somewhat malevolant optioned by a host of curious tantrums. Why would they want to tend this ghost's unresolved issues? I guess it was the same as the Currie family hanging onto Catherine. There was something endearing about her pouting but don't ask me to explain.
After about six months in residence in our shop, and only requiring adjustment every third or fourth business day, Catherine had by lesser actions, apparently wound down her rebellion about choice of wall-space and company kept. A lady we knew from the local theatre company came in and asked if we would be willing, for the price of tickets to a new play being performed, be willing to loan out some of our antiques for the set of their show "Angel Street," or as it was also known "Gaslight," a Victorian England murder-mystery. It was being held in the gymnasium of a local public school, in Bracebridge, Ontario. We agreed to supply the theatre company's needs and made up a list of materials to be picked up. She asked me if "Catherine" could be part of the loan, as she would give a perfect Victorian mood to the interior design of the subject historic mansion. I was a tad reluctant but agreed on condition they looked after my precious girl. I did not mention one word about her disposition or any of her spirited activities in the past. It was Catherine's chance to travel a wee bit and get some experience-time on-stage.
On the opening night the show had run without a hitch. I am told that Catherine proved almost impossible to hang but that the stage helpers had just assumed the painting hung askew as a rule, set designers believing its askew nature looked more realistic to an old mansion anyway. So imagine this opening night scenario. At the conclusion of a highly successful first night, the cast came out to take a bow, and when one of the lead actors looked up to acknowledge the crowd, he wobbled a bit before collapsing. He had suffered a mild heart attack but survived. He was replaced the following evening by a well known Canadian actor by the name of Simon Richards. While we make no serious connection between what happened to the actor, and Catherine the portrait, it was noted that throughout the performance, Catherine was substantially askew in the facade hallway adjoining the parlor. There were doors dividing the two but when they opened by golly, there she was as crooked as a dog's hind leg. As the actor went down, there she was in the centre of attention, hanging almost directly above those who came to assist the performer. When we attended the second night of the multi evening run of the show, I was absolutely stunned when the doors of the hall were swung open by the actress, revealing my strange, curiously appointed, sad-faced little Catherine dominating the visual scene. Crooked? Of course she was!
When all the props were returned, the lady who had borrowed the pieces asked if I would consider selling Catherine. When I declined to part with her, we did have a rather insightful conversation about her difficult demeanour, not wishing to hang straight for anyone no matter how many adjustments were made to the screw in the wall or the wire hanger on the back of the portrait. She as well acknowledged that the piece definitely had some unique qualities but she refused to label it "haunted." This was Catherine's big stage initiation. There was another to come. But first, I had made the decision Catherine was going to be taken back to our home, "Birch Hollow," where we'd try to resolve some of our wall space and placement disagreements, to avoid nasty spills and pranks like hanging crooked and tossing over my wife's doll collection....which was also kept in part at home. We had already sold off the jug and bowl set so that was no longer a security issue.
The first morning after her removal for bad behaviour into my downstair archives room, there she was as askew as ever. Add to this the fact that three or so books were pulled out from the bookshelves, as if someone had been searching for a text, and just never bothered to shove them neatly back. One book had toppled onto the floor. I asked who was in my old books and of three possible perpetrators nobody had a clue what I was talking about. This went on for about a week, and there was only one day when books hadn't been similarly pulled out....close to falling but still wedged between the others on the shelf. On three occasions that week, I also had to correct Catherine's lean, sometimes to the right and then the next day to the left.
At the local department store we picked up a Ouiji Board for an impromtu seance, in part to converse with Catherine's spirit. A Scottish friend of ours, a clerk at the store, didn't really want to sell us the board, from her own fears it would bring forth some unwanted spiritual activity, and haunt us in perpetuity. It is true that Scottish lore is full of wee beasties, and ghouls and goblins.... and spirited other-sorts, so we did take her warnings seriously. But the boys wanted it, and well, we didn't really feel we could explain adequately at the time, how we could possibly be scared of ghosts......when we had stressed on so many occasions that there were no ghosts in their room or boogey men under the bed. The clerk warned us to be careful and I assumed that meant sorting the spirits, be they good or bad, before bringing them out into the world they once dwelled in life.
On our first evening in company of the board, we took it downstairs and ran a hands-on question and answer session in Catherine's honor. In fact, this is when we first found out, by the hand-spirited "guiding device" (pointing to the individual letters) that her portrait hanging askew above us, was named "Catherine." This is what the pointer identified and the name we afforded her from this point of discovery. We realized it may not have been her name at all but this is what was spelled out exactly in succession of letters. NO fudging or generalization. One letter at a time and with forceful movement.
The next morning, and for many mornings after this, the portrait of Catherine was straight and the books tight on the shelf the way I left them.
As a community historian here in the District of Muskoka, I was frequently invited to give talks on a variety of subjects at local museums. A friend who was running the Muskoka Lakes Museum in Port Carling, begged a favor when one of the planned lecturers had to cancel at the last minute. As I was writing a feature length series of columns in The Muskoka Sun about the paranormal that summer season, I suggested my topic would be folklore, ghosts etc. I decided to try something a little different on this occasion than dry old historical rehashes, and opted to take Catherine on a wee road trip to the region she was familiar....Township of Muskoka Lakes. We had purchased her from an estate auction a few miles east of Port Carling and we would be driving right past the old homestead to the museum. My wife and lecture partner Suzanne and I had a plan to set Catherine up on a large easel and cover her with a ceremonial robe so that no one could see what we had beneath. A few guests that night tried to sneak a peak prior to the lecture but we kept up security so that the unveiling would be a surprise to all.
We maintained secrecy about Catherine throughout the presentation about local Muskoka legend and lore. Every now and again I would purposely stop talking, look at the covered picture, as if I had noticed something profound happening. About the fifth time I stopped, I begged the audience to carefully watch the easel, and stop me if they saw the sheet or what was under it move. While nobody stopped to tell me it had vibrated, shifted side to side or the covering having mysteriously inflated all eyes were on that easel. When I finally ended my presentation, I asked the audience if any one had actually noticed a shift of the item on the easel or some movement of the covering. At least half those in attendance raised their hands to acknowledge something or other had been witnessed. "Well," I said, "I would like to introduce to you to an allegedly haunted portrait of a gal we call Catherine." There was one of those uncomfortable silences for any stage performer, on the verge of either hardy applause or target practice with hurled vegetables. As it turned out the audience was receptive to the story of Catherine and in fact, many folks came up after the lecture was over to actually touch the frame to make their own spiritual connection and share some of their own stories of the paranormal. It was a fascinating evening and our precious young lady once again entertained her admirers. Yet there was still some ways to go at the Currie homestead, to pacify the child spirit.
For a few weeks after her last show and tell, she would greet me in the morning a tad askew but it was down to about one day out of five and the streak grew longer. In fact it grew into years. I haven't had to straighten the wee lass in at least five years. It seems she approves of her position hanging in my history archives. I guess she's grown accustomed to her new caring family.
The story of Catherine got national exposure in a 1990's ghost story collection from Ontario, by noted author Barbara Smith. Every now and again we will get a call or letter, or a nudge from a reader on the street in our hometown, who has just finished reading about Catherine, and who wanted to let us know how lucky we are to have such an interesting house-guest.