A Span, The Length Of Memory 109

THE GHOST OF WILMOT VALLEY

A True Story by William C. Schurman

Taken from the Summerside Journal Pioneer Monday, March 2,1953 - Page 3

One evening in late October in the year 1917 a youth might have been seen strolling along that part of the Wilmot road leading from Kelvin Corner to the Wilmot Bridge. He walked with the careless abandon of youth for John Arthur Poulion was at peace with all the world. He knew no care for he belonged to that class of men who are sort of “Creatures of the Moment” and their lives said “Dead yesterday, unborn tomorrow. What matter if today be sweet!”

John was on his way to “Manuels” to spend the evening with his friend and indulge in a few games of cards and some friendly talk of which those people are so fond. In due course he arrived at his destination and having spent a pleasant evening and being fortified with a light repast as only “Lizzie” could give him, we now see him turning his steps homeward toward Hubert’s where he was employed.

As it was nearly midnight the eastern sky was pitch dark before him, made darker by the lurid glare of light of Summerside. But John was not afraid, he had been out on dark nights before and so he trudged along the dusty road, past Gordon’s gate, up the little rise toward the cemetery. He was perhaps as brave at heart as any kind, but it was not without some misgivings that he drew nigh to “that realm of the dead”.

No sound broke the stillness of the night save the clop, clop of his heavy boots. When opposite the cemetery gate, he thought he heard a slight rustling in the grass. He stopped and paused for a moment to listen, turning his gaze in the direction of the sound. He was horrified to see a white female figure rise slowly from the earth and after as if to get its bearings, move slowly and majestically toward him. Cold with horror, he stood rooted to the spot as nearer and nearer and nearer it came.