The old farmhouse that my childhood friend Rick lived in was haunted.
At least that's what was claimed, and as this was confirmed by my friends mother, I as a youngster had no reason not to believe that if not the stories themselves, at least there were those who claimed they were.
Rick and I first met when we were about eight years old after we had moved into a house which backed onto his family's home in Scarborough Ontario.
He and I became fast friends, as did our respective families and I recall we always seemed to be together doing one thing or another which for Rick and myself more often than not included some type of mischief.
While I don't recall exactly how long our families lived as neighbours I do know that it was only a year or two, after which we moved a few miles away which put me in a different school than Rick.
A short time later he and his family left Scarborough and moved into the old farmhouse in King City north of Toronto.
Our familys still saw each other socially though and I used to look forward to visiting the farm where we would often spend the weekends together.
On one such weekend there were several of us kids staying overnight at the farm which I suppose says something about the patience and easy going nature of Rick's mother Yetty.
There was Rick and his two younger sisters Cathy and Gloria, my sister,my self and two other young girls who were friends of Rick's sisters and whose names are long since lost to me.
With seven kids given free run of a farm there seemed to be no end to the potential adventures that awaited us, from the hay-loft to the various other out-buildings. All of which we explored every square inch of.
The old farm's reputation for being haunted was never far from our minds though, and that evening as the sunshine surrendered to a coal black moonless night, we found ourselves gathered upstairs in the farmhouse telling ghost stories.
Most of stories were of the typical type, with claims of objects seemingly having moved from one place to another of their own accord when you left a room for a moment, or of having the bed sheets pulled off of you in the night as you slept.
These ghostly tales seemed new to most of those sitting wide eyed in the darkened room and I shouldn't wonder if Rick's did not discourage the telling of them to the younger kids in the group.
For myself however I had heard them all before, until Rick started
Recounting the story of the farmer who had hanged himself in the pump-house.
As the story unfolded I gave Rick an inquisitive glance which was answered with a subtle "Go with me on this" look in return.
Aha! The game was afoot and things were about to get interesting.
My instincts and years of mischief making with Rick told me exactly what was going to happen later that night and I was more than happy to play along.
Before I go any further I'll tell you that the pump-house was a simple windowless wooden structure with a single door and which contained nothing more than an old fashioned cast iron hand pump, the type of which I am sure you are
familiar. I suspect that it had been their long before electricity was brought to the farm but at sometime in the past, some enterprising person had decided to ease the chore of pumping water by hand.
An electric motor had been installed on the floor next to the pump. From this, a V-belt ran up to a pulley on the ceiling, to which was attached a metal rod, the other end of which was attached to the end of the pump handle.
If you have already surmised the turn of events that I am about to relate to you then congratulations, you may now allow yourself an evil little smirk. A smirk that my old chum Rick and myself had to deny ourselves on that dark night lest our hapless victims catch wind of their upcoming pitfall.
The last part of the yarn that was spun that night ended with a chapter about a man who had entered the pump one dark night, and how the door had slammed behind him barring his exit.
And how he had been found much later with his hair turned completely white, and that he spent the rest of his life in an asylum babbling incoherently.
As soon as the younger kid's blood had been suitably chilled came the obligatory dares as to who would be brave enough to venture outside and enter the pump-house in the dark of night.
There being no volunteers it was suggested and summarily decided that we would all go together and so down the stairs and quietly out the door we went as everyone else in the house slept.
Across the porch and off into the darkness toward the silhouette of the pump-house went five terrified young girls followed by two you scoundrels in guise of Rick and myself.
Cont....
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