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The Fork in the
Graveyard
Author F.H. Macarthur set the scene, saying this particular story is
said to have been passed down by word of mouth. It began on a cold day
in late October with a fine mist blowing in from the sea. Seated about
the pot-bellied stove in the little country store were a group of farmer
folk whose talk had turned from problems of the day to current
superstitions.
The tale of Peter MacIntyre is as exciting a story of the
supernatural as one is likely to find and, as such, is still repeated by
the people of Tracadie who puzzle over the episode to this day.
 The
spirit, or ghost, of a dead man is said to have committed the dastardly
deed of murdering our Peter, a Scottish settler, who arrived in the area
on the good ship Alexander in 1773.
The
scene is set as we described, men relaxing around the warmth of a stove,
chatting of mysterious events. When Peter arrived, room was made for him
in the warmth, and conversation continued until one Ben Peters mentioned
having seen a light in the old French burying place at Scotch Fort. He
described a huge ball of fire, dancing across the graves, and lighting
up the whole cemetery.
Peter,
the newcomer, scoffed at the idea, boasting that such exaggerations
would not keep him from walking through any churchyard, even the Scotch
Fort one, on the very night.
There
were, he claimed, more devils to fear among his mortal companions than
in the resting place of the dead.
His
boasting, of course, wad quickly taken up on, and the challenge thrown
out to do more than brag by the comfort of the fire.
"It's
all very well to put on a brave front when yer in the company of
humans," piped a fellow lounger. "But going to a graveyard that's
haunted in the dead of night, and alone, is a horse of another colour.
Why, man, you must be clear off your beam to even suggest such a thing
let alone go through with it. That old cemetery may be full of dead
men's bones, but it's also full of dead men's spirits."
Peter
took offense at the remarks, shrugging off superstitious talk as
nonsense. The ire was up in his companions who were slighted by his
attitude and quickly a bet was made that Peter should go to the old
cemetery and plant a hay-fork in a grave, to prove he had been there.
Should he succeed a pound of tobacco would be his.
Peter
accepted the challenge, and with a jaunty air left the cabin, telling
them to have his tobacco ready on the morn, for "I don't expect to be
detained by the dead," he said, "I've never knowed dead people to harm
anyone."
As
it was midnight, all filed from the store. Peter in a long black rain
slicker was given the hay fork and bid on his way to Scotch Fort while
the others scuttled for the dry warmth of their own beds.
Come
dawn, all were seeking Peter who it seemed had disappeared. His cabin
was empty and cold, obviously vacant for some time. More ominous his
livestock was bleating with hunger. With the realization that Peter was
not to be found came fear, fear for the fate of a man brazen enough to
risk defying the very spirits of the dead at the witching hour on a
night that seemed to portray the very depths of Hell itself.
The
men armed themselves, justifying their actions by expressing a concern
abut bears in the vicinity, and set out to solve the mystery.
The
cemetery was a small clearing in the heart of the forest, reached by
means of a narrow footpath, permitting not more than two persons to walk
abreast. Every now and then the search party stopped to peer through the
branches of the trees, their voices never above a whisper. Finally they
were out of the woods and staring in amazement at the sight that met
their eyes.
The
handle of a hay-fork showed plainly above a grave situated right in the
centre of the graveyard. A large black object was curled up on the
ground beside it.
Cautiously
the party pressed forward, and, as they neared the spot the black object
began to take shape. A few more steps and they raised their voices in
unions, "Peter! Can't you speak to us."
There
was no answer save the echo of their own voices. MacIntyre's body lay
across the grave, his face turned toward them. It was a face frozen in
agony, a haunted, fear-crazed face that made the living tremble and wish
they'd never seen it.
A
hand reached out and grabbed the dead man's collar. The hand pulled hard
on the collar but the body wouldn't come loose. A second hand reached
out and grasped the fork. I had been driven in the grave with a powerful
thrust and right through the tail of Peter MacIntyre's long black coat.
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