around the evening campfire. Whenever someone new comes to visit us at the cottage, the kids say, âWe have to sing them the ghost song!â
I am not sure why we like to be scared. Why do we find delight in watching a good horror movie, reading terrifying books, or hearing macabre stories around the campfire? Ghost stories have been with us for as long as people have been telling each other stories. We love to be frightened, as long as it is not too far outside our comfort zone.
When I am travelling to some distant country, I always like taking a haunted walk. Donât get me wrong, I donât believe in ghosts, but the outings are great for giving a visitor a feel for a different culture and the history of an ancient city. If they are well done, they are fun and creepy.
I have wandered about in a massive Chinese cemetery in the middle of Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, met historic characters amongst the dark alleys and old stone buildings of Old Montrealâs historic port, taken a ghostly walk along Victoriaâs waterfront during the âGhosts of Victoria Festival,â and followed a black-cloaked, lantern-carrying guide through the foggy, cobblestone streets of Old Edinburgh in Scotland. All such locations were brimming with ghostly atmosphere.
There is also something about the cottage. Perhaps it is because the nights there are dark and quiet. There is the absence of the lights from town or city. The sounds are perhaps not as familiar as the ones we hear daily at home. The wind whips the branches of trees, the waves break on shore, a beaver slaps his tail, a raven gurgles, and a loon wails. Visitors to the cottage are especially susceptible to the unfamiliar.
The children insist that I tell a horrifying tale at the evening bonfire or read them a ghost story before bed. I read them âThe Hook,â âThe Hitchhiker,â and âThe Weeping Woman.â They tell me that the stories are lame. I read them âThe Tell-Tale Heartâ and âThe Monkeyâs Paw.â They are quiet. I stand up and douse the fire. We wander back in silence, single file along the well-worn path to the cottage. Shadows from a full moon dance across the white rock, playing tricks with our eyes. Blades of grass, moved by the wind, scratch across rocks, boulders that suddenly look like crumbling headstones. A pair of bats slice by in the air. The screech of what must be a gull sounds like an old woman shrieking shrilly at us.
Of course, an aspect of the ghost story for the children is to never admit to being scared. âOh, that wasnât very scary,â they will tell me after the tale â but then, before settling in for the night, they ask me off-handedly whether the doors are locked and if I wouldnât mind closing their curtains.
Bonfire
There is something about a campfire. It is mesmerizing and comforting, and a great social focal point on a dark cottage night. If the dock is the main gathering place on a hot summerâs day, so is the bonfire pit on a starry, still evening. The bonfire experience also transcends the generations. It is not something that you do just to appease your kids. Nor do the younger set drop all the fun they are having to hang out reluctantly around the fire with the adults. It is something that all look forward to at the end of the perfect cottage day.
On the eastern tip of our island a solid rock outcrop juts into the lake. We call it fire rock because it has become the ideal location to sit out on a still, dark evening around a roaring bonfire. There is a shallow indentation in the granite that serves as the perfect fire pit, and flat rocks from the lake bed are stacked to shield it from the wind. Trees grow well back, a safe distance from the fire, and there are no dangerous underground roots that can smoulder out of sight. We have some log benches set around, and some pointed green willow marshmallow sticks lean against a stack of firewood.
It is a place
I am not sure why we like to be scared. Why do we find delight in watching a good horror movie, reading terrifying books, or hearing macabre stories around the campfire? Ghost stories have been with us for as long as people have been telling each other stories. We love to be frightened, as long as it is not too far outside our comfort zone.
When I am travelling to some distant country, I always like taking a haunted walk. Donât get me wrong, I donât believe in ghosts, but the outings are great for giving a visitor a feel for a different culture and the history of an ancient city. If they are well done, they are fun and creepy.
I have wandered about in a massive Chinese cemetery in the middle of Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, met historic characters amongst the dark alleys and old stone buildings of Old Montrealâs historic port, taken a ghostly walk along Victoriaâs waterfront during the âGhosts of Victoria Festival,â and followed a black-cloaked, lantern-carrying guide through the foggy, cobblestone streets of Old Edinburgh in Scotland. All such locations were brimming with ghostly atmosphere.
There is also something about the cottage. Perhaps it is because the nights there are dark and quiet. There is the absence of the lights from town or city. The sounds are perhaps not as familiar as the ones we hear daily at home. The wind whips the branches of trees, the waves break on shore, a beaver slaps his tail, a raven gurgles, and a loon wails. Visitors to the cottage are especially susceptible to the unfamiliar.
The children insist that I tell a horrifying tale at the evening bonfire or read them a ghost story before bed. I read them âThe Hook,â âThe Hitchhiker,â and âThe Weeping Woman.â They tell me that the stories are lame. I read them âThe Tell-Tale Heartâ and âThe Monkeyâs Paw.â They are quiet. I stand up and douse the fire. We wander back in silence, single file along the well-worn path to the cottage. Shadows from a full moon dance across the white rock, playing tricks with our eyes. Blades of grass, moved by the wind, scratch across rocks, boulders that suddenly look like crumbling headstones. A pair of bats slice by in the air. The screech of what must be a gull sounds like an old woman shrieking shrilly at us.
Of course, an aspect of the ghost story for the children is to never admit to being scared. âOh, that wasnât very scary,â they will tell me after the tale â but then, before settling in for the night, they ask me off-handedly whether the doors are locked and if I wouldnât mind closing their curtains.
Bonfire
There is something about a campfire. It is mesmerizing and comforting, and a great social focal point on a dark cottage night. If the dock is the main gathering place on a hot summerâs day, so is the bonfire pit on a starry, still evening. The bonfire experience also transcends the generations. It is not something that you do just to appease your kids. Nor do the younger set drop all the fun they are having to hang out reluctantly around the fire with the adults. It is something that all look forward to at the end of the perfect cottage day.
On the eastern tip of our island a solid rock outcrop juts into the lake. We call it fire rock because it has become the ideal location to sit out on a still, dark evening around a roaring bonfire. There is a shallow indentation in the granite that serves as the perfect fire pit, and flat rocks from the lake bed are stacked to shield it from the wind. Trees grow well back, a safe distance from the fire, and there are no dangerous underground roots that can smoulder out of sight. We have some log benches set around, and some pointed green willow marshmallow sticks lean against a stack of firewood.
It is a place
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