Every nationality has its own belief in ghost or specters but it would seem none more so than the Irish.  A very superstitious lot, are the Irish.  From the legends of the little people to the terrifying banshees; the Irish have the bases covered.

 My family is, predominately Irish and as a result, I grew up surrounded by tales of ghosts, legends and practices of the paranormal type.   Tea leaves, potions, curses and rituals were as natural as breathing to them as were ghosts.  The concept of ghostly visitations were a given; there were no disputes or arguments, no debates pro and con, ghosts were an accepted part of life.  And, whether delusions, illusions, imagination or the susceptibility of the family because of their belief, actual regular visitations were the order of the day/night.

 The first real ghost story was told to me by my grandmother and was a narrative of something that happened to her.   My grandmother was from Newfoundland, a very small fishing village; she had a large family, as was the norm for Newfoundland in those days.  Child mortality rates were very high.  Newfoundlanders were, primarily, sailors and fishermen; there was a lot of naval traffic in and out of the various ports of call along Newfoundland’s rugged coastline.  Sailors from all over the world could be found in port during the shipping season.  One sunny day, an Italian ship came into port and impacted my grandmother’s family forever.  The captain was an Italian and apparently, quite a good looking man.  He was also, as rumour would have it, married but sailors are renowned for their wandering eye and his eye wandered over to my great-aunt Theresa, my grandmother’s slightly older and truth to tell, favourite sister.  She was, by all accounts, a blonde haired, blue eyed beauty and immediately the captain went about the business of seduction.  She was as naïve as any babe in the woods and fell, head over heels, in love with him and my guess would be, to his dismay – he had fallen in love with her.  The inevitable happened and he had to go back to Italy.  She was inconsolable and I gather, considering what he decided to do, the captain was as well.  They decided that she would return to Italy with him.  What he planned to do about the wife in the home country is beyond me. A further obstacle to these star crossed lovers was my great-grandfather, who, of course, absolutely forbid Theresa from ever seeing this dastardly foreigner again.

They came up with a plan; Theresa would sneak away and the two would sail off into the sunrise, ostensibly to Italy and live happily ever after.

Theresa secreted herself away and boarded the ship.  The captain was waiting and they weighed anchor, sailing out into the Atlantic and Italy.  A storm moved in and Atlantic storms are legendary.  The ship sank, killing all aboard.

My grandmother was unaware that Theresa had run off with her captain.  The night the ship sank, she was startled awake by Theresa.  She was standing at the foot of her bed, soaking wet.  My grandmother asked her what had happened, why was she wet?  The weather was so cold.  Theresa sat down and looked at her, with what my grandmother describes as great sadness and then, she disappeared.  My grandmother thought she had been dreaming but the dream didn’t explain the water on the floor or the wetness of her bed clothes.

A few days later, the news came to the family; Theresa had drowned at sea, with her Italian captain and all his crew.