Country Living

By Abe Margel

It was hard to believe but there was a time the farmhouse was shiny and new, a small building for a couple just starting out. When I first saw it as a child it had long ago changed, grown out of its naïve youth and into a less gracious era. That’s when it became mine.

The house had been expanded in the 1960s so the building I moved into was larger than the one my great grandparents originally built. After fighting in the Boer War, Carl Davies returned home to Pitchcott, England. He was missing two toes and a deep scar on his forehead but Bertha married him anyway. In 1902 the couple headed for Canada.

The newlyweds bought a homestead twenty kilometers west of Peterborough. The previous owners had given up on the rocky soil and decided to try their luck in Montreal instead. So the price was right.

The property came down to me and my sister in 2022. She sold me her half of the place when it became clear we’d be facing ongoing conflict with the tenant we had inherited along with the house.

“I don’t think, Roy, you’ll ever be able to get rid of that loser or make him pay,” she told me. “Good luck.”

The Ontario Landlord and Tenant Board was created to resolve disputes between landlords and tenants. While we waited for a hearing before the board Paul continued to refuse to pay his rent and I was prevented by law from evicting him. It could be years before I got him out of my house.

Divorced, Paul lived alone in the farmhouse and worked as a car mechanic in Havelock. He drove his pickup truck the short distance down Regional Highway 46 to his job.

I was never sure if he was a kook who would not listen to reason or if he just wanted to steal from me.

“No, I’m not shelling out any more rent until you get rid of the ghosts,” he said shaking his bald head at me. We were standing almost toe to toe at the front door. He reeked of cigarettes and booze. I was tired, having driven out to the farmhouse from Toronto, and annoyed knowing I’d soon be back in the driver’s seat heading back home.

“Come on,” I said, “you don’t really believe in spirits, you just don’t want to pay up.”

Elmer, my dog, pricked up his ears and took a step toward Paul.

“Tell the dead woman who rattles the dishes in the kitchen at three in the morning or the ghost who knocked over the dresser right in front of my eyes. If I could find a decent place nearby, I’d be out of here right now.”

“Let me guess. The phantom man wears a top hat, and the woman dances around in a hooped dress and bonnet.”

“No, no they’re modern. The guy’s in a black leather vest and got tattoos on his arms and neck and the girl’s in tight jeans. But they’ve got weird, twisted faces, like corkscrews, you sort of can see right through them.”

“Come on, man. You think I’m stupid? Next, you’ll tell me the place is haunted by a company of Roman soldiers.”

“Those two are real, I swear. Stay here one night, I dare you.”

          I hired a retired Anglican priest to chase away the phantoms. He was recommended to me by Jake, the owner of the Pioneer gas station in Norwood.

          “He’s a bit odd but he believes, a real pious guy,” Jake said. “A few years back he did an exorcism at Danielle Bay Tide Inn when they discovered it was built over an old graveyard. They say all the squeaking sounds and the banshee screams at sunrise stopped.” He broke into a laugh.

I was waiting for the priest as he got off the bus in Peterborough. Reverend Theodor stank of dust and marijuana. In my heart I knew this was a waste of time and money. I was betting Paul would give me the cash he owed if he thought the old priest had cast out the ghosts. It was late afternoon, and the summer sun was still high in the sky. After exchanging some pleasantries, we drove on in my SUV in silence.

It was quite a strange event at the farmhouse. The solemn exorcism involved a liturgy where the priest commanded the demons to take a hike in Jesus’s name. At one point I thought I heard the floorboards groan. But, of course, it was my imagination, and I dismissed the notion. The exorcism cost me four hundred dollars and a bottle of good Cognac which the priest immediately shared with the tenant.

The ghosts left but the rent money never showed up. It was a two-hour drive from my apartment in Toronto but three weeks later I returned to the farmhouse.

          “I’m giving you till next Sunday. If you haven’t moved out by then I’m setting Elmer on you, and he’ll rip your balls off!”

For a fleeting second, I could have sworn I saw my dead grandparents standing behind Paul, nodding their gossamer heads in agreement with me.

          I wasn’t sure if I was bluffing but I’d had enough. Something had to be done. Paul was already fifteen thousand dollars in arrears and the Landlord and Tenant Board didn’t give a damn about me going into debt. I was now certain I’d never see any of the rent money.

Hearing my threatening voice Elmer growled and bared his large teeth. Leaning down I grabbed him by the collar. I’d witnessed Elmer fight with other dogs who’d threatened him. He was a big animal and never backed down.

Paul was gone by the following week. Suddenly Beth and I were left with a dilemma, to remain in our Toronto condo or move to the countryside. We had the house partially renovated and moved in in August.

By September Beth was off for University College London to do a PhD in philosophy.

“It’s my last chance,” she said a year earlier. “I’ll be too old to bother if I wait.” She gave me one of those pull at your heartstrings looks of hers and any objections I had disappeared. She immediately understood she’d triumphed and broke into a broad smile. “And it’s in a research area I’m interested in.”

I questioned her motives but said nothing. Mostly she wanted the degree out of vanity but who was I to tell her it wasn’t going to impress anyone. We had no kids, and I’d inherited the farm. Financially we were doing okay and lived modestly.

Working as an insurance broker didn’t require me to have an office. I was able to do my job remotely using the internet and my phone. In what was once a bedroom I set up an office complete with computer, printer, and a fine view of the countryside. Neighbouring fields of soybeans and corn in long rows grew up to the horizon. Some days it seemed as if I was looking out at the ocean when the crops swayed as a soft breeze caressed them.

With Beth in Europe, I had plenty of time to myself and when not dealing with clients I struggled to complete my third book of poetry. The first two volumes received praise but sold poorly so my publisher dropped me.

“We’re a small press and can’t afford to lose money. I love your poetry, but the paying public doesn’t agree with me. I’m so sorry, Roy.”

In the mornings I took Elmer for a walk, first along the narrow gravel road three hundred yards from my front door, then for a stroll in the boulder-strewn woodlot behind the house. The trees, mostly maple, birch, and oak covered about an acre. They were all second growth, skinny and too close to each other. It was my dog’s favorite place. Elmer was not the most disciplined of creatures, he often had a mind of his own, but I didn’t object. In the woods he was free to do as he pleased. My only fear was that he would run into a porcupine and end up being hurt due to his own stupidity. He was a big, energetic beast, an Australian German Shepherd mix, and very protective of me and my wife. 

A mile and a half north along the gravel road that ran past my place sat another old farmhouse that had been rented out to a biker gang. Years ago, when I was a child visiting my grandparents during the summer, all you could hear at night was the rustling of leaves, the hum of insects, and the occasional passing vehicle. Now among those familiar sounds were woven the distant racket of rock music and rowdy partying. The bikers’ revelry would begin after I was in bed and stop before sunrise. Far enough away from my place, the disagreeable noises were so faint they hardly made an impression, so I had no trouble sleeping. Still, it was upsetting to realize thugs lived only a five-minute drive from my house. Over time the festivities became louder as more and more Harleys sped along Regional Highway 46 and up the gravel road by my house.

Although she was across the Atlantic, the activities of our criminal neighbours upset my wife. After catching me up on how her university studies were going, she cautioned me.

“Listen, Roy,” she said during one of our regular WhatsApp chats, “maybe we should sell the farmhouse, move somewhere that’s safer?”

“No, they don’t bother anyone except each other. When you’re back you won’t even notice them. They’re not exactly living across the street from us, are they?”

“I want you to get another dog. Some animal that’ll give you more protection than Elmer.”

“Don’t underestimate Elmer.”

“As it is Elmer’s probably lonely. Find him a muscular friend with a strong jaw.”

“Yeah, I’ll think about it.”

I bought a large, tan German shepherd, Dodge, from a local breeder. He and Elmer got along well.  

The following March I flew over to the UK to attend my wife’s graduation. Beth looked splendid as she strode up to the podium and was presented with her doctoral degree. A few days later we were back at the farmhouse. Beth had snagged a limited appointment in the philosophy department at Trent University, a twenty-minute drive to the east of us.

On the first Sunday in May at three in the morning the silence was broken when police cruiser after police cruiser flew up the gravel road to the bikers’ farmhouse.

Beth and I both sat up in bed. “It’s those stinking thugs,” she said, her voice shaking.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Elmer and Dodge were both barking while racing back and forth from the front door to our bedroom. I calmed them down.

“Should we drive and see what’s going on?” I said.

“Are your out of your mind? No, of course not. Leave it, whatever it is, to the police.”

Neither of us slept well that night.

There’d been a knife fight, I read on a news app the next morning. Guns and drugs were found. A film clip showed several motorcycles and police SUVs, lights flashing, parked in front of a shabby-looking house. The images were dark, but I could make out several people in handcuffs being shoved into the back of the SUVs.

One biker was dead, and a young woman taken into custody charged with second degree murder. A police spokeswoman said they expected to make further arrests. A week later a large box van drove past our place heading west. It was filled with all the stuff belonging to the gang. The group abandoned our part of the country. Beth and I celebrated that night by dining at an Indian restaurant in Peterborough.

In September 2024 I found an obscure publishing house in Nova Scotia willing to print my latest book of poetry.

I decided to take the day off and get pleasantly stoned. Beth was out of the house teaching her classes at Trent, so I rolled a joint and took the dogs out for a stroll in the woods behind our house, something Beth and I did regularly.

This time I walked all the way through the trees to where the forest met the fields. All at once Elmer and Dodge began to dig frantically. I’d seen this type of behavior before and since I was in no hurry, sat down under a birch tree and dreamily watched. Being in a pleasant haze I soon closed my eyes and wasn’t sure how much time passed before Elmer jumped on my lap. When I opened my eyes, I noticed he’d deposited a glove beside me. I picked it up but immediately dropped it. It was no glove but a human hand.