Welcome to Our Ghost Story

Since it was built in the 1860's, the Opeongo Road has served as a route for numerous settlers, adventurers, freight haulers and tourists. Cutting through one of the more remote parts of Eastern Ontario, it opened vast new lands to those brave or foolhardy enough to tackle them. While it made many men wealthy it left many more broken and destitute, for while the land was cheap it was hard and unforgiving. Even today the ghost settlements still crumbling in decay can be found along it way. Newfoundout, Clontarf, Brudenell: still names on dusty old maps, but no longer the thriving settlements they once were. New settlements centered around the lakes have taken their place today but, don't fool yourself, this land is as unforgiving as ever. Who knows if they will not be the ghost towns of the next century.

One hundred years ago Sylvester T. Briggs traveled the rough route of the Opeongo. He had been sold a tract of land on Plaunt's mountain, up the Opeongo about 30 miles outside the growing town of Renfrew. Every cent he owned was invested in the tools, plow and team of horses that he now drove over the rough corduroy sections of this road. Once set up on his new homestead he hoped to get a cabin built and a few crops planted among the stumps before bringing his wife and new born son up from Ottawa. A day and a half of rough road brought him to the foot of Plaunts mountain and he looked at the steep twisty rock strewn road that lay in front of him with a bit of anxiety. He had been over hills, stuck in mosquito infested swamps, his path blocked by downed trees bigger round than a cow and he had overcome these hardships. He had weathered rain, mud and baking sunshine and he had persevered. But now in front of him stood the last and most formidable object; Plaunts mountain, over 1000 feet of steady climb with no place to rest, no safe place to turn. His lands were now just over a mile away, but, what a mile!

Carefully, he checked his rig. Each harness and collar was checked and adjusted. The wagon's brakes carefully examined and tested. Each hitch pin and clevis inspected and made secure. Finally he was ready. Up the mountain he started with the team. It was a slow and dangerous journey. The road was rocky and wet from a recent storm and at times the breaks on the wagon were all that stood between him and a deadly plunge down the rocky ridge. The horses strained and pulled their traces taunt with every ounce of their strength just to gain a few feet. Sylvester would inch the team up until the ground was sure enough for the brakes to hold and then check the wagon with the breaks giving the horses a chance to get a fresh hold. In this way they inched slowly up the mountain.

As I said, this is a hard and unforgiving land. Sometimes you can do everything in your power to succeed and mother nature will smack you in the face just to see if you have even more toughness left. As he reached the last and steepest part of the mountain with his team weak; but, with the end clearly in sight, Mother nature delivered one of her cruel tests of man and beast. For this test she choose a shy and usually harmless creature; the beaver. The tree that it was chewing was a large poplar and at the moment it fell across the road was the precise moment that Sylvester's wagon was about to successfully climb that last portion of the hill. Thirty seconds one way or the other and that tree would have created a panic for sure, but it would likely have been a panic the Sylvester's team would have overcome. As Nature had it, the tree fell exactly between the team and the wagon, smashing the yoke and tearing the harnesses from their hardware. They shot suddenly forward into the tree and then, just as suddenly, lurched backwards as the harness tore loose and gravity began to drag the wagon back down that hard won hill. Sylvester grabbed for the brake and pulled back with all his weight and the wagon began to slow. However the hill was steep and while the brakes were good they were never intended to stop this much weight going this fast. Without the horses to help check and slow his motion, the heroic efforts of Sylvester to stop that wagon were doomed to failure. Smoke poured off the brakes as they strained under his weight to do their job. But the weight of the wagon was too great and the hill too steep. Their speed slowly increased causing the brakes to heat even more. Finally, with a sudden snap, the brake lever cracked and the wagon roll unchecked back down the mountain. As the lever broke, Sylvester was thrown forcefully back into the wagon and knocked unconscious. He never saw the rest of his journey.

Darkness, total, all covering darkness. He lay there his mind slowly becoming aware of his surroundings. Was he dead? If so, why did he hurt? He felt for his leg where the greatest pain was coming from. It was sticky and he could feel the jagged edge of a bone sticking out from underneath the skin. Removing his shirt he pushed the shattered bone back into place as well as he could, securing it in place with his shirt. He couldn't guess how long this took, for in the intense pain he lost consciousness twice. While he could not place weight on the leg, he could drag it behind him without too much pain if he was careful. But, drag it where? Wherever he was it was night and the ground hard, damp and rocky. Maybe, it would be best if he rested. He would be much more likely to find help in the daylight. He slept.

When he awoke he noticed that his situation had not changed. Still dark. What kind of night was this? Had he lost all sense of time? Surly it should be daylight by now. Another thing bothered him, while he had spent many a night outside, he had never seen a night so dark. Why he could touch his finger to his eyeball without seeing it coming. He decided to carefully explore around. Working by feel and dragging his injured leg carefully behind, he began a crawling journey of discovery. Every place he lay his hand felt the same. Cool damp stone. Stone, to the left, to the right, even overhead. Slowly he began to realize that he was likely not outside at all. Somehow his body must have been pitched from the wagon and rolled into a small cave. He began to think. Since I rolled in, there must be a way to get back out. All I need do is craw around until I can see light or feel something other than damp stone.

For a long time Sylvester crawled. Every so often he would stop to check his bandage and rest his broken leg. While he had no way of telling, he imagined that he must have spent the better part of two days exploring in this way. At least his stomach seemed to think it had been that long without food. However, food was not his most important concern, thirst was. His throat was powder dry, and he was smart enough to know that a man needs water a lot more than he needs food. He found there were spots where some moisture seemed to collect on the rocks. Despite the salty, dank taste, he licked those spots greedily. He also found what he guessed was some kind of mold or fungus growing on the damp rocks. These he tried to eat but they made him vomit. Despite his great hunger he could not keep them down. He lost all track of time; his senses became distorted. He could see nothing, everything felt the same, his ears heard only sounds that he made, his nose smelled only the damp rocks and his own bodily odors. Slowly he went insane.

He started by talking to himself. It seemed innocent enough at the time. it helped him focus his thoughts and concentrate on getting out of wherever it was that he had fallen into. But it grew. He became so desperate for any human sound that he began to create them himself. At first it was just the occasional scream into the darkness. HELP...HELP...SOMEBODY.....ANYBODY. Soon, he thought he heard an answer and began to call back to it. In a short while he was having complete conversations with himself punctuated with the occasional...AAAAAAEEEEE!! SOMEBODY GET ME OUT OF HERE...PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I DON'T WANT TO DIE. And so in this way did the life of Sylvester T. Briggs continue until the end.

His wagon was found by some loggers some two years after he had crashed. It was found atop and blocking a shaft leading down deep into a cave underneath Plaunts Mountain. Bits of Sylvester's clothing were found just at the bottom as well as some fragments from where he tore his shirt to make his brace and bandage. Scuff marks on the rocks showed where he had crawled in the wrong direction, further into the underground. His body was never found. However, the men who went looking swear they heard a faint voice from deep into the dark. A voice that babbled in silly conversation with itself and which would suddenly erupt into a scream and then silence. Though they called out to it there in the darkness, they never had any indication that it ever answered. In the end they sealed the entrance with rocks which by now the undergrowth has completely hidden.

But it is still not the end. Talk to the local folks and they will tell you that you can still hear Sylvester T. Briggs. Pick any moonless night when it is dark. The darker the better. Pick a quiet spot somewhere near the mountain and listen. Listen carefully, for it will be faint at first. So faint that you would swear it was just your imagination, but keep listening, it gets louder. A voice in conversation with itself, a mumbling half crazy voice that might be funny if you didn't know where it was coming from....Funny, if you didn't hear it cry and sob for somebody to find it...Funny, if it didn't scream and beg to see the light of day, just once more.