St. John's Shrewsbury, now a deconsecrated church, is not haunted. But somehow rumours started, then vandals came and destroyed this once lovely summer place of worship. It is tucked away on a remote dirt road, so it was easy for gangs of teens to break in and party there unnoticed. It's quite sad to see the destruction of a once sacred place. It is both beautiful and mournful there; the sweet chapel is slowly crumbling and dissolving into the gentle gardens of the cemetery surrounding it. Its jagged holes, shattered plaster and profane graffiti are a sad testament to its former glory days.
I have friends whose children were baptized there. Other friends, visiting from Winnipeg, found a relative's gravestone. In fact, Julie's great-great-(not sure how many greats) grandfather William McKnight died exactly 145 years to the day, July 11th, we stood there looking down upon his grave. And as I basked in the warm summer sun and Buddy snuffled around in the grass, I read the stone and realized I was also the exact same age William was when he died.
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| Not a ghost, just a ghostly reflection of the photographer. |
Then again, one can find the divine in an Icelandic train station. Go here.
