Chapter 1: The Arrival
The Frontenac County Gaol loomed in the heart of Kingston, its limestone walls weathered by time, its narrow windows staring blankly into the darkening sky. The cold clung to the air, thick with something more than history—something heavy, something waiting.
Ellen Carter tightened her coat as she approached. Just a building, she told herself. A relic of another time. But the longer she stood before it, the more she felt it—a sensation just beneath the skin, a subtle pressure in her chest, as if the gaol itself were watching her.
The iron doors groaned open, revealing dim corridors that stretched beyond the light. At the far end of the courtyard, the remnants of the old gallows stood silhouetted against the last glow of evening—wooden bones of a past that refused to be forgotten.
David Shaw, the gaol’s caretaker and unofficial historian, leaned against the doorway. He was in his late forties, with sharp features and an expression that spoke of too many nights spent sifting through the past. His gaze flicked over Ellen’s recording equipment—cameras, EMF detectors, notebooks—and a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“You here to catch a ghost?” His voice held both curiosity and amusement, as if he’d seen too many like her before.
Ellen met his gaze, unflinching. “I’m here to uncover the truth.”
David’s smirk deepened, but something in his eyes shifted—just for a second, something unsaid. He pushed off the doorframe and gestured her inside.
“Alright then. Let’s get to it.”
As they stepped forward, the iron doors swung shut behind them with a heavy clang. The sound echoed through the cavernous space, vibrating through the stone. Ellen shivered.
Whatever was inside had been waiting a long time.
Chapter 2: The Haunting Begins
The deeper they ventured into the gaol, the colder it became. The walls pressed in, the silence heavy, stretching into the space between them.
David spoke—recounting the gaol’s history: the overcrowding, the sickness, the men who had taken their last breath within these very cells. Ellen listened, but something else pulled at her attention.
A shift in the air. A weight settling over her chest.
And then—movement.
A figure. Motionless in the corridor beyond the cells.
Watching.
Her breath caught. “Did you see that?” she whispered.
David turned, scanning the darkness. But whatever had been there was already gone. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “No,” he admitted. But after a pause, he added, “But I wouldn’t be surprised.”
She turned to him, pulse still hammering.
He shrugged. “Some say they’ve seen him. A shadow. A whisper. A cold spot where he used to stand.”
“The Phantom of the Gaol?”
David nodded. “Some believe he’s still looking for justice.”
Ellen swallowed hard. If that was true, then justice had been denied for a very long time.
Chapter 3: Uncovering the Past
Determined to separate legend from truth, Ellen combed through Kingston’s archives, sifting through brittle newspaper clippings and trial records.
One name surfaced again and again: Samuel Larkin.
An Irish immigrant. A journalist. Outspoken against the Loyalist government—a dangerous stance in a city where British rule was sacrosanct.
In 1847, they accused him of treason. The evidence was flimsy, the verdict decided before his trial began. His last words, spoken from the gallows, were recorded in The Kingston News-Standard:
“You’ll all pay for this. The gaol will never be at peace.”
Ellen traced the faded ink with her fingers, a chill running through her. He hadn’t just been executed. He had been silenced.
Then, she found something worse.
David Shaw’s great-great-grandfather, Henry Shaw, had been the magistrate who sentenced Larkin to death. A Loyalist with deep political ties, his name appeared in ledgers and letters—proof of a bribe, sealing Larkin’s fate.
The pieces clicked into place.
That night, she confronted David with the truth.
He stared at the documents, his face paling. “I… I didn’t know.”
Ellen’s voice was steady. “Larkin wasn’t just a ghost story, David. Your ancestor helped condemn an innocent man. If he’s still here, he’s not haunting this place—he’s demanding justice.”
David swallowed hard. “Then we have to give it to him.”
Chapter 4: The Revenant
Determined to make contact, Ellen spent the night alone in the gaol.
At first, nothing.
Then—the temperature dropped.
Her breath fogged in front of her. The EMF meter spiked, the readings surging beyond anything she had ever seen.
A whisper drifted through the darkness.
“Justice…”
Her blood ran cold.
She turned—and there he stood.
Samuel Larkin.
His form flickered between shadow and substance, his eyes burning with sorrow and rage. The air around him thickened, pressing against her, suffocating.
Ellen forced herself to stand her ground. “You were wronged.”
The phantom stilled.
She took a slow breath. “I found the truth. Your name will be cleared.”
Larkin’s face twisted—not in anger, but in something deeper, something raw. For over a century, he had been a revenant—not bound by vengeance, but by injustice.
Then, slowly, his form began to fade. The suffocating weight in the room lifted. Ellen exhaled, the tension unraveling.
A whisper brushed against her ears one last time.
“Thank you.”
And then—he was gone.
Chapter 5: The Truth Revealed
Days later, Ellen and David published their findings. The evidence was undeniable. Samuel Larkin’s wrongful execution was officially recognized. A posthumous pardon was granted.
And just as suddenly as the hauntings had begun, they ceased.
Epilogue
The Frontenac County Gaol remained a historical landmark, but the air inside no longer carried whispers of the past.
David took on a new role—not just as a caretaker, but as a storyteller, ensuring that Larkin’s fate was never forgotten.
And Ellen?
She wrote it all down.
Her book, Whispers of the Gaol, didn’t just tell the story of a ghost. It told the story of a man. A man who had been silenced, erased, and finally—after more than a century—heard.
On the last day of her research, she stood once more in the empty halls of the gaol, letting the silence settle around her.
This time, it felt different.
This time, it felt like peace.
This story previously appeared in Robin Kers Story Blog.
Edited by Marie Ginga
A 75-year-old retiree, I spent my career crafting technical documents on labor relations and health and safety for a number of Canadian federal government departments and trade unions. Though I once dreamed of writing the great Canadian novel, I now embrace the art of flash fiction and short stories, enjoying this creative outlet in my later years on our hobby farm in southeastern Ontario.