My Stories

Story telling is a passion of mine. I am the person sitting around the camp fire telling ghost stories to the kids; tales of action and adventure to young adults, or, of love and romance to the fully grown set. I seldom have a ready-made story to offer. I am more likely to ask my listeners what kind of story they would like to hear, and then simply make one up as I go along. Stories about ghosts and scary monsters are my personal favourites but I can easily create thrills and suspense surrounding any subject while spinning my yarns late into the night. My reward is the sheer satisfaction of seeing excitement and anticipation in my listeners' eyes, especially, after bringing my story to a tumultuous conclusion.


Once upon a time, I took a two-week holiday trip to Negril, Jamaica. I just had to get away from the unrelenting cold and snowstorms that torment us Canadians every winter. The sun was hot and I enjoyed the beaches. I stayed at a family holiday resort full of guests from all over the world. The resort offered a day-trip to Montego Bay on the Thursday of the second week so I decided to take it. The bus was full. Half were adults and the other half were kids of all ages. In Montego Bay, I spent the day on the beach; drank tropical drinks and mingled with some of the guests from our hotel. I ate lunch and supper there. After dark, I boarded the bus for the three-hour journey back to Negril.

Many of the little kids were over-excited and over-tired. They ran around the bus screaming instead of going to sleep. Guests started to complain. Something had to be done so I asked the driver could I use his voice communication system to tell a story.

I started with my tale of three students at Edinburgh University who visited a haunted castle at midnight to prove their courage. Before I was half way through, all the kids had returned to their seats and the noise level had been reduced to almost zero. Only the engine noise and the grinding of gears could be heard. My second story was about the English Squire that had shot himself because he was broke - yet still walks in his apple orchard at night, without his head. My third story was about how Grim Reaper had visited me in my bedroom several years earlier. Everyone was dead quiet from then on.

Many guests thanked me by saying that I had turned a nightmare-ride into a very pleasant journey back to the hotel. That’s the kind of thing I like to hear.

It was the young mother from Russia, however, that gave me the greatest satisfaction of all. While carrying her sleeping daughter in her arms, she said to me in broken English;

“Thank you for story John. They were so beautiful. You make me feel like child !”