I was a girl at First United Methodist Church when Reverend Kellum told us, one Christmas, the story about John Wesley and a ghost. "A ghost?" we gasped, sitting cross-legged on the rug in the Sunday school classroom. "Listen closely - and I'll tell you the tale. It really happened!" The story stayed in my mind for decades, until I decided to write my own version. Here is the story, based on real events Reverend Kellum cited, using Wesley's pet, a real-life dog named Jeffrey, through his point of view. Enjoy! Merry Christmas! Anne Hendricks, Writer. John Wesley's Canine Companion: A Christmas Ghost Story "Gather close, you wild pups," I growled, my voice thick with old shadows. "I am Old Jack, the watchful mastiff who has seen more than a dog should. You remember the start—the dreadful knocks that shattered Christmas in 1716. Now, hear how it all ended. How peace crept back, not in a blaze, but on the softest whisper of resolve." The puppies were silent, captivated. And I, Old Jack, began my tale... The terror reached its peak when the Reverend himself finally believed, just as Christmas arrived. The Epworth Rectory, once alive with carols and the warm aroma of baking, now reeked of fear. Children clung to each other at night. Servants muttered prayers into their sleeves. Things began to happen, and my boy, John, began to call the frightening oddity, "Old Jeffrey!" Yet what puzzled us most about Old Jeffrey was his strange, almost respectful fear of the sacred. It seemed that the ancient ghost trembled at the mention of holy things, as if they were bright lights in a world of shadows. To Old Jeffrey, the sacred words and symbols were like a shield that no darkness could touch, and so he kept his distance, lurking in corners and avoiding them whenever they appeared. The Reverend, still stubbornly conducting family life as usual, insisted on the Christmas traditions, despite the chaos. When he led the family in evening prayers, the knocking would rage. But when he spoke the solemn words of the service, particularly the Gospel readings—the recounting of Christ’s birth—Old Jeffrey would fall silent—complete, eerie silence. I caught on to this strange rhythm. Huddled beneath the table, I, Old Jack, braced for the dreaded thump-thump-thump. But as the Reverend’s voice soared with, "And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy..." the chill faded, and a warm, golden glow seemed to emanate from the family, bathing the room in a soft, comforting light. My shivers stilled, enveloped by a subtle fragrance of pine that wafted around us like a gentle reminder of Christmases past. It felt as though pure faith, the heart of Christmas, formed a shield around us. But that comfort never lasted. The moment the Reverend shut the Bible and bid his family good night, the groans returned, often punctuated by three sharp, taunting knocks. As the days crept towards the New Year, silence hung briefly in the corners of the Epworth Rectory like a tenuous truce. The family sat together one evening in the dim glow of hearth embers, their thoughts whispering between them more than words ever could. The air was still, yet thick with the collective sigh of bodies worn thin by fear and restless nights. In those hushed moments, even the flames seemed to flicker more slowly, mirroring the slowing heartbeat of a house once consumed by chaos. They lingered in that reprieve—a shallow breath of relief—before life, in its stubborn way, moved them onward. Then came the New Year, January 1717. The house sagged with exhaustion. Fear had worn itself thin. The family was no longer scared, bone-tired. The sharp terror that once fed the haunting had flickered out. The shift was slow, almost invisible noticed only by those, like me, who lived by sensing what others could not see.First, the wildest disturbances faded—the rattling warming-pan, Nancy’s bed rising off the floor. Next, the noise softened. The thunderous knocks dwindled to a faint scraping, like a dull handsaw against wet wood, then to footsteps, slow and tired, like a man too weary to lift his boots. I recall a night in late January. Young John, ever the silent watcher, read by the flickering fire, determined to finish his lessons despite the lingering unease. I curled at his feet, seeking warmth, every sense on edge. That old, creeping chill slithered in. My tail tucked tight, and a low, sorrowful whine escaped me, as it always did. I glanced at John, sending him my wordless warning. John glanced down, his hand soothing the tightness in my neck. He was calm now, not startled, not searching the ceiling. He just watched my trembling side in silence. "Not tonight, Jeffrey," he murmured softly, a tone of firm, quiet finality, not fear. "We are quite done with you now." And then, a faint, almost apologetic single knock came from behind the chimney. It was so soft, it sounded almost sorry. I waited, every nerve end on alert, straining for the next sound. The room was hushed, and I braced myself, expecting the familiar chain-rattling, the eerie groans, or the usual three defiant raps. Nothing. The room stayed utterly still. The fire’s gentle crackle filled a deep, final silence, not like the hush of prayers. The chill that signaled Old Jeffrey had vanished. Now, the air was just winter-cold, not haunted. I raised my head, cautious. My ears swept the house—upstairs, down the hall, into the shadowy parlor—nothing. I crept toward the fireplace, muscles stiff from weeks of dread, but my fur lay flat at last. I glanced back at John. He offered a slow, subtle nod. He trusted my calm more than any priest’s word. He knew, at last, the house was truly at peace. For such a terror, its exit was almost gentle. The spirit that shadowed their lives throughout Christmas slipped away quietly, as if worn down by the family's enduring strength and quiet hope. It left behind a space filled not only with silence but with the subtle power of perseverance. I padded to John, steady now, and pressed my head into his lap. His cool fingers found my ears. I sighed, a deep, trembling breath—the first easy one in weeks. You see, pups? I finished, letting out a weary but satisfied sigh. The lesson wasn't about the devil's existence—the Reverend knew that already. It was about endurance and finding proof where you least expect it. In simpler terms, we learned that with bravery and patience, even the scariest of times can be faced and overcome. Just as when the Reverend led the family in prayers, and Old Jeffrey would silence his knocks, it's in those moments of quiet courage that true strength is found. That was Old Jeffrey's last defeat. The mighty spirit didn’t run from crosses or holy water. Instead, it slipped away, worn down by the family’' tiredness—something Reverend Wesley saw when his loyal mastiff finally rested. Old Jack, with his keen senses, was the first to detect the ghostly presence and the shifting energies within the house. His low growls and wary gaze often warned the family of Old Jeffrey's nearing presence, acting as an invisible shield of sorts. They learned that dogs, with their ability to sense the unknown, are often more attuned to things unseen, and sometimes, the surest way to banish a ghost is to pay it no mind at all. Significantly, my calm and trust allowed the Wesley family to hold their ground with quiet courage. And that, my pups, is how the Christmas ghost of Epworth Rectory was vanquished, silence restored, and the Wesley family finally granted peace for the New Year." #JohnWesley #Dogs #Christmas #Methodism #Ghosts #CharlesWesley

John Wesley's Canine Companion: A Christmas Ghost Story

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John Wesley's Canine Companion: A Christmas Ghost Story

annethelibrarian

Tarsus Literary

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John Wesley's Canine Companion: A Christmas Ghost Story

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Anne Hendricks

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