by David Kiely
But no sooner had Declan poured himself a beer than they heard a loud, sharp report on the floor directly behind them, followed by the sound a rolling marble makes. It was one of the wooden balls from the hearth.
Stephanie was startled, though still not persuaded that something unnatural was taking place in her home. Looking back now, she admits she was in denial. “I thought right away that Declan was messing around. I don’t know; he has a sense of humor, likes a laugh. I thought: it would be easy for him to put one of the wooden balls in his pocket; then, while we were watching TV, he could throw it over his shoulder. The room was dark and I wouldn’t see him doing it.”
But one look at her husband’s face was enough; he was as frightened as she was. An unknown agency had tossed the ball.
“We’re getting out of here,” Declan announced.
They left immediately and again spent the night at the home of Declan’s mother. They did not know it then, but this pattern of staying overnight with relatives would soon become routine. Whenever they returned to Cedar Close, something would happen to drive them out again.
“The house,” Stephanie says, “was telling us something. At first we thought it wanted to get rid of us. In fact it was drawing attention to itself. It was saying: ‘Look what I can do.’”
Much of the paranormal activity was centered on the wooden balls. They would execute maneuvers that left the Rooneys perplexed. At times there seemed to be no design or purpose; they seemed to be acting at random. At other times they had, according to Stephanie, “a mind of their own.”
They would spring out of the ceramic bowl of their own volition, form patterns, hide in different parts of the house, then reappear later in the middle of the living-room floor. Often a single ball would go missing. Other times one would roll after Declan as he walked down the hall to the kitchen. It would stop abruptly, then reverse back up to the front door—and launch itself into a potted palm that stood there. Sometimes the scent of their perfume would become overpoweringly strong.
Declan turned to his father for advice. Mr. Rooney seemed to know the answer. “Do you know what I think, son? And your mother agrees. I think it’s only a poltergeist.”
Only a poltergeist. It might be useful at this point to examine briefly what is meant by poltergeist activity. There is a consensus among modern investigators of psychical phenomena that such paranormal manifestations are not in fact spirits, but evidence of “psychokinetic” energy at work. It is generally believed that this energy resides in the person who is undergoing the haunting.
The trouble with the psychokinetic (or PK) theory is that the phenomenon has never been scientifically proven. There is, to be sure, a vast body of research, most conducted since the 1930s. This is not to say that the human body contains no energy. It does, and experiments show that our bodies can generate enough static electricity to power a lightbulb. What is more, if the body is subjected to a high charge of electricity, this is sufficient to cause the same lightbulb to glow when held a centimeter or two away from the body.
But this falls far short of the phenomenal amount of energy one would require to propel that same bulb through the air without the use of one’s hands. Nor does the theory explain how larger objects can fly about a room or transport themselves from place to place. An energy source is needed in each case, and the first law of thermodynamics states, in brief, that the universe contains a constant amount of energy; in order to move an object, energy must be converted from one form to another. Although the human body can store about eighty watts even when in repose, the brain itself uses on average only twenty watts. Anyone who has tried to read by the light of a twenty-five-watt bulb will appreciate that this is a minute amount of energy. The notion that a human brain can move objects, unaided by the rest of the body, seems absurd.
Frequently, investigators of poltergeist activity will allude to the onset of puberty in one of the principals. We are asked to believe that a hormonal change in the body of a boy or girl will somehow release sufficient energy to send pictures toppling from walls or electrical appliances running berserk. It seems so implausible. Puberty is no more than that period in a child’s development when the body begins to produce hormones—testosterone in boys, estrogen in girls.
Generally speaking, puberty affects the body. The child’s demeanor is also affected, causing moodiness, as any parent with moping and listless pubescent children will confirm. But there is no truly dramatic upset to the young person, and certainly not enough to send objects hurtling about the home.
To speak of poltergeist activity in such terms, then, seems to be yet another ploy to explain the inexplicable. The truth is that no one knows what it is, what causes it, or the nature of the forces at work behind it. It is also true that such activity does not confine itself to the places where there are pubescent children. In the case of the Rooney house, there were none.
“We ought to try and catch your poltergeist in the act,” Declan’s father said.
To this end, they devised a means of “observing” the phenomena at work. They would leave a tape recorder switched on overnight. It would be voice activated, so any sound louder than the ambient noises in the living room—the ticking of the clock, the hum of the water-heating system—would trigger the recording mechanism. There was the added possibility that, were a prankster at work, his footfalls would be recorded as well.
The experiment was a success. Every morning, when the tape was rewound, the clack-clack-clack of the wooden balls bouncing on the wooden floor was clearly audible. But that was all; if a human agent was at work, there was no record of such activity on the tape. Far from bringing reassurance to the Rooneys, the recordings only increased their anxiety. Something very strange was going on.
In time, things began to happen upstairs as well as down. The Rooneys would hear the bedroom doors being opened and shut again; bathroom faucets would turn themselves on. More than once, they discovered drawers pulled out and their contents disturbed. It was as if someone was searching for something.
The couple was distraught. Their work was suffering, and they were reluctant to come home in the evening. The house in Cedar Close, the dream home they had sunk all their savings in, was becoming a liability. What could they do? They asked themselves whom they could turn to.
“When this sort of thing happens to you,” Declan says, “the last thing you want to do is let on to the neighbors. If you do, then word gets out that your house is haunted, and nobody wants to come near it. We were going out of our minds, but we had to keep it all to ourselves.”
It was hard to know whom to turn to for help. A physician can cure disease through surgery or medication; a psychiatrist may soothe mental anguish through therapy and pharmaceuticals. But who can attend to that which appears to be not of this world, that which lies beyond our understanding? The Rooneys faced a choice: they could enlist the help of parapsychologists—what Declan deprecatingly called “ghostbusters”—or they could turn to religion. Stephanie’s mother urged them to seek help from their parish priest.
The young couple, though brought up in the Catholic faith, were not especially devout. Like so many of their contemporaries, they did not take religion very seriously; they prayed only when occasion demanded it. They took no active part in parish affairs and were therefore on little more than nodding terms with their parish priest, Father Duncan O’Malley.
The good father, a brusque man in his sixties, wasted no time in concluding that their lack of faith was causing “the bother,” as he put it. He spent almost an hour lecturing them on the consequences of “neglecting their duties” before blessing the house. The couple was pleased that he had at least acknowledged the graveness of their predicament. He left them a prayer to Michael the Archangel and counseled that they say it every morning and last thing at night.
It is perhaps important to mention how this prayer (reproduced both in full and in abbreviated form in Appendix 2) came into being. It was written by Pope Leo XIII soon after
he experienced a traumatic vision. On October 13, 1884, he collapsed unconscious while attending a meeting of his Curia. The comatose pontiff was shown a vision of hell and of the archangel Michael overcoming Satan and his legions.
“Saint Michael the Archangel,” Father O’Malley declared grandly, “our greatest champion in the face of the Enemy. Write it out, learn it, and place a copy in every room in the house.”
Stephanie was examining the text of the prayer with a mixture of gratitude and unease. “You don’t think, Father, that it’s…” She blushed, unable to say the dreaded word. “That it’s him? I mean—”
“The Divil himself? Aye, who else would it be?” the priest thundered, frightening the pair even further. “The Divil, Oul’ Nick, Satan himself. He slithers about like a snake in the grass, waiting for his chance to strike!”
“Prayer and repentance,” he urged again, getting up to take his leave. Then, on seeing Stephanie’s distress, he swiftly changed the subject. “I see ye play the Scrabble,” he said eyeing the cardboard box under the television set.
“Haven’t played it for a while, Father,” said Declan, trying to keep calm. He was annoyed at Father O’Malley’s boorish attitude and lack of sensitivity.
“I don’t think he really believed us,” Stephanie said, when the priest had left. She was gathering up the teacups in the living room.
“I know what you mean. Pity something didn’t happen when he was here.”
“Oh, my God!”
Declan heard a cup shattering on the pine floor. He turned from the window, to find Stephanie staring at the hearth. It was once again the unfathomable. There on the step, neatly lined up at equidistant intervals, were three sets of Scrabble letters.
RUN HIT HIDE
Intriguingly, the Scrabble box itself appeared undisturbed.
Whom and where to turn to now? Declan’s first impulse was to appeal to Father O’Malley. Stephanie was of two minds.
“Look,” she said, “if we tell him about the Scrabble, he’ll be very disappointed that his blessing didn’t work.”
“Yeah, and wouldn’t it serve him right? Coming in here and as good as accusing us of causing all the bother. He wouldn’t be so high and mighty if––”
“That’s hardly the attitude, Declan! Maybe if you had a bit more faith, the blessing would have worked.”
“Oh, right, so I’m to blame now, am I?”
“No, I’m not saying that…. Oh God, I don’t know what I’m saying. There’s bound to be more priests around who can deal with these things. But where do you begin?”
Two days later, the answer presented itself. Stephanie was in a stationery store, looking for a birthday card for a nephew, when she was drawn to the books section. On a shelf labeled mind body spirit, a title seemed to allude to what she and her husband were experiencing. Confronting the Paranormal was a slim volume by a certain W. H. Lendrum. She picked it up and read the cover blurb. The author, she learned, was an Anglican minister from Belfast who had many years’ experience in the deliverance ministry. Over the years, he had brought his unusual skills to bear on troubled situations, some involving individuals afflicted by unwelcome entities, others involving places beset by poltergeist activity.
She bought the book immediately and read it that evening in one sitting.
Canon William Lendrum is well used to the ringing of the telephone. His services have been in demand for many years but more so in the past decade. He is not surprised by this increase and contends that “the turning away from God by the masses in Western society has made natural man vulnerable to attacks by spiritual forces.”
He is careful to keep an open mind whenever a fresh instance of paranormal manifestation is presented to him. He is not a man who sees demons everywhere. He questions relentlessly and does not jump to conclusions. A deeply spiritual and caring man, he has the emotional welfare of the individual as his main priority.
As Declan Rooney related his catalogue of strange events taking place in the house in Dungiven, the canon’s first thought was “child’s play.” The activities—the scented balls being bounced around the floor, the Scrabble letters arranging themselves into words—all struck him as being the pranks of a mischievous “spirit” child.
At the same time, he believes that it is wise to nip such activity in the bud. He is keenly aware that, left to itself, such activity—child’s play or not—can quickly get out of hand. He arranged to visit the Rooney home without delay.
Shortly before nightfall the following evening, Canon Lendrum and his wife, Alison, drew up at 8 Cedar Close. They were surprised to find a large number of people—family, near and distant—gathered for the occasion. That fact alone put the canon on his guard. In his long experience, the afflicted did not, as a rule, “shout from the rooftops” about their paranormal encounters, nor did they, in the initial stages, invite whole gatherings to witness events.
His puzzlement grew after he had spoken at length to Declan and Stephanie.
“I began to wonder if they hadn’t got their priorities a little bit skewed,” he says. “They seemed to want to talk about the shenanigans of the scented balls and precious little else. But, for me, those were only minor phenomena. The Rooneys were glossing over the real issue: the phenomenon that set this case apart from most of the other cases I’d been called in to help with down the years. I was more interested in that sinister aspect: the reversed photographs.”
Nevertheless, he listened to a tape recording of the balls being tossed about the room and was shown photographs of them arranged in various patterns. He concluded that such “evidence” could easily have been faked, but for the time being kept his suspicions and doubts to himself.
For all that, Canon Lendrum was prepared to accept that the phenomena were genuine, and so acted accordingly. He celebrated what he recalls was “a beautiful Eucharist,” one throughout which “the Lord was verily and powerfully present.”
The canon left the house in Cedar Close, satisfied with a mission well accomplished. Indeed, in the weeks that followed, he learned through regular contact with Declan that his home was peaceful once more.
The Rooneys got on with their lives and endeavored to put the troublesome episodes behind them. As the weeks passed without incident, and weeks turned to months, they felt tremendously grateful for the peace the canon had restored to their home. But they were heedful, too, of what Father O’Malley had said at the time of his visit, and they took his advice about praying regularly. They recited the prayer to Michael the Archangel every night. Stephanie copied it out several times, as the priest instructed, and placed a copy in each room of the house.
A full nine months went by, and all was normal. Then a change occurred—one that, in Declan’s words, “ratcheted things up a notch.”
Josie and Noel Brady live at 10 Cedar Close, the property adjoining the Rooneys’. Josie, a no-nonsense woman in her late thirties, had been aware of “problems” with the couple next door, but she prided herself on not getting caught up in the gossip that seemed such a part of community life. Unlike her other neighbors, she was new to the area and therefore did not feel it was any of her business to interfere in the lives of others. She had heard the rumors about number eight but chose not to believe in “all that malarkey.” Ghosts and spirits, in Josie’s book, were merely superstitious nonsense circulated by those who had nothing better to do and who likely wished to draw attention to themselves. She found Declan and Stephanie a pleasant young couple but rarely saw them, except on weekends or when they had time off work.
On Wednesday, May 5, 2004, she was upstairs in one of the children’s rooms, collecting laundry, when she heard something unusual. She remembers checking the time on her daughter’s Barbie clock. It was 12:30 p.m.
“As I was making the bed I heard an almighty hammering on the party wall,” she recalls. “In fact it was so sudden and fierce, it made me jump.”
Josie immediately thought that Declan was doing some home improvement. But she
was sure she had heard the couple leave that morning. She went at once to the window. She was correct; their cars were gone. Never mind, she thought, perhaps they had employed someone to do repairs in their absence. Without giving it further thought, she heaped the laundry into the basket and went downstairs.
Several days passed and Josie forgot all about the disturbance. Until a similar incident occurred.
She was upstairs again when she heard a rapid thumping on the wall. She looked at the clock and froze. It was 12:30—the same time as before. But now the noises seemed more urgent and were somehow more deliberate and purposeful. There was something eerie about the pattern of sound as it traveled to various points on the wall, each time repeating a succession of what she could only describe as “hammer blows.” Josie was becoming uneasy. She hurried from the room, slamming the door shut behind her.
Once downstairs, she berated herself for being so silly. There was only one thing to do: knock on the door of number 8 and find out who was making all that racket.
It was a still, mild day, and Cedar Close appeared to be otherwise deserted when she pushed open the gate to the Rooney house. She had an odd sense of foreboding. The feeling was made all the more powerful when, just as she was about to ring the doorbell, a magpie swept down as if from nowhere and landed on the doorstep. Josie jumped back, her hand to her heart. In her fright she trampled on some geraniums. The bird took flight.
An old wives’ tale common to many parts of Ireland suggests that it is unlucky to espy a lone magpie. In order to dispel the misfortune, one is encouraged to wave or to salute the bird. This Josie knew; the vestigial echoes of superstition from a rural childhood would never quite disappear. She made the prescribed gesture in the wake of the fleeing bird.