Ghosts

by Hans Holzer

  The house stood across from a cluster of very old trees, and on the meadow between them a lonely goat tended to her luncheon.

  Built in 1172, the castle had fallen into disrepair and was rebuilt in the early nineteenth century. I walked around the castle, which looked more like an early Victorian country house than a castle, despite its small tower rising above the second story. The house was covered with ivy from one end to the other. The windows were neat and clean and the garden in back of the house seemed orderly.

  I managed to talk to one of the caterers in the house, a lady who had come here on many occasions and slept upstairs now and then. She was Kay Collier, and quite willing to talk to me even about so elusive a subject as ghosts.

  “I’ve never noticed anything unusual myself,” she began, “but there is a tradition about a ghost here. It’s a tall man walking around with a stick, wearing a hard hat, and a dog with him. He’s been seen outside the castle. Mrs. Reilly, of Skryne, she’s seen him.”

  Since she could not tell us anything more, I made a mental note to look up Mrs. Reilly. Then I asked Sybil, who had been sitting quietly outside under the age-old tree, to join Catherine and me in the upstairs rooms of the castle. The salon to the left of the stairs was elaborately and tastefully furnished in early Victorian style, with mirrors on some of the walls, delicate furniture, couches, sofas, and small antiques dressing up the room.

  Sybil sat down in one of the comfortable chairs, placed her hand over her eyes and gathered impressions. For a moment, no one spoke. The silence, however peaceful on the surface, was forbidding, and there was, to me at least, an atmosphere of doom hanging rather heavily around us in this room.

  “This room immediately attracted me,” Sybil said now.

  “You know I first turned right, then turned around and came straight to this room instead.”

  I nodded. She had indeed changed course as if led by some invisible force.

  “I feel that this is where a woman has walked,” Sybil said slowly, deliberately. “The mirrors have some significance; perhaps there was a door behind the mirror on the right hand side, because she comes from the right. Whether she comes from the garden....”

  Was Sybil making contact with the unlucky wraith of Lilith whose favorite spot the garden had been, the same garden where her battered body had been found?

  Naturally I had never told her of the tradition surrounding the castle, nor of James Reynolds’ account.

  “Do you feel her now?” I asked.

  “Very slightly,” Sybil replied, and looked up. “I don’t think that she has been seen for some time. Fifty-eight, fifty-nine. I don’t think she has made her presence known for some time, but she is here.”

  “Can you communicate with her?”

  “I’m only conscious of her, but not directly in contact with her. Also, there seem to be two periods, and yet the woman should not be a ‘period piece’ ghost—and yet she has this link with the past.”

  “What period do you think she belongs to?”

  “I have an early period, of 1624, but the feeling in this room is of a very feminine influence, two periods.”

  “What did you feel outside the castle?”

  “The tree is very important to this house somehow.”

  “What did you feel by the tree?”

  “There I felt conflict. There I felt death. A man. This is the early period. We should go back to the tree, I think.”

  “Anything else you feel here?”

  “I think something happened here in 1959. Perhaps the lady walked. I think you will find a link, something running, not from the house but to the house. That’s where the tree comes in. Running from the old place, the church tower to this house—not this house but the one that stood here then.”

  “Can you describe any figure you see or sense?”

  “Here the woman I see has fair hair, arranged in curls; she belongs to the early 1900s—22 comes up—I keep seeing the number 22. Could be her age. Perhaps she is a descendant of the people in the yard.”

  “Any names?”

  “I have the girl’s name... there are two names... Mathilda, Mary... Madeleine... Mathild.... something like that....”

  Was Sybil referring to Lilith? How close are the sounds of Lilith and Mathild? Was she repeating a whispered name from the faint lips of a long-ago murder victim?

  We left the room now and walked to the tree opposite the castle. Here Sybil sat down again and listened to what her psychic sense would tell her. The tree must have been here centuries ago and its twisted, scarred branches must have witnessed a great deal of history.

  “What do you get, Sybil?” I finally asked.

  “This is connected with the early part of the house. As I see it, the original drive to the house would be just in front of this tree. Coming down the rough driveway I have the distinct feeling of a horseman. Sixteenth century. He is running away from soldiers, running to this house. The soldiers are not Irish. There is a foreign element here.”

  “Is the one who is running Irish?”

  “He is not Irish, either. But he belongs to this area. The soldiers following him have nothing to do with the area. They’re alien. This is the remnant of a battle. He is taking refuge, but he does not reach the house.”

  “What happens to him?” I asked.

  “His stomach is injured. The soldiers come down to the house. His body is near this tree. The injury is because of a horse going over him, I think, and he is left here. He dies here—he does not reach the house.”

  “Is he a soldier or a civilian?”

  “I think he is a civilian, but who is to know in these times....”

  “Anything about a name, or rank?”

  “I only get a foreign name. It’s a French-Italian name. Alien to this country although he lives here.”

  “Is he still here under this chestnut tree?”

  “Yes, he is,” Sybil replied. “He still has to reach the house; he is not aware that he is dead. He has the feeling he has to get to the house. But he can’t do it.”

  “Does he wish to talk to us?”

  “He has someone close to him, not a blood relation, perhaps a brother-in-law, in the house. This is the person he had to go to. Fian...F-I-A-N-M-E...Fianna....”

  “Anything we can do for him?”

  “I think that he would have to have some relation here, he has to feel a link. To know that he can go to the house. He is bewildered.”

  “Tell him the house has changed hands, now belongs to a Mr. Nichols,” I said, but Sybil shook her head, indicating the futility of communication at this point.

  “It was a much bigger house, much rougher house,” Sybil said, and of course the original Skryne castle was all that.

  Sybil Leek at Skyrne Castle

  “A much straighter house,” Sybil continued to describe what she saw in the past, “with the door more to the right than it is now. The door he is heading for. The little garden was part of the house.”

  I asked Sybil to reassure the ghost that we would help him.

  Sybil told the ghost that he was safe from his pursuers, and not to worry about reaching the house.

  “Now he is to my right,” Sybil said, and a moment later, “I can’t find him now. I can only hear this one word—FIANMA—”

  I promised to deliver the message, whatever it meant, for him, and suddenly the ghost was gone.

  “He’s gone now,” Sybil said quietly, “and now the house is gone.”

  We packed up and started back to the village of Skryne, to look for Mrs. Reilly.

  Much later I consulted the material about Skryne and I found some interesting information.

  A local historian, the Reverend Gerald Cooney, wrote:

  “The ancient name of Skryne was Ochil or Cnoc Ghuile, meaning the Hill of Weeping. Following the death of Cormac mac Airt, who established the Fianna, his son Cairbre became Highking. The Fianna rebelled against their king and the battle of Gabhra (Gowra) was fought at the foot of
the hill now called Skryne. The Fianna were utterly defeated but Cairbre was killed in the battle.”

  Skyrne Castle—where a woman was murdered long ago

  The Fianna were the partisans of parliamentary government in medieval Ireland. Had Sybil somehow mixed up her centuries and seen a ghost going back to this battle?

  We did not have to drive far. Someone pointed Mrs. Reilly’s house out to me and I walked down a little country road to her gate. The house was set back behind a well-kept wall, a neat, reasonably modern country house covered by flowers. I rang the bell at the gate and soon enough Mrs. Reilly came out to greet me. She was a spunky lady in her sunny years, and quite willing to tell me all about her ghostly experiences.

  “I can’t exactly tell you when it happened,” she said with a heavy brogue, “but it was a long time ago. I know about it through an uncle of mine, also named Reilly. I’m Kathleen Reilly.”

  “What is the story then?” I asked. The Irish have a way of telling someone else’s story and sometimes a lot gets lost in the transition—or added. I wanted to be sure the account was believable.

  “The ghost, well he was a coachman, and he had a dog. He was seen several times about the castle. And then there was a ghost of a nun seen, too.”

  “A nun?” I asked.

  “A long time ago, the castle was a monastery and there was a nun’s room.”

  “Was there ever any battle around here?”

  “The battle of Tara,” she replied and pointed toward another hill. “That’s Tara over there.”

  “Has anyone ever come from there and taken refuge in the castle?”

  “Not that I ever heard of.”

  She took me up to the house where I could see across the wooded glen to Skryne Castle.

  “You see the spire?” she asked. “Well, right underneath is the nun’s room.”

  The room Sybil had felt the woman’s presence in, I realized at once.

  “Twenty years ago,” Mrs. Reilly volunteered, “a man I know by the name of Spiro slept in that room. He saw the nun, and he would never go back into that room.”

  “Did anyone ever die violently in the castle?” She was not sure. The house had been in the same family until twenty-five years ago when the present owner, Nichols, bought it.

  “The girls often heard noises...the rustling of clothes.... I thought I heard footsteps there one night when I was sittin’ for the woman who has it now. I did hear footsteps, and there was no one in to my knowledge but myself.”

  “Where in the house was that?” I asked.

  “The part where the nuns are supposed to be there,” Mrs. Reilly replied. In other words, the upstairs salon where we had been, which was Lilith’s room.

  “Have you been there often?”

  “Many times. I worked there three years.”

  “Are you ever afraid?”

  “No, I’m not. When I heard the footsteps I was a bit afraid, but it went away.”

  I thanked Mrs. Reilly and pondered the business about the nuns. Had the witnesses merely drawn on their knowledge of a monastic background of the house to ascribe the rustling of clothes to nuns? Had the figure in a white bed robe seemed like a nun to them? And was it really Lilith’s ghost they had encountered?

  Puzzle upon puzzle.

  Our driver suggested that we drive into the nearby town of Navan, also known in Gaelic as An Uaimh. Here we found a nice restaurant and had a warm meal. The hills of Tara were our next goal, and though I had no reason to suspect a haunting in Ireland’s ancient capital, or what was left of it, I nevertheless felt it was a worthwhile excursion. One could always try to see if Sybil got any impressions. Enough mayhem had taken place here over the centuries to create disturbances.

  We arrived on the hill where Tara once stood in little more than half an hour. The place is absolutely breathtaking. Except for a hut where a small entrance fee is paid to this national shrine, and a church on a tree-studded hill in the distance, the hill, or rather the hilly plateau, is completely empty. Ancient Tara was built mainly of wood, and not a single building is now above ground.

  Here and there a bronze plaque on the ground level indicates where the buildings of the old Irish capital stood. Brian Boru held court here in the eleventh century, and after him, the office of Highking fell into disrepute until foreign invaders made Ireland part of their domain.

  As we looked around, the wind howled around us with unabating fury. The view was imposing, for one could look into the distance towards Dublin to the south, or towards Drogheda to the north, and see the rolling hills of Eastern Ireland.

  “I don’t think I have ever been so moved by a place since I was in Pompeii,” Sybil said. “The tremendous Druidic influences are still around and I wish this place were kept in a better state so that people could come here and see it as it was.”

  As an archaeologist, I could only concur with Sybil. The ominous shapes under the soil surely should be excavated. But I learned that only part of the land on which Tara once stood was owned by the nation; a small portion of it was privately owned and therein lies so much of Ireland’s trouble: they could not get together to allow for proper excavations, so none took place.

  * 84

  Ghost Hunting in County Mayo

  ROSS HOUSE STANDS ON a bluff looking directly out into Clew Bay, halfway between Westport and Newport, and in about as nice a position as anyone would wish. From its windows you can see the many islands dotting the bay, one of which is part of the demesne of the house, and the lush green park in back of the house gives a nice contrast to the salty clime of the frontal portion. All in all, it is a house worthy of its owner, Major M. J. Blackwell, retired officer formerly in the British Army and nowadays in business in Chicago, U.S.A., as the second, but by no means minor, half of the celebrated firm of Crosse & Blackwell.

  I shan’t tell you how to get to Ross House, for it is not easy, what with Western Irish roads, but then there is no need to go there unless you’re invited, is there?—and that might well be, for the Major is hospitality personified and his house always rings with the laughter of young relatives and their friends come over for a holiday.

  The house itself is exquisitely furnished in both its stories, the rooms being large and modern, for the house is not too ancient; the broad Georgian staircase is a masterpiece unto itself, and, as I found out later, it also attracted one of the resident ghosts frequently. But about this in good time.

  I first heard about Ross House from the Major’s young nephew, Edwin Stanley, an American living in New Jersey. Mr. Stanley had read my books and thought it might be worth my while to visit the house. Subsequently Major Blackwell himself invited us to come. We finally made it, driving up from Leenane, where we were staying.

  As soon as we had met the brood of youngsters assembled in the house, and the two baby cats, I repaired with the Major to his study upstairs, where we could get down to ghost business.

  “Let’s talk about the house first,” I began. “When was it built?”

  “It is a Georgian house as you can see, but prior to that, there had been another house here of which we are not quite certain, to the back of the present house. It is on the oldest maps. I inherited it from my mother, and it goes back in her family for quite a long time. My mother’s side of the family has proven its descent from 779 A.D., but they even have good claims all the way back to 365 A.D.”

  “That’s about the oldest family tree I’ve heard of,” I said, “even counting my wife’s, which goes back to the 800s. You yourself, were you born here?”

  “No, I was born in England, but I spent most of my childhood here, always loved the place, the boats, the people. Five years ago I inherited the place from my mother. When I’m not here, I live outside of Chicago.”

  I asked the Major what his mother’s family name was and it turned out to be O’Malley—the famous O’Malley clan of which Grania O’Malley, the pirate queen of the sixteenth century, was not its greatest but certainly its best-known member.
Then a sudden impulse struck me. During lunch, which we had had in the big downstairs room to the right of the entrance door, Sybil had slipped me a piece of paper, murmuring that it was something that had “come” to her. The name rang a bell and I pulled it out of my pocket now.

  Scribbled on it were the words “Timothy...Mother...O’Malley.” There was, of course, a mother O’Malley—the Major’s own!

  “During the times you’ve been here, Major,” I continued now, “have you ever noticed anything unusual?”

  The Major nodded. “About six years ago, the following happened. I was asleep in my room upstairs, when suddenly I woke up; at the end of my bed I saw standing an old maidservant; Annie O’Flynn was her name—she had been a maid of my grandmother’s.

  “I was completely lucid now, having gone to bed at a normal time the night before. My talking to this ghost woke my wife up, and I pointed her out to my wife, saying—’Look, Annie O’Flynn is here, and she’s got a friend with her,’ for there was another woman with the maid. When I said this, the ghostly maid smiled at me, apparently happy at being recognized. My wife did not see them, but she can attest to the fact that I was fully awake at the time.”

  “Amazing,” I conceded. “What did you do about it?”

  “Well, the next morning I went down to talk to Tommy Moran, an old man who works for us and knows a great deal about the people here, and after I described the other ghost to him he was able to identify her as a local friend of Annie’s who had passed on also.”

  “Was that the first time in your life that you’ve had a psychic experience?”

  “Oh no; for instance when I was in the south of France, where I was brought up, I was going up to see some friends who lived just above Nice, and I was with a friend. We had sat down for a moment on a bridge leading into this chateau when we heard the sound of horses and a coach going at full speed. I said to my friend, let’s get out of the way because someone’s coach has run away! But the noise just went past us and continued on, no coach, no horses! So we continued to our friend Col. Zane’s house. When we told him of our experience he laughed. ‘That’s nothing, really,’ he explained. ‘That goes on all the time there. It’s a ghost coach.”‘