Strangest of all was the man's mouth, or rather what was stuffed in it. As the startled workers looked upon their discovery, crossing themselves and muttering prayers, the corpse's still red lips parted, as if exhaling. The sudden change in atmosphere must have spurred decomposition, for gravity continued to pull at the jaw until it rested against the corpse's throat. The mummy's mouth, gaping like its own disturbed grave, had been packed full with sprigs of lavender and white clover.
Fr Meagher observed the proceedings, entering every detail into a notebook. Before the ink had had a chance to dry, he hired a carpenter to build a new coffin, specifying that it be made of oak. He then gathered up fresh clover and lavender, and carefully re-stuffed the mummy’s mouth. He made sure that the waxen twine was still well knotted. To this he added a complex knot of his own with the leftover length. The lid was fixed into place with iron nails. The coffin was then returned to its hole, dug now even deeper, the stones replaced, and the earth packed level. Fr Meagher presided over a private ceremony, the details of which he did not record. But we do know that the ritual concluded with the erection of a statue of the Virgin Mary over the site where the tall man was, and most likely still is, buried.
After the peculiar incident with the mummy, there were no further delays in the construction of the new terrace. Likewise the church was finished according to schedule. When it opened in 1856 it was ‘Dedicated to God the Most High, under the invocation of Mary Immaculate, Refuge of Sinners’.
The imposing portico, with its smooth Portland stone columns, handsomely carved Corinthian capitals and statue-adorned pediment, was added in 1881, the year in which our next story is set.
Father Corrigan's Diary
If you speak the name of Father Corrigan in the presence of most schoolchildren, you are likely to be met with the same groan of bored disinterest that an adult might wish to utter while standing in a queue at the local post office. Indeed, along with similar banes such as maths, history and Irish, Father Corrigan's Diary forms part of the curriculum for several south Dublin schools. The book is similar to Father Nathaniel Burton's Letters from Harold's Cross in that it provides an insightful, if quaint, account of daily life in late nineteenth century suburban Dublin. Schoolchildren, no doubt, have other more immediate concerns. A single-page biographical blurb at the front of the 1972 Irish Classics edition of Father Corrigan's Diary tells us the basic facts of the curate's life:
Father Simon Corrigan, the only surviving son of an illiterate boot-maker, was born in Meath Street, Dublin on 1 August 1840. His elder twin brother died at birth. A physically weak child, Corrigan possessed no aptitude for cobbling, but showed an early gift for reading and writing. At the age of fifteen, the precocious adolescent entered the Roman Catholic College of Maynooth where he began keeping a record of his daily life. His first diary entry is dated 24 February 1858, two years before Archbishop Cullen assigned him to the sacristy of St Nicholas Without. These early entries detail ecclesiastical life at a time when Catholicism was still gaining political and economic influence in the wake of the Roman Catholic Emancipation Act of 1829. When Corrigan was thirty, he was made curate of the Church of Mary Immaculate, Refuge of Sinners in Rathmines, Dublin. Corrigan was acquainted with many of those who influenced the growth of south Dublin, including Rathmines town commissioner, Terence T. Dolan; Sir Howard Grubb, proprietor of an astronomical instruments firm; and the Hanna family, who are to this day still in the book selling trade. Many thought that Corrigan would succeed Dr William Meagher as the next parish priest of Rathmines, but in 1881 Corrigan unexpectedly retired from the curacy. He lived the remainder of his life in a sanatorium in Glendalough, County Wicklow where he died on 12 October 1882.
Not a detailed summary, but I hope you get a sense of who Father Corrigan was. The book is composed of a selection of the more interesting entries ranging from 1858 to 1880, and has not been out of print since its first publication in 1922.
The original handwritten journals, a total of fifty-two volumes, are currently housed in a dusty comer of the presbytery library of Mary Immaculate. I came to read the manuscript diaries through the generosity of the current curate, who apologised for their shabby condition. ‘It's been a good many years since anyones gone through them,' he told me. ‘There's always been an interest, but I'm under the impression that the curates who preceded me were hesitant to accommodate researchers on the grounds that everything of interest is already in the book. Still I see no harm in letting you have a look.'
Soon the curate departed and left me alone in the small and uncommonly dim library. A large gilt-framed mirror hung over the fireplace. Presumably this was placed to create the illusion that the room was more spacious than it was in actuality. Ironically, I felt even more crowded as I now shared the room with another researcher, working silently in the room opposite. And whenever I glanced up to steal a look at him, I would find him already watching me.
I set about examining the journals piled on the desk before me. The binding had begun to fall apart on some, and many of the pages showed signs of foxing and mould. Father Corrigan's thin sepia scrawl made for difficult reading, but with persistence I soon had it mastered. There are many aspects to Corrigan's life that have not formally been made public. The only one that concerns us here is that, although the book’s final entry is dated 28 December 1880, Father Corrigan continued to write through 1881. After reading these later diaries, it is easy to understand why the editor chose not to incorporate them. As far as I can tell, the ‘unexpected retirement’ mentioned in the biographical note was prompted by a gradual nervous breakdown from which Father Corrigan never recovered.
The events leading up to Corrigan's breakdown are interesting, and I could not justify closing the covers, reshelving the diaries and ignoring what I had read. With no small amount of pleading, the curate reluctantly permitted me to transcribe some of these later entries. He agreed to this only on the grounds that my audience is a small and discerning one. And so it is to you that I submit further extracts from Father Corrigan's diaries:
Monday, October 3rd, 1881
Dust! It is inescapable and sometimes I feel as if a fine grit fills my nose and mouth and parches my throat. It is almost as if we are being buried alive in it. The taste of earth is always on my tongue.
This afternoon Fr Sheridan and I accompanied Fr Meagher on his perambulation of the building site.
As usual I attempted to dissuade him from the inspection. He once ran quick as a lamplighter but is now-a-days less ambulatory than he was even last year, and is often after slight physical exertion short of breath. Sometimes I fear he shall not be long with us. Nevertheless, he takes great pleasure in observing the portico's progress. He introduced me to Mr Byrne whose work I greatly admire.40 Mr Byrne pointed to the newly erected pediment with his walking stick: ‘There will go St Laurence, and there, on the other side, St Patrick In a few weeks time we shall move St Mary to her proper place at the apex, but first we must bring her down to be cleaned.’
I was eager to inspect Mr Farrell's work on the Madonna up close, and commented so to Fr Sheridan, but my comments went unheard. A man as tall as Fr Sheridan is not difficult to spot. I spied him on the other side of the courtyard surrounded by a small group of workers. Judging by their rapt attention, Fr Sheridan was weaving some grotesque tale or entertaining with some new-found scrap of folklore, both of which he is fond of in equal measure. I believe he has been feeling out of sorts these past weeks. Nothing pleases him more than telling tales, and it is good to again see even a weak smile on his lips. And so I left him to his stories while Fr Meagher asked Mr Byrne questions about stone-cleaning techniques and the placement of the invocation on the face of the pediment.
After Mr Byrne departed, Fr Meagher told me once again how much it will please Canon Stafford to see the new church finished at last. Stafford has been dead these past thirty-three years, but Fr Meagher speaks of him with increasing frequency as if he were still with us. I never had the
honour of meeting the Canon, but have often seen his stony face and pupil-less eyes in the south transept memorial. I sometimes feel as if I know him. As if he were but away on a long journey and his return is soon expected.
This evening brought me no small amount of pleasure. After the evening meal I went for a short walk to visit my kittens at the rear of the church. They are still five in total, and grow healthier by the day. I am delighted with the hope that they will some day mature into hearty felines. It has been two weeks since I discovered their den behind the overgrown privet growing near the back wall, where they huddle together out of reach. There is still no sign of their mother and I fear that they are now entirely orphaned.
As has become my habit, I placed before the bush a saucer of fresh cream and some scraps of fish, and backed away some fifteen paces. I expected the same thing this evening as in the past. I would wait, sometimes feigning to inspect a window or some other feature of the church, and hope that the food would lure the kittens from their den so that we might become properly acquainted. Normally I give up after ten minutes and return to the presbytery, but on this evening the black cat emerged from the bush sniffing the air with great timidity. ‘Hello' I said to him quietly. He raised his head and looked at me, not knowing whether to proceed or retreat to safety. I realised my mistake and said no more. ‘Blackmouse’— that is what I now call him — turned his attention back to the saucer and soon lapped at it hungrily. I waited for his brothers - or sisters, for I know not their sexes — to follow suit, but none is as brave as my ‘Blackmouse*.
Saturday, October 8th, 1881
Fr Meagher retired to the presbytery early this evening after complaining of chest pains. I offered to fetch the doctor but he assured me that the pains would pass if he sat and rested for a while.
He patted my shoulder, reached for his stick and exited the church. Unbeknownst to him, I stood at the doorway and watched him cross the short distance between the church and the presbytery, ready to offer assistance should he need it. I nearly rushed to his aid as he negotiated the steps, but Mrs Maguire appeared in the doorway and helped him inside. I returned to the vestibule to finish unpacking the new hymnals.
When I finished with my task, I went into the nave to make my final rounds, secure the exterior doors, &c., &c. before leaving for the night. Before doing this, I dimmed my lamp and allowed the echo of my footfalls to dissipate into the emptiness of the dome. It is at times like this, when the Lord's house is dark and serene, that I feel as if there are no obstructions between God and His creation. Often I stand in the cavernous silence and allow my eyes to adjust to the moonlight streaming through the dome windows. Tonight this solitary moment was brief. I was startled to find that I was not on this night alone in the church when a figure emerged from the dimness of the south transept.
I do not know how long he had been standing in the recesses for he made no sound during my moment of introspection. Nor did I hear the south door open and close, which it never does without an unharmonious complaint from its hinges. I could see from the outline that the man was tall and thin, and wrapped in a sort of heavy cloak or blanket the colour of soot. My first guess was that this was Fr Sheridan returned from his engagement, although why he used the south transept entrance, or why he was even in the church at this hour, I was unable to guess. ‘Hello' I called out to him. On hearing my voice, the figure halted before the side-altar and snapped its cowled face towards me. I half expected for it to vault at me over the many rows of pews that separated us, but it attempted no such feat. The side-altar's candles flickered behind it, and I fancied that the votive light even shone through its towering frame, as if the figure were but a dense vapour. Without reply, it continued to move in a manner of haste, crossing the altar without pause for genuflection, a profanity which Fr Sheridan would never have committed, and entered the sacristy through the Gospel-side door. Through all this I was astonished that his footfalls made not a single sound.
I adjusted my lamp and brightened the church as best I could. I hurried to the south transept, gave the exterior door a tug, but found the lock was already secure. I then crossed the front of the church, same as the figure, and approached the Gospel-side door to the sacristy. The door was ajar and the room beyond was dark. I do not know why I called Fr Sheridan's name, for I neither expected nor received an answer. I pushed the door open and thrust the lamp through. Before entering the room I carefully watched for the figure to exit the sacristy by the Epistle-side door on the opposite side of the apse. I entered the room confident that the man must still be in there, but I realised soon after a brief search that I was alone. There was not a trace of a single living soul. My heart rate calmed, and I believe I even laughed with relief.
The blame for my fright rests firmly with Fr Sheridan. Two months ago he lent me the first volume of a collection of stories by an American journalist, whose name I have successfully banished from memory. I tried to read it, but threw it down after the third tale, some nonsense about a man who murders himself. The stories were truly monstrous. I do not know how Fr Sheridan delights in grotesque horrors, or indeed how anyone can open their inner eye to the possibility of such dreadful encounters. They have a tendency to play on the imagination with the sole aim of burdening the reader with sleepless nights. Even now, a full two months after my brief reading of these tales, my nightmares are still inspired by imaginary bugbears.
The only thing that I could find amiss in my inspection of the sacristy was a cassock that had somehow found its way to the floor. The crumpled white linen was saturated with wine from a bottle that had tipped onto a nearby table; scattered across the table's surface were fragments of the sacramental host. I sought no further answer to this mystery than rats. The construction of the portico has disturbed their nests, and I fear a good many have sought refuge in our church. I am all the more eager to befriend ‘Blackmouse’, who I am sure will be happy to assist with this issue. I cleaned the mess as best I could and left the rest for the morning.
After securing the church, I returned to the presbytery. Fr Meagher had already retired to his room, and Mrs Maguire, after making me a pot of tea, closed the pantry up tight, and left for the evening. Fr Sheridan was seated in his usual chair by the fireplace reading a book when I entered the drawing room. Despite sitting so close to the fire, he had wrapped himself from head to toe in a thick blanket. I asked him how his dinner went with the Irish Photographic Society, his third such social engagement this week. Fr Sheridan is a most popular dinner guest and Fr Meagher believes his storytelling, no matter how perverse, is in part responsible for inspiring a good many donations for the portico. 'I left early' he told me. ‘I was feeling unwell.’ I sensed something weighed heavily on his thoughts. I went to his side, placed my hand on his shoulder, and asked if I could be of any service. ‘If it is no trouble, would you move the lavender into my bedroom? I think I shall retire soon.’ He had brought his ubiquitous vase of fresh lavender from his bed-room to the parlour, and had placed it on the table beside him. I did as he asked and decided not to further bother his occupied mind with the sacristy business. I will tend to that myself to-morrow.
Saturday, October 9th, 1881
Fr Sheridan looked better this morning, but still spoke very little. Mrs Brenane caught my arm after Mass today. She told me how pleased she was with the new hymnals and commented on the continued progress of the portico. ‘I will be thankful when the construction is done,' she said. ‘With so much mud I have ruined nearly all of my good dresses and soon I shall have none left!’
I believe she would have continued on in this way had not Mr Grubb waved for my attention.
Mr Grubb took me aside and made sure of our privacy. He enquired as to the health of Fr Sheridan explaining that he left the gathering rather abruptly last night. I put down here Mr Grubb’s words as best I remember them from this morning: ‘During pudding last night we asked Fr Sheridan to tell us one of his stories. As usual we were captivated by his tale. I hope one day
he will write them down and send them to the University Magazine.*5 Just as we were about to find out to whom the great uncle's cursed mirror originally belonged, Fr Sheridan paused in the midst of the tale, and his face took on an expression of great horror. You know yourself how Fr Sheridan often animates his features whilst telling tales, and so we thought for an instant that this was part of his game. We soon realised that he was in a sort of trance, and his horrified gaze was fixed upon the window behind us. Something gave my eldest daughter Ethel an awful shock when she turned and looked. She shrieked and fled the room. My wife went after her. I looked at the window, but only saw Fr Sheridan’s tortured expression reflected in the pane. When I turned back, Fr Sheridan had already risen from the table and was standing by the dining-room door. Mr Kinsella urged him to lie down, but Fr Sheridan assured us that this was not necessary. He did the most peculiar thing before he excused himself and left: he requested fresh lavender. My servant brought him a sprig of it from a bundle hanging in the kitchen. He took this and pinned it to his jacket. You can understand my concern, Fr Corrigan. I was relieved to see him on his two feet during Mass this morning; I do hope he is all right.'
By this time Mrs Brenane had wandered to within earshot of our conversation, and so I shifted the topic to the improving health of Mr Grubb's eldest son, Howard. He scarcely had time to respond before Mrs Brenane approached us, hooked Mr Grubb s arm in her own and led him to the courtyard to acquaint him with her thoughts on the portico. Despite her outward sociability towards Mr Grubb, I do not believe Mrs Brenane holds him in very high esteem since he joined our congregation two years ago. Hardly a Sunday passes that I do not observe Mrs Brenane furtively scowling at Mr Grubb, only to see this scowl shift to pleasantries when his attention turns to her.
The Bleeding Horse and Other Ghost Stories Page 7