The Bleeding Horse and Other Ghost Stories

by Brian J. Showers

  In the darkness the canal looked like a strip of shiny black ribbon. As I rounded the comer onto Canal-road, I saw a hunched figure standing between the two maple trees on the banks of the canal. I scarce had a chance to distinguish the shape of the figure from the surrounding shadows before young Harrison called to me from the top of the steps and gestured for me to follow him into the house.

  Mrs Harrison greeted me in the hall. Her hands were red from constantly wringing them together. Three children huddled behind her, inquisitive of my arrival, but not daring to speak. The front hall carpet was wet and stained with muddy footprints leading from the front door to the drawing-room door, through which Mrs Harrison then ushered me. On the floor in a puddle of water and mud was the broken form of Fr Whelan. He lay at a peculiar angle, as if his torso had been somehow mangled. For only a brief moment I glimpsed his blue lips and his white hair clinging to his forehead. As I entered the room, a young man in wet clothing was pulling a linen sheet over Fr Whelan's body. Mrs Harrison closed the drawing-room door behind me, shielding the horrible spectacle from the innocent eyes of her children. Fr Sheridan sat in the far comer. His face was grief-stricken and cheeks streaming with tears. He did not acknowledge me or even look at me when I entered. His attention was fixed on the body that lay at the centre of the room.

  ‘I am sorry we had to meet this way, Father.’ This was Mr Lloyd Harrison speaking. ‘My eldest son, Parry, heard Fr Sheridan shouting for help’ He motioned to the young man who was covering the body. ‘It is most unfortunate, but Fr Whelan must have somehow fallen in. Luckily my boy can swim. We tried to revive him. I am sorry that there is nothing more we could have done. I tried to ask Fr Sheridan what happened, but he has not spoken a word to anyone since he got here. The poor fellow was near frozen with terror when we found him. My wife helped me coax him inside.'

  Fr Sheridan did not respond to my questions. As Mr Harrison said, he was in a stupor and nothing I said shook him from it. Occasionally he gulped at the air, like a fish on land, as if he were drowning. At last he tore his gaze from the sheeted body and looked into my eyes. I was weak. I was terrified, Fr Corrigan, please forgive me. I failed to offer him absolution before he died. I watched him die and there was nothing I could do.' Then he unpinned the lavender from his jacket and pinned it to mine. ‘Please, keep this with you.'

  Mr Harrison had his man assist me in bringing Fr Sheridan and Fr Whelan's body back to the presbytery. To-night they both rest, Fr Sheridan sleeping in a deep fever, Fr Whelan sleeping his eternal rest. What am I to do? Fr Whelan is dead, and yet I still find myself fearing for the worst.

  Thursday, November 3rd, 1881

  This morning Fr Sheridan's health had deteriorated by noticeable degrees. Like Fr Meagher, he is now weak and confined to bed. This illness has plagued him for the past weeks and now it threatens to consume him. Is it an illness of the body? The mind? Or something else? I spent much of the day writing letters, including one to the caretaker of Prospect Cemetery and another to Archbishop McCabe.57

  Our situation is dire and we feel increasingly isolated here in our duty.

  Mrs Maguire came to me in the office shortly after lunch. She informed me that Fr Sheridan was awake for the first time since last night's horrible events. He asked to speak with me. The air in his room was sour and thin. Mrs Maguire opened the window to let the fresh autumn air into the room before she left. The lavender on the windowsill was no longer fresh. It showed signs of wilting and its potent fragrance had already faded. Fr Sheridan was propped up in bed with pillows and he opened his eyes when I entered the room. For the first time in many weeks he seemed relieved to see me. I sat in a chair beside his bed and he proceeded to tell me his story at a whisper:

  ‘After speaking with you in the church yesterday, I made my way to the canal. I hoped to meet Fr Whelan there. Rathmines-road was empty. I remember this because I saw hints of movement in every shadow, but never did I spy the man who moved. I walked filled with the hideous notions that I always hoped were confined to the written word. What if no one existed behind the shuttered windows of these vast terraces? Worse still, what if tenants unfamiliar pushed their fat white faces to the panes with the desire to inflict upon me their malign intent? Perhaps I am a fool, but in a bid to remove myself from these wicked dens, I walked the remainder of the distance down the centre of the road.

  ‘Nor did I move to the side of the road when I reached the base of the bridge. But this bridge that I knew so well by day had become a great, slumbering beast hunched over the water, glutted on the bones of travellers. An omnibus might have sped towards me, advancing on the steep bridge from the opposite side at a deathly speed, and the driver would not be aware of me until he was at the peak, and the minute had already passed. And yet I stayed my ground.'

  Throughout the story Fr Sheridan paused either to rest his eyes or while his body was wracked by a thick cough.

  But now he closed his eyes and ceased talking completely.

  I waited patiently for him, wondering whether he might be asleep, and worrying that it might be something more. When he began to speak again his eyes remained shut, though he continued his story as if reciting the nightmare as it was experienced. I will commit to my diary the general course of his narration, but I cannot say what is real and what is the product of his feverish imagination.

  I stood at the intersection where Rathmines-road meets the Canal-road, and from here even in the moonlit darkness I had an easy view of the canals southern bank. You will know the two ancient maple trees that stand not far from the bridge. Between the bank and these trees I saw the outline of Fr Whelan. He was poking among the rushes with his walking stick. As I watched, I felt as if a cold damp stone were pushing against my belly from the inside. I knew I was meant to witness a terrible disaster unfold upon this stage. I could think of nothing else to do than run to him; perhaps fate would choose me instead.

  ‘Before I could intervene, a man I had not previously seen emerged from the shadow of the tree, or perhaps he stepped out of the trunk itself, I cannot say which with any certainty. I can describe him though, oh yes, how could I fail to have seen this demon? He was tall like me and thin like me, and his feet did not so much as rustle the dried leaves as he crept towards Fr Whelan. Fr Whelan suspected none of this and only saw me as I ran towards him shouting. But he scarcely had time to respond before the tall man shoved him into the canal. The man pushed with such strength, and Fr Whelan went into the water with such force, that I still wonder if he died from a broken back before he drowned.

  ‘This demon, Fr Whelan's murderer, turned to me, Father, and in two steps it traversed the distance between us. When it emerged into the moonlight from the shadow of the canopy I chanced to look upon its face. I saw it, Father. Until then I had only suspected, but I have now seen him with my own pair of eyes. I cannot say where he came from or even why, but this fiend looked upon me

  only with malice and hate, and he did it not with his eyes, but with my own. I will continue to see that face, Father; in all of my daily reflections until my dying day, I will forever be forced to see that face.'

  ‘Who was it?’ I asked him. ‘Who pushed Fr Whelan into the canal?' He looked at me with horror. ‘I did, Father. Please forgive me, but it was I who did it.'

  After this he would say no more, whether by choice or due to his increasing fever. I have spent the evening considering what he told me. Poor Fr Sheridan is haunted, though I know not by what; whether a spectre plagues his poor mind, or a fiend, as if from one of his tales, acts against him with horrible intention.

  Mrs Maguire and I will do what we can while we wait for word from the Archbishop. If I do not receive word from him by tomorrow, I may travel to into Dublin come Saturday. I do not know how long we will last here otherwise.

  Friday, November 4th, 1881

  Had this been one of Fr Sheridan's ghastly stories, I would have thrown it down long ago. I would have pulled the sheets to my chin and knees to my chest, saf
e in the knowledge that the tale would remain confined between the covers of the discarded volume. But this book, with its tattered binding and yellowed pages, has forced my vision. It beckons me to look upon its words, to read its unthinkable implications and confuse my senses. Dawn is still many hours from us. I dare not leave the safety of my room, not even for the sake of Fr Meagher whom I have forsaken in his helpless state. What has become of him I cannot say, nor do I dare to think. I feel sick with wonder. God help me, I lack the courage and faith to throw wide the locked door of my room and read the books final page.

  Recording my thoughts in this account is all that I can do now to keep my mind from what lies beyond the door.

  This is the paradox with which I continue to live. And yet how can the sober mind of man, in all its futility, ever hope to grapple with such awful events and emerge triumphant? One feels compelled to place them within the earth beneath our feet. But try though I might, I can comprehend no meaning, no reasoning behind the events I have recorded. Such are the machineries of Hell that catch the soul with its hooks and draw it ever in. Misery’s demons need give no purpose.

  The air in the confessional was stifling and almost too thick to breathe. I went there earlier this evening for the sake of those who sought absolution. I felt a safety in the darkness of the confessional, alleviating parishioners of their sins and absolving them of evil. Perhaps it was I who should have been on the other side of the screen, confessing sins of my own, instead of receiving them from others. Soon the stream of penitents ended, and I knew that the church beyond the confessional was empty. My mind churned and became swollen with thoughts of Fr Meagher and Fr Whelan, of Fr Sheridan and Blackmouse. Soon an unbearable weariness overtook me, and I must have dosed there in the solitude of the confessional, though I cannot say with certainty for how long. My next conscious memory was awakening in darkness to the sound of the stall on my left opening, a penitent enter and then pull shut the door. Slowly I raised the screen, and from the other side burst a most foetid odour such that caused my gorge to rise.

  ‘Bless me, Father, for I will continue to sin.’ The voice in the cramped stall beyond spoke with the whisper of a throat constricted. ‘You know nothing, Simon Corrigan, but know this: only to you do I reveal myself and only in your presence do I confess all. Long have I desired you and all that is yours; all that you love, I have taken to crush and destroy as my own. Soon he too will belong to me. My time is long, Simon Corrigan, much longer than you could ever fathom in your limited being. I will not rest until the nave is engulfed by flames and this church is reduced to cinders. I have made this my duty. You may bless me, Brother Corrigan, but know that it is I who damns you with this knowledge.'

  His words hung in the air like an awful echo that refused to leave my ear. This impenitent monster's words filled me with a mixture of terror and disgust. Brimming with these emotions, and betraying the confidence of my office, I threw back the heavy curtain of my stall. The door of the left confessional was already ajar, and in this brief time, its occupant had already traversed the distance to the vestibule. How he accomplished this inhuman feat is unthinkable, especially when I recognised the very human face of he who performed it. The man who had whispered that perverse confession, and who was now exiting the church, was none other than Fr Sheridan, whom I believed was, at least earlier to-day, unable to rise from bed! My options were limited, and I could think of no other reaction than to give chase. Had I known then what I was chasing, I might have fled the church, if not the country of Ireland, forever.

  I made my way across the courtyard and up the steps of the presbytery. Fr Sheridan had left the door wide open in the wake of his flight as if he were inviting me to follow. I first passed through the kitchen to beseech Mrs Maguire for help, though I know not what I expected her or anyone else to do. Perhaps I hoped she might somehow calm Fr Sheridan's madness. I know now that this would have been futile. She was not in the kitchen, though must have recently been so. I found one of her knives lying on the table amidst piles of half-chopped onions and potatoes. Although she had recently been preparing dinner, the door that leads to the pantry was shut. I never stopper my inkwell while I am using it; likewise Mrs Maguire never shuts the pantry door until the day is passed and gone. I grasped the doorknob, and even tried to twist it, but it slid loosely in my hand without turning. The knob was slick with blood. I did not dare to try and open the pantry again. My cassock is still stained with dried blood where I wiped my hand.

  The stairs to the third storey came two and three at a time as I dashed up them. I could not climb them fast enough, and despite my deepest wishes, nothing discouraged or stopped me from continuing. The upper hallway was a void of darkness, and the same foetid odour that permeated the confessional filled the corridor like the blossom of a decaying flower. Having no source of light, I felt my way blindly down the hall. In my mind I recalled each of the paintings that hung in the hall as my fingertips brushed across them, until I knew that I stood before Fr Sheridan’s door. I prayed that it would be locked.

  I threw open the door to Fr Sheridan's room with the last ounce of rational courage in my bones. The scene revealed to me by the opening of this door was a grotesque vision worthy of Collin de Plancy.58 Fr Sheridan was propped up on a pile of pillows in his sickbed. He was dressed in a white gown, made many shades whiter by his scarlet red face from which his eyes protruded. His jaw was thrust open, chin nearly touching his throat; his tongue twisted like a struggling pink grub. Our eyes met in the instant that I entered the room, and in that instant I saw the life pass from them. His rigid body, muscles still tense with surprise, collapsed against the pillows.

  Around Fr Sheridan’s bruised throat were wrapped hands that I had once known so well. They were attached to the outstretched arms of a murderer whose visage I knew with equal intimacy. Hunched over the body of Fr Sheridan, leering at me with two eager eyes, was a man whose countenance reflected the features of Fr Sheridan’s face with shocking exactitude. Even now my disbelief in this vision is fractured. It was its if* Ft Sheridan merely slept beside a life-sized portrait of himself, but the truth was vastly less desirable. And had I not seen one murder the other, I would not have been able to say which was which.

  Almost as if the room were constricting around it, the fiend wearing Fr Sheridan's face straightened to its full height and filled the room with its mass. It looked down on me with unflinching and malicious desire. Only I obstructed the way between the door and the great imp standing before me. Driven by reasons that I can no longer remember, I reached up and felt pinned to my breast the dried lavender that Fr Sheridan had given me. A strong breeze blew across the room. I now noticed that the bed-room window was wide-open, admitting all that accompanies an autumn chill. The next gust was even stronger. It scattered papers and flapped the drapery, knocking to the floor the vase of dried lavender that had been placed in front of the window. Dried remains of lavender blew about the room, disintegrating and crumbling in the wind.

  In one swift movement Fr Sheridan - no, the thing that bore Fr Sheridan's likeness - leapt across the room to the window. I do not know if I can fully trust my vision, but I fancied this infernal creature was now smaller than it was in the preceding moment. Though I had not seen it alter itself in size, it perched comfortably on the windowsill like a feline, ready to spring through the open window. In these terrible seconds, now displayed like a portrait of masterful realism in my mind, the demon glanced at me over his shoulder. And for this instant, this one awful moment before it sprang through the open window, I swear that it was my own visage that I looked upon.

  I uprooted my legs in time to see my brother land effortlessly in the courtyard a full three-storeys below. Without pause for recovery, I watched as the creature darted across Rathmines-road and disappear into the dark folds of Larkhill.59 One moment he sprinted on two legs like a man, the next he loped like a beast on all fours.

  I fled Fr Sheridan's room and the wind-stirred tempest of loose paper
s and dried lavender. My bed-room is my sanctuary, secure in the relative certainty of pen, paper and ink. The door is locked and I have moved my writing bureau against it. I do not know what fates have befallen Fr Meagher and Mrs Maguire, or indeed what has become of the world outside this room since that demon escaped into the night. The only thing that I can be sure of is the judgment that surely awaits my inaction.

  Not fifteen minutes ago I heard the tell-tale signs of a presence in the presbytery. I know every floorboard that squeaks, every door hinge that creaks, and every stair the groans. Once I even thought I heard a light tapping on my door, beckoning me to answer. I know my brother will come back for me.

  And I know I must wait for him to return.

  This is where Father Corrigan's diary ends. From the distance of 130 years we are limited in our observations to those contained within this subjective historical document. What Father Corrigan experienced was real, but we can never be sure to what extent or in what capacity. I believe it is best to leave the interpretation to the individual reader, suffice to say that this allows for a range of analyses, some of which may, I hope, explore possibilities which today we might feel more inclined to disregard.

  Many of the facts related to the later entries in Father Corrigan's diary are independently verifiable. We know, for example, that the Church of Mary Immaculate suffered a particularly tragic year in 1881. Newspaper obituaries list Fathers Whelan, Sheridan and Meagher as having passed away in this year, though none of their brief obituaries elaborate on the perfunctory details. Father Whelan died of an unfortunate and accidental drowning'; Father Sheridan ‘died peacefully in his sleep’; and Father Meagher passed on to his reward after a lingering illness’ on 6 November. Father Meagher’s obituary does not so much as hint whether his death was in any way connected with the incidents recorded in the diary. Canon Mark Flicker, who edited Father Corrigan's Diary for publication in 1922, succeeded Meagher in January of 1882.