The Bleeding Horse and Other Ghost Stories
Page 11
The sanitarium in Glendalough to which Father Corrigan was committed in 1881 is still in operation. With a letter of introduction from the current curate of Mary Immaculate, the stem head nurse wearing a perpetual frown allowed me limited access to Father Corrigan's archived records. I am afraid I must report that the afternoon was not very illuminating. Father Corrigan never uttered another word after the night of 4 November 1881, and his days as a diarist were over. With no next of kin, he was admitted to the sanitarium under the diagnosis of ‘Dementia praecox with pronounced aphasia’, which lasted until his death. The attending physician, Dr Martin Simatic, noted that Father Corrigan's general disposition could be ascertained from his limited facial reactions. Under normal circumstances he conveyed ‘in their contortions, the appearance of one under the duress of terror’. The nursing staff quickly learned that Father Corrigan grew calm and relieved of his unsettled state with the introduction of fresh lavender into his room.
It seems that, for the most part, and while the season permitted, the nurses did this with regularity until his death on 12 October 1882.
Epilogue
People have lived — and died — on this parcel of land since its earliest inhabitants christened it with a name now long forgotten. During the intervening years, events both noble and ignoble occurred in the very places that we still tread. There should be little wonder that the neighbourhood which we today call Rathmines is like a vast house, forever haunted by its former residents. Those among you with sensitive temperaments will understand what I mean. We notice the details that most do not. We see the stories that others are unable or unwilling to read. For us, the streets of Rathmines are long, dim corridors, capable of leading us to lonely places that not even the glow of streetlamps or neon signs can make pleasant. The buildings that line the streets are themselves entities, unique in their moods and vitalities. Many contain certain rooms that are by nature unwelcoming, and we would do well not to enter them. To do so would cause our stomachs to flutter, and the shadowy comers that subsist within would prickle the hair on the backs of our necks with disquieting expectation. What are these shades that exist alongside us? All we can hope for is that we do not enter one of these places whose disposition is darker than our own.
I could continue with stories tonight well until we reach the end of the road, but the town hall clock tolls the small hours, and it is time I should get home. I hope you have enjoyed our time together as much as I have, and that one day we might meet again. There are many dark corners yet to explore, and you should not be afraid to wander on your own. William Hope Hodgson, editor of that strange manuscript published as The House on the Borderland, wrote in his introduction: ‘The inner story must be uncovered, personally, by each reader, according to his ability and desire/To this, I paraphrase what Molly Crowe once told me: Admire these stories, but do so from afar and with the awe and respect that they deserve. Remember, Rath-mines does not entirely belong to us. We who inhabit its antique buildings and well-worn paths do so only temporarily. Those who built this neighbourhood are now gone, but those who etched their existence into the fabric of Rathmines, sometimes, still walk among us.’
Thank you for your pleasant company, and I hope that your stroll home goes easy and undisturbed.
Brian J. Showers
Rathmines, Dublin
March 2007
Brian J. Showers is originally from Madison, Wisconsin. He attended that fine city’s university and graduated in 1999 with a degree in English Literature and Communication Arts. He has written short stories, articles and reviews for magazines such as All Hallows, Supernatural Tales, Ghosts & Scholars, Le Fanu Studies and Rue Morgue. His first book, Literary Walking Tours of Gothic Dublin, was published in 2006.
www.brianjshowers.com
Duane Spurlock has illustrated chapbooks for The Swan River Press and did interior illustrations for Literary Walking Tours of Gothic Dublin. He also maintains The Pulp Rack, a website which focuses on the popular fiction published in magazines during the first half of the twentieth century.
www.pulprack.com