Irish Ghost Tales (13 page)

So there you have it. Could the legend of the vampire king, coupled with the strong tradition of blood-drinking Irish chieftains and nobles, be responsible for giving birth to the gothic tale of Count Dracula? Can we really consign the vampire to some remote part of Eastern Europe, where he is unlikely to do us any harm, or should we keep a clove of garlic handy?

A
fter the Battle of Kinsale in 1601, Cormac Tadgh McCarthy, Lord of Muskery was made High Sheriff of Cork County. The newly ruling English were having problems with the defeated Irish lords, who refused to obey their new masters, and McCarthy was given the job of rounding up troublemakers. Carrickaphouka Castle had a sinister reputation. Its name means ‘Rock of the Pooka', which is one of the most feared creatures of the fairie realm. The pooka was a shape-shifter and could take many different forms, including a horse, a goat with large horns or a black dog. The pooka was said to inhabit the castle, where its evil insinuated its way into the veins of Cormac Tadgh McCarthy.

One of the most troublesome rebel lords was James Fitzgerald. He was extremely popular and had a large following among the displaced nobility. McCarthy invited Fitzgerald to Carrickaphouka Castle under the pretext of broaching a peace agreement between the Irish rebels and the English. The meal that was served to Fitzgerald was poisoned but McCarthy wasn't satisfied with just killing Fitzgerald; he wanted to impress the English lords who were present. McCarthy ordered that Fitzgerald's body be drained of blood and cooked. He then started to eat the flesh, washing it down with goblets of Fitzgerald's blood. The English were horrified. When news of the night's proceedings spread through the countryside, all of Ireland was horrified and outraged by McCarthy's behaviour. In order to distance themselves from these gruesome deeds, McCarthy's clansmen claimed that he was possessed by the evil spirit of the pooka, but to no avail. Cormac McCarthy had to flee to France, where he disappeared into obscurity.

However, after his death, Cormac McCarthy's spirit was drawn back to the castle. It has been suggested that due to his depravity and cannibalistic tendencies, he returned as a vampire-like demon. Today, the castle lies in ruins. Locals will tell you that the sounds of wailing and painful screams can be heard coming from the ruins at night. Anyone unlucky enough to have to walk past the castle during the hours of darkness will be attacked by unseen claws that rip the skin badly enough to draw blood, which is then lapped up by some invisible tongue. There have been reports of fresh blood seen on the castle gates.

Y
ears ago, when I was in England, I was talking to a friend of mine about whether or not there was such a thing as ghosts or spirits. He was a rational sort of fella, so when I said that I thought there were more beings in our world than his philosophy could even conceive of, he laughed at me and told me to grow up. That night we were out with a friend I'll call Cathy and I happened to cut my hand. I was losing a lot of blood and they advised me to go to hospital.

Well, like most youngsters at that time, we hadn't a penny to our names so we decided to walk. My friend Billy suggested we take a shortcut through the cemetery, which would bring us to the hospital much faster. Cathy and I were not keen on the idea of walking in a graveyard late at night. Billy mocked us for this for he was convinced that any belief in ghosts was stupid. As we walked across the graveyard three abreast, Billy on one side, Cathy in the middle and me on the other side, the moon disappeared behind a cloud.

We were chatting away, trying to keep our spirits up, when all of a sudden I said to Billy, ‘Where's Cathy gone?' She just wasn't there. We looked around but couldn't see her. We called out but no reply was heard. Then we heard a groaning sound, followed by someone swearing.

‘I'm in a grave,' the voice moaned.

Well, Billy took off like the hounds of hell were after him. I fell against a gravestone and felt my legs turn to rubber. It was only Cathy asking me politely to ‘extract her from her newfound grave' that brought me to my senses. When we got to the far side of the cemetery, who did we see on the other side of the railings but our dear friend Billy, who had sworn there was no such thing as ghosts or spirits. The following story is one that more or less mirrors our experience that night. Whoever said there is no truth in stories should think again.

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, when night fell, the world was enveloped in darkness. This was way back before there were streetlights or electricity, so when it was dark it was really dark.

On this night a young man was walking home when he decided to take a shortcut through the graveyard. As he was walking along, the moon suddenly disappeared behind a cloud. The next minute he felt the earth disappear as he suddenly fell into a newly dug grave. Of course he did what any of us would have done: he swore a little, then he tried to get back out. But, the grave was too high for him to jump out of it and every time he tried to get a handhold the earth gave way and he fell back down.

This went on for a little while before the young man began to feel tired and frustrated. However, he was of a quiet, sensible nature and, realising he was getting nowhere, he decided to settle back, calm down and relax. He knew that no one digs a grave for nothing. The following day, there would be a funeral and the mourners would find him and help him out.

‘I'll be fine,' he said to himself. ‘All I have to do is wait until morning and everything will be all right.'

With that, he made his way to one end of the grave. He sank down into a corner, curled up, wrapped his arms around himself and slowly fell into a deep sleep.

Later that same night, another man was heading home after a few pints. He, too, decided to take a shortcut through the same graveyard. As bad luck would have it, he was walking along, happily humming a tune, when all of a sudden he felt the earth disappear and he fell straight into the same grave. Well, just like the first fella, he tried to jump out, but of course it was too deep. He also tried to climb out but the sides of the grave kept giving way and he kept falling back down. He tried over and over again until he was absolutely exhausted. Now, I don't know whether it was because of the drink or the fact that this young man was of an excitable nature, but, unlike the first fella, he wasn't going to relax and wait until morning. Oh no, he wanted to get out and he wanted to get out immediately, so he started to shout.

‘Help! Help! I've fell in a hole! Help!' he shouted at the top of his voice. Well, he made such a racket he woke the first fella up.

The first fella peered at him through the darkness and said, ‘There's no point shouting like that. No one will hear you. You won't get out of here tonight.'

You know, he was wrong about that!

Terror at what he assumed to be a talking corpse gave wings to the man's feet and he lept out of the grave and ran for his life, without a backward glance.

T
his story concerns a member of the Fitzgerald family of County Limerick who became the evil abbess of Shanagolden Abbey in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. It was alleged that she drank the blood of novices in order to gain immortality. It was also said that she was a witch and a prophetess whom the nobility of the countryside consulted before declaring war on each other. After the abbey was closed on the orders of the Pope, she continued to live there and was known locally as ‘The Black Hag'. Some believed she was cursed to remain in the abbey for all eternity. Held there because of her evil deeds, some say she still haunts the ruins of the abbey to this day. No date is recorded for her death; however, local folklore has it that she was found one morning sitting in a chair in the sacristy by a passing pedlar. She was stone dead and had a look of absolute horror on her face, which so terrified the pedlar that he was to remember it until his dying day. He said it was if the devil had claimed her soul.

St Katherine's Augustinian Abbey, Shanagolden, Limerick, was one of the first nunneries in Ireland. It was founded in 1298 and is now in ruins, although the remains of the abbey church and refectory can still be seen. Folklore tells us that the last abbess prior to its dissolution practised witchcraft in a room south of the church. The room became known as ‘The Black Hag's Cell' and still exudes a feeling of dread as if the very walls retain a memory of the evil practised within.

In the mid-seventeenth century, the abbey came to the attention of the papal authorities and an investigation was ordered. It was discovered that many of the nuns were involved in satanic worship and practised witchcraft under the guidance of the abbess. Several of the nuns either admitted to this or were found to be possessed by evil spirits. When Pope Urban VIII received the report, he was outraged. As a staunch opponent of the ‘black arts' he took the unusual step of ordering the closure of the nunnery and the relocation of all the nuns. All, that is, except the abbess, who refused to leave.