Irish Ghost Tales (7 page)

Time passed and the baby remained healthy. Peter employed a young local woman to act as a wet nurse and to look after his son during the day. At night the baby slept at the foot of Peter's bed in a cot Peter had made.

One dark night, a few weeks after his wife's death, Peter was woken from his sleep by the sound of scratching from outside his bedroom window. He got up and looked out into the darkness but saw nothing. He checked on his son, who was sleeping peacefully, then went back to bed. No sooner had he got under the blankets than he heard scratching again. He got out of bed once more, muttering under his breath, and once again looked out the window into the darkness. He staggered backwards. She was outside, her ice-cold fingers pale and lifeless, her once vibrant red hair dirty and matted. Peter felt a chill so cold he thought his blood was freezing in his veins. It was her eyes that chilled him most of all for they appeared to be looking right past him, into the room.

He turned to see what it was that she was looking at. Her eyes were fixed upon the cot where their son lay sleeping. In that awful moment he knew why she had returned: she'd come for the baby. He stared at her in terror, but suddenly she vanished. He heard rattling at the cottage door. His heart missed a beat, but then he remembered that he had bolted the door before going to bed. His relief was short-lived. He heard the sound of wood splintering, then the outside door creaked open. She was in the cottage.

Peter was shocked into action. He placed himself between the bedroom door and his son's cot. There was a crack in one of the panels of the bedroom door. He saw her looking through it, a shaft of moonlight shone onto her face but instead of coming into the room she moved away into the kitchen area. Peter held his breath. He heard the sound of movement and cupboards opening and closing. He peered through the crack of the door.

The moon lit up the kitchen. He saw his dead wife devouring cheese he had left in one of the cupboards. Having satisfied her hunger she turned, went through the broken door and disappeared into the darkness.

Peter collapsed onto his knees, shocked, confused and shivering in fright. He began to imagine what could have happened. He prayed to God that his dead wife had returned to her grave and left him and his son in peace. Peter then remembered the old story about the walking dead and how to protect his child. He placed his clothes on the end of the cot and hoped that God would answer his prayers.

If only it were that simple.

The same thing happened night after night, Peter's wife returning only to search for food and leave. Every night Peter cowered in his room, terrified of confronting the thing that used to be his wife. He couldn't sleep, couldn't work and spent his waking hours in terror. It couldn't go on. If she came again, he decided, he would have to seek outside help.

One night just as darkness fell, one of Maguire's neighbours, a man called William Nixon, was walking to Gilleese's public house when, to his horror, he saw Peter's dead wife walking the road between the pub and Maguire's cottage. She was dragging her bad leg behind her and keeping close to the hedge. Her matted red hair had grown longer and was covered in graveyard dirt. Her filthy fingernails had grown and looked like the claws of a wild animal. William ran to the pub. He needed several shots of whiskey before he stopped shaking and was able to talk about what he had seen.

Back at the cottage, Peter heard scratching at the window. He had brought his son into bed with him in order to protect him and pulled the blankets over their heads. He began to say his prayers, begging God for help, but to no avail. The baby started crying and the sound of scratching began to intensify, becoming more frantic, then all went quiet. Peter lowered the blankets and peeked out. He heard the bolts on the cottage door rattle, but he had strengthened them and the corpse found the door barred against her. To Peter's horror the baby started crying again and the sound seemed to incense the corpse. With a loud tearing noise, the bolts gave way and she came crashing into the kitchen.

Peter shouted, ‘In the name of God, go back to your grave and leave us in peace.' It did no good. Not even the name of God made any difference. As he held his son tight to his chest the bedroom door creaked slowly open. Peter's heart nearly stopped. She was in the room, standing at the foot of his bed, looking into the empty cot. She drew her dirt-encrusted fingernails across the little white pillow where the baby had left an imprint of his head. Peter heard a low growl coming from her throat as she moved back through the door and into the kitchen. From there she went out through the cottage door into the darkness. If something wasn't done now, then next time it could be too late.

Later that day Peter went to see his parish priest. The priest was scared stiff when he heard Peter's story. He had already heard his parishioners whispering about the strange things happening up at the Maguire cottage and even though Peter begged him in the name of God to help him, he refused. He did, however, offer to pray for him and he sent Peter away with a crucifix blessed by the bishop, saying this would solve all his problems. He also told him not to forget to put a few bob in the collection box. Peter walked away, disappointed and alone. Needless to say, he kept his money in his pocket.

That night, as dusk began to fall, Peter took up a position by the window and looked towards Arney crossroads. It was from this direction that his dead wife would come. Once again he threw his clothes over his son's cot in order to protect him from evil and harm, then he waited. As the sun slowly sank in the sky and twilight settled in, Peter saw his dead wife walking slowly up the road. She was dragging her leg and keeping well in to the hedge. Peter gripped his crucifix tightly. As she dragged her fingernails across the glass of the window he thrust the cross against the pane but it only seemed to annoy her. Her face was a mask of hatred, her mouth moving as if to curse him, although there was no sound. She turned and was gone from the window only to once more throw herself against the cottage door. Peter heard it splinter as she forced her way into the cottage once again.

Peter raised the crucifix, keeping one hand on the coat that lay protectively across the foot of his son's cot.

‘Get back to your grave! You'll never have my child! Leave us alone!'

The corpse turned and left the way she had come. Peter watched her limp away, knowing that she would return, but now he had a plan forming in his mind.

Near the Bars of Boho lived Ellen Mohan. She was known locally as Grey Ellen and it was widely believed that her lonely and isolated cottage was frequented by ‘The Gentry' (the fairy folk). She was said to be very wise in the ‘old ways' and had been given special powers by the fairies. It was to Grey Ellen that Peter went for advice. He left his son with his sister and was anxious to return home before nightfall so he approached Grey Ellen's cottage without hesitation, even though he was afraid. He knocked on the door and entered.

She listened quietly while Peter told her his tale, waiting patiently until he had finished before she spoke.

‘The walking dead is it? And ye've been to the priest, for all the good that will do ye. It's well known that for all their big books and fancy learning, the Church knows nothing about the old ways.' She leant towards Peter and gripped his arm with her bony hand. ‘The Church is only any good if it's backed up by the older powers of the earth and the land. Now tell me, does your wife wear any boots when she visits you?'

Peter thought for a moment.

‘No' he said, ‘She always comes barefoot and dressed for the grave.'

Grey Ellen asked him if he knew why this was. Peter shook his head.

‘It's because of the iron nails in them,' she said. ‘Iron was always a magic metal, ever since the old times, more powerful than the cross the priest gave you. Fairies and the walking dead can't stand it being anywhere near them.'

Grey Ellen went to a small box and took out a handful of iron nails. She handed them to Peter and told him to wear one on a string around his neck and to place another around his son's neck. She told him that when his wife came again, he should throw a handful of nails at her to drive her away. Peter took the nails, thanked her and left. When he arrived at his sister's cottage he took the cross from around his son's neck and replaced it with a nail, much to his sister's amazement, then he set off for home.

By the time Peter arrived back at the cottage it was getting dark. He lit a lamp, put his son into his cot, placed his coat over him for protection and decided to go to bed and wait to see what the night would bring. As he turned he saw his reflection in a little mirror hanging on a nail by his bed. He looked old and weary – a lot older than his years. As he stood gazing at himself, he saw the old wardrobe containing his wife's clothes reflected in the glass. He froze and his mouth went dry. The wardrobe door was opening slowly. Long dirt-encrusted fingernails curled around the edge of the door. Peter watched in horror as his dead wife's head appeared, her eyes full of hatred, her long red hair matted with graveyard dirt and insects. She sprang towards the cot with her hands outstretched. Peter tried to stop her but she moved with supernatural speed.

Suddenly she stopped and let out a terrible scream. She raised her head and looked at Peter, her eyes ablaze with hatred, for she had seen the nail around the child's neck. She spat and hissed, making desperate snatching motions over the cot. Peter cowered in terror but he realised it was the power of the iron nails that had prevented her from taking his son.

He remembered the nails he carried in his pocket and flung a handful of them at her. She screamed and jumped back in fear.

‘Get back to your grave, ye old witch,' he roared.

Seeing a single nail that had fallen to the side of the cot he picked it up and threw it at her. It struck her pale waxy cheek, causing the dead skin to sizzle and burn. She let out a blood-curdling scream and ran out of the cottage into the darkness.

That horrific night was the last time Peter Maguire saw his dead wife. Peter's son eventually grew into a strong and sturdy young man who looked after his father in his old age. He married a local girl and his descendants still live in the area.

If ever you're in the Arney area and fancy a quiet pint in Gilleese's pub you may have to walk past the crossroads where Peter Maguire's cottage used to stand. My advice is to walk fast and don't stop, for the walking dead cast a long shadow.

M
any years ago, parents would sometimes threaten their children with the words, ‘If you don't behave, the bogeyman will get you.' Who or what, you might ask, was the bogeyman?

A bogeyman might live under the bed, in a wardrobe or closet, in the dark cupboard under the stairs or any other dark place. If you look through a keyhole, you could see an eye looking back at you … It might be the bogeyman.

Bogeymen can appear as shadowy figures you see out of the corner of your eye, but when you look there is nothing there. They can change shape to look like black dogs, weirdly shaped trees with branches like claws or glowing eyes that appear in the dark of night. They may even stand behind you, causing you to feel uneasy or sending a shiver up your back.

‘Bogeyman' is a general term for a frightening figure that was used to scare the vulnerable. The word itself may derive from the old Anglo-Saxon word ‘
Boh
'
,
meaning ‘demon'. This may also have given rise to the custom of creeping up behind someone and shouting, ‘Boh!' or ‘Boo!', meaning, ‘The devil is behind you.'

Here in Ireland our bogeyman was also known as Bloody Bones or Rawhead. This bogeyman has spread throughout the UK and North America, presumably because of the Irish diaspora. Bloody Bones was believed to live in places near water and this may be why he is said to dwell under the sink sometimes, hiding in the cupboard near the water pipes. It was said that Bloody Bones would reward good children but naughty children would be taken down through the sinkhole or drainpipes into the drains or sewers and there they would drown.

So if you see a rock that looks as if it has hair on it, it might be a bogeyman … Or if you see a black dog covered in scabs or scars, ask yourself: is it really a dog? When you are out for a walk in the woods and you hear a noise or when you are standing by a lake and you suddenly feel uneasy, who knows what may be lurking in the undergrowth or beneath the dark waters? The bogeyman can assume many different shapes, so don't look over your shoulder.

Rawhead and Bloody Bones

Steals naughty children from their homes,

Takes them to his dirty den,

And they are never seen again.

T
he following is a tale that has been told by Irish immigrants to America, especially in the south. I have adapted it to give it a County Mayo connection.