Tiempo de lectura estimado – 41 minutos
Si, como yo, te identificas como introvertido y te consideras un misántropo, probablemente hayas soñado en un momento u otro con escapar a una isla desierta en algún lugar y vivir en paz y aislamiento, libre del estrés del mundo moderno. La fantasía de escapar a un paraíso tropical en el Pacífico Sur puede parecer atractiva, pero cualquiera que haya visto 'Castaway' probablemente entenderá por qué no es una buena idea.
Aún así, hay opciones más convenientes más cerca de casa: docenas de pequeñas islas deshabitadas de diferentes descripciones repartidas por las Islas Británicas, algunas de las cuales están dispersas frente a la costa oeste de Irlanda. De vez en cuando verá una oferta de trabajo como cuidador o cuidador, buscando personas solteras o parejas que quieran vivir y trabajar en una isla remota durante largos períodos de tiempo, tal vez para mantener casas de vacaciones fuera de temporada o para mantener reservas naturales protegidas.
Sorprendentemente, a menudo obtendrá cientos o incluso miles de solicitantes para estos trabajos. Parece que a muchos les atrae la vida de soledad y la idea de volver a una vida más sencilla. Resulta que tuve la suerte de conseguir un trabajo así, aunque "suerte" podría no ser la palabra correcta para usar, considerando lo que estoy haciendo.
Ahora estoy seguro de que todos han leído historias de personas que, sin saberlo, aceptaron trabajos que encontraron en línea; puestos que pagan mucho dinero pero que no requieren experiencia previa, calificaciones o referencias. Como era de esperar, cuando estas personas crédulas o desesperadas asumen el papel, se ven envueltas en algún tipo de evento paranormal potencialmente mortal. Bueno, supongo que soy uno de esos tontos crédulos que se jodieron, pero no entré en la situación completamente a ciegas.
He creído en lo sobrenatural desde una edad temprana. Era un niño un poco luchador, estaba en la escala de autismo y experimentaba lo que ellos llamaban dificultades emocionales y de comportamiento. No me entendieron en ese entonces. Era un niño confundido y asustado que actuaba con frecuencia. Lo que mis padres, maestros y médicos no entendieron es que tengo un don especial. Para citar la famosa película: "Veo a los muertos".
Mi primera visita fue poco después de mi quinto cumpleaños. Nuestra familia vivía en una casa antigua, que data de finales del siglo XIX. Una noche me visitó en mi habitación un joven de rostro pálido vestido con ropas victorianas. Simplemente apareció en mi puerta en medio de la noche; una aparición fantasmal iluminada por mi luz nocturna. Recuerdo estar sorprendido pero no asustado. No tenía idea de quién era este chico, pero de alguna manera sabía que no quería hacerme daño.
El niño se presentó diciendo que su nombre era David y explicando que anteriormente había vivido en la casa. David me preguntó si quería ser amigos. No queriendo molestarlo, dije que sí. Mi aceptación pareció hacer feliz a David, y me invitó a encontrarme con él a la mañana siguiente bajo un viejo roble plantado en nuestro jardín trasero.
Acepté su invitación y, más por curiosidad que por otra cosa, hice la cita, encontrándome a David esperándome a la sombra del gran árbol, siempre vestido con la misma ropa pasada de moda y con una gran sonrisa pegada a ella por lo demás. cara fantasmal. cara blanca.
Charlamos un rato antes de jugar un juego de conkers. Gané, pero David se tomó amablemente su pérdida y me felicitó por mi victoria. Rápidamente tuve la impresión de que se sentía muy solo y deseaba un amigo más que nada. Recuerdo una terrible tristeza que se apoderó de David cuando llegó el momento de irme. Había estado alegre y amistoso hasta entonces, por lo que su repentino cambio de humor fue inesperado.
Me deseó adiós y me dijo que esperaba que pudiéramos volver a jugar pronto. Luego su rostro se hundió, mientras se giraba y salía lentamente de las sombras hacia la luz del sol. Para mi inmensa sorpresa, simplemente se desvaneció sin dejar rastro tan pronto como los primeros rayos del sol lo iluminaron.
David fue un visitante esporádico de mi vida durante los años siguientes. Crecí y crecí, pero él nunca lo hizo. Estábamos charlando y jugando, y cada vez que él desaparecía en el aire, nunca supe si lo volvería a ver. Mirando hacia atrás, entiendo lo triste y solo que estaba David, y hasta el día de hoy desearía poder ayudarlo.
Honestamente, no sé si sabía que estaba muerto.
Les conté a mis padres sobre él y se tomaron la historia de buen humor. Después de todo, no era raro que los niños pequeños tuvieran amigos imaginarios. Pero David no fue el único espíritu con el que entré en contacto cuando era niño, y cuanto más les decía a mamá y papá, más preocupados se ponían.
Finalmente me enviaron a un psicólogo infantil, quien me dijo que todas estas entidades paranormales solo existen en mi propia cabeza. Sabía que esto no era cierto, pero con el tiempo aprendí a mantener mis visiones en secreto para los demás. Tenía un don que la mayoría de los vivos no podían entender, y mi conexión con el otro lado los asustaba.
No fue hasta que llegué a la edad adulta que descubrí que no estaba solo. A través de las maravillas de Internet y las redes sociales, he encontrado una red de compañeros de viaje: psíquicos, psíquicos, cazadores de fantasmas y criptozoólogos, una comunidad tan fascinada por lo sobrenatural como yo. Me sentí como en casa con esta gente; finalmente mis creencias fueron validadas y mis dones reconocidos.
A lo largo de los años, he visitado docenas de lugares encantados en Gran Bretaña e Irlanda, y me he encontrado con muchos fantasmas y espíritus de diversas formas y formas. Sería justo decir que la mayoría de las entidades que he conocido no han sido tan amistosas como David. Algunos harán todo lo posible para permanecer escondidos, mientras que otros son francamente hostiles a los vivos. Sin embargo, nunca me había sentido en peligro físico, es decir, no hasta que visité la isla.
Ahora bien, no les voy a decir el nombre de la isla, ni les daré muchas pistas sobre su ubicación. Una vez que escuche mi historia completa, entenderá por qué. No quiero que nadie más visite la isla y pase por lo que yo hice. Basta decir que se encuentra en algún lugar de la costa oeste de Irlanda. La isla es pequeña, pero es más que una roca en alta mar; con una extensión aproximada de 300 hectáreas.
En su apogeo, la isla albergaba a unos pocos cientos de habitantes, pero la población disminuyó después de la Gran Hambruna y finalmente fue abandonada en la década de 1950. Esto se debió en gran parte a la Gran Hambruna. casi imposible para los lugareños ganarse la vida. Pero había otra razón que rara vez se menciona en estos días.
Se dice que la isla es un centro de actividad paranormal y recorridos fantasmales, con historias que se remontan a siglos. Hoy en día, la isla es propiedad de una misteriosa empresa fantasma con supuestos vínculos con el gobierno irlandés. Los propietarios desean mantener la isla en privado y, por lo tanto, han impuesto una prohibición total a todos los visitantes, una prohibición estrictamente impuesta por la seguridad privada que trabaja en conjunto con la policía.
Los lugareños evitan el lugar como la peste, ya que todos crecieron escuchando historias de fantasmas y sucesos extraños. Sin embargo, la comunidad irlandesa de cazadores de fantasmas ha querido visitar la isla desde hace mucho tiempo y ha realizado numerosas solicitudes de permiso, todas las cuales han sido rechazadas firmemente. Aquí es donde entré.
Mon plan était d'agir comme un « cheval de Troie », d'obtenir le rôle officiel de gardien afin que je puisse l'utiliser comme couverture pour vivre sur l'île et mener discrètement ma propre encuesta. Necesitaba hacer una "limpieza de primavera" antes de enviar mi solicitud, limpiando mis redes sociales de cualquier referencia a mi carrera como cazador de fantasmas aficionado. No quería que mis futuros empleadores buscaran en línea y adivinaran mis verdaderas motivaciones.
También fui bastante creativo al escribir mi CV, inventando puestos anteriores y proporcionando referencias falsas. Quiero enfatizar que generalmente no soy una persona deshonesta, pero estaba tan decidido a llegar a la isla que estaba dispuesto a romper las reglas un poco.
En este caso, me resultó más fácil conseguir el trabajo de lo que pensé inicialmente. Quizás la sombría reputación de la isla ha asustado a muchos solicitantes potenciales. Mi entrevista se realizó por teléfono y fue bastante sencilla. Mi entrevistador era una figura misteriosa que se presentó como el Sr. Black y hablaba con un acento confuso que era difícil de localizar.
Las preguntas que hizo eran mundanas y omnipresentes, quizás a propósito. No se mencionó la trágica historia de la isla o su reputación de actividad paranormal, y no se me comunicaron reglas crípticas o misteriosas. Las funciones reales del puesto también eran bastante vagas. Me dijeron que habría tareas de mantenimiento livianas, pero mi función principal era simplemente mantener una presencia en la isla y 'vigilar las cosas', sea lo que sea que eso signifique.
El Sr. Black insinuó que tendría mucho tiempo libre, lo cual estaba bien para mí, ya que tendría mucho tiempo para hacer mis investigaciones. También me dijo que necesitaban que alguien comenzara lo antes posible, ya que la situación de repente quedó vacante. Sonaba siniestro, pero asumí que el portero anterior vio algo aterrador y se convirtió en corredor.
Al final de la breve entrevista, el Sr. Black me informó en un tono directo que mi solicitud había sido exitosa y que estaba feliz de ofrecerme el trabajo. Traté de contener mi júbilo aceptando gentilmente su oferta. No podía creer que mi artimaña funcionara y entré por la puerta. Por supuesto, no tenía idea de en qué me había metido.
Visité una pequeña ciudad portuaria en la costa oeste donde me dijeron que un barco me transportaría a la isla. La seguridad era estricta, por lo que todo mi equipaje fue sometido a un minucioso registro por parte de un fornido guardia de seguridad. Había previsto esto y, por lo tanto, no había empacado ninguno de los equipos de caza de fantasmas que solía llevar en mis investigaciones, como mi medidor EMF, mi grabadora de voz EVP o incluso algunos ayudantes de baja tecnología como una tabla Ouija.
Tengo una habilidad especial para contactar con los muertos, pero los espíritus y los espectros no siempre quieren que los encuentren, por lo que estos ayudantes pueden resultar cruciales. Pero mis nuevos empleadores seguramente descubrirían mis verdaderas intenciones y retirarían su oferta de trabajo. Entonces, tuve que confiar en mis habilidades especiales una vez en la isla. Del mismo modo, no tuve protección de lo que vino del otro lado más que un pequeño crucifijo de oro que heredé de mi difunta abuela. Obviamente, creo en la otra vida, pero no me consideraría cristiano en el verdadero sentido de la palabra. El collar de oro era en realidad poco más que un recuerdo familiar.
Zarpamos temprano un sábado por la mañana, haciendo el corto viaje por mar hasta mi destino. El transporte era poco más que un arrastrero de pesca reconvertido pilotado por una tripulación reducida. El capitán era uno de esos viejos tipos de lubina, con una barba blanca y peluda y la cara curtida, probablemente el resultado de años de trabajo en barcos de pesca junto con el consumo excesivo de alcohol.
Estuvo distante y sombrío durante todo el viaje, hablando en voz baja a su tripulación. Ninguno de los tripulantes me habló durante el viaje. De hecho, apenas podían mirarme a los ojos. El capitán dejó en claro que me dejarían en el muelle con mi equipaje y suministros y se irían inmediatamente después.
Ni él ni nadie de su tripulación tenían la intención de poner un pie en la isla. Sabía que los lugareños temían este lugar y entendía por qué, así que no estaba demasiado preocupado por el comportamiento de la tripulación. Sin embargo, no estaba contento con la idea de tener que arrastrar todo mi equipaje y víveres desde el muelle hasta mi alojamiento.
Como se prometió, el barco hizo un rápido comienzo con el capitán gritando desde la cubierta diciendo que regresarían en 5 días con provisiones frescas. Ha sido una semana llena de acontecimientos.
No tengo un mapa de la isla y no lo compartiría si lo tuviera. Sin embargo, puedo revelar algunos detalles sobre su geografía y arquitectura. El muelle de madera corto y desgastado se encuentra en el lado este de la isla, el más cercano al continente. La casa del cuidador donde me alojé está a unos 200 metros del muelle. La casa es pequeña y bastante básica pero cuenta con las comodidades necesarias para una estancia confortable, incluido su propio generador y calefacción de gasoil.
Por supuesto, no hay conexión a Internet ni cobertura telefónica, pero hay una radio bidireccional que se puede utilizar para contactar con el continente en caso de emergencia. Mi despensa estaba bien equipada con productos enlatados y un suministro limitado de productos perecederos, y tenía suficientes pilas y velas en caso de que se cortara la luz.
En el lado sur de la isla hay una pequeña playa de arena, y en la colina sobre la playa se encuentran las ruinas de un monasterio del siglo X, construido por una orden religiosa que busca establecerse. Aislar la corrupción del mundo exterior, lo que les permite estudiar y rezar. en paz. En la Edad Media, era común que los monjes vivieran y trabajaran en lugares tan remotos. Este monasterio en particular había sido destruido hace siglos, y solo quedaban los cimientos.
El norte de la isla alberga cuevas resguardadas donde anidan aves marinas, mientras que en la costa oeste hay un acantilado escarpado de treinta metros de altura, constantemente azotado por las poderosas olas del frío Atlántico.
En el centro de la isla encontramos las ruinas de un pequeño pueblo que alguna vez albergó la pequeña comunidad agrícola de la isla.
Todavía en la década de 1950, varias cabañas todavía estaban ocupadas, algunas de las cuales consistían en una sola habitación calentada por un fuego de turba bajo un techo de paja. Solo quedaba un puñado de residentes ancianos a mediados del siglo XX, y estos recalcitrantes murieron o emigraron al continente, dejando que sus hogares colapsaran gradualmente, a medida que la naturaleza recuperaba lentamente la tierra.
El último lugar a destacar es la antigua mansión, que una vez albergó a la familia Burke; la familia angloirlandesa, a menudo ausente, que ha sido dueña de la isla y la ha gobernado durante casi dos siglos. La gran casa gótica de tres pisos fue incendiada en la década de 1920 en circunstancias controvertidas, y solo quedan paredes desnudas hoy, todavía quemadas por las poderosas llamas que envolvieron el edificio hace tantas décadas.
Ahí lo tienes, la isla de un vistazo. Es hermoso de una manera austera y dura. Las vistas del Atlántico son espectaculares e impresionantes. Pero el clima puede ser brutal y los fuertes vientos intensos. No crece mucho en la isla y sería muy difícil ganarse la vida con la tierra. Pero no había venido aquí para cultivar o disfrutar de la vista.
Sabía que era la única persona viva en la isla, pero, tan pronto como salí del muelle, mi sexto sentido comenzó a gritar en mi cabeza, advirtiéndome que no tenía 39 años; definitivamente no estaba solo.
Pasé la tarde explorando la isla, calentándome para protegerme de los elementos. El clima era espantoso, el viento soplaba en un vendaval y la lluvia torrencial era cada vez más intensa. No obstante, perseveré con mi caminata, y solo regresé a la cabaña de mi cabaña cuando el viento se hizo tan fuerte que apenas podía mantenerme de pie.
Mientras me retiraba a mi santuario, me quité la ropa mojada y encendí un fuego para calentarme. No había visto nada anormal en mi primer recorrido por la isla. Ningún ghoul había saltado para saludar. No obstante, tuve la clara sensación de ser observado.
No fue una experiencia inusual para mí. Siempre que entras en un lugar o lugar embrujado, los espíritus que lo habitan a menudo miran las sombras sin revelarse. No obstante, esta vez fue diferente. Sentí algo que me hizo sentir … incómodo, como si una fuerza malévola me estuviera acechando, mirándome y tratando de aprender mis debilidades.
No soy del tipo paranoico y aprendí a confiar en mis instintos, así que sabía que tenía que mantener la calma.
Esa noche me senté frente al fuego y traté de relajarme y descansar, haciendo todo lo posible para dejar atrás los eventos de esa tarde. Existía la posibilidad de que experimentara un evento paranormal por la noche, pero los espíritus tienden a trabajar en sus propios horarios, así que decidí ser paciente y dejar que ellos dieran el primer paso.
Como no lo hice mejor, busqué en la cabaña y descubrí una pequeña colección de libros escondida en un armario viejo. Presumiblemente, el Guardián anterior los había dejado atrás cuando dejó su puesto. La colección incluía algunas novelas clásicas, libros de poesía y obras de no ficción como la historia local. No soy un gran lector, pero hay un libro relacionado con la historia de la isla que despertó mi interés.
Regresé a mi silla junto a la chimenea con el libro en la mano y comencé a hojear las páginas. Me sorprendió cuando una hoja de papel escondida en la cubierta del libro se soltó y cayó al suelo. Curioso, me incliné y recogí el papel, levantándolo hacia la luz para verlo mejor.
En la página había una nota redactada apresuradamente, que consistía en garabatos desordenados que parecía que alguien la había escrito con poco tiempo o bajo un estrés extremo. Con cierta dificultad pude transcribir el contenido, que decía lo siguiente:
"Si estás leyendo esto, probablemente ya estoy muerto … Un cliché que conozco, pero he estado bajo mucho estrés, ¡así que dame un jodido descanso!" Soy el antiguo guardián de esta isla. Pensé que sería un trabajo fácil, poco trabajo por un buen salario. Pero mis empleadores no me dijeron la verdad sobre este lugar y fui increíblemente ingenua.
Probablemente espere que le imparta conocimientos que le salvarán la vida: un conjunto de reglas que debe seguir si quiere sobrevivir. Bueno, lo siento mucho, pero no tengo nada. La verdad es que te jodieron tan pronto como saliste del muelle.
Por supuesto, puedo decirte algo sobre los fantasmas y demonios que conocerás … Pero, ¿por qué estropear la sorpresa? Además, los espíritus están atrapados aquí: víctimas casuales que han estado atrapadas por la eternidad. Él gobierna este lugar abandonado de Dios con mano de hierro. Nada se le escapa y nadie se le escapa. No puedes vencerlo. Créame, lo intenté …
Después de escribir esta carta tengo la intención de suicidarme. Esta es la única salida que veo. Espero que mi cuerpo sea arrastrado por el mar, permitiendo que mi alma escape de esta prisión infernal … Si eres religioso, reza por mí … ”
La nota terminaba ahí. No estaba firmado ni fechado, por lo que no había ninguna indicación de quién lo escribió ni cuándo. Pudo haber sido un engaño o algún tipo de broma enfermiza. Este pensamiento cruzó brevemente por mi mente, pero en mi corazón creí que la nota era genuina. Supuse que mi predecesor se asustó y renunció, regresando sano y salvo al continente para reanudar su vida. Pero ahora parecía que estaba muerto aquí, solo, asustado y desesperado.
Sentí una inmensa simpatía por esta pobre persona y rabia contra mi misterioso empleador. Sabía de antemano en lo que me estaba metiendo, pero mi predecesor era ciego, había alimentado a los lobos, por así decirlo. En ese momento juré exponer a esta oscura organización por lo que le había hecho.
La nota de suicidio escrita apresuradamente no me dijo mucho, pero confirmó lo que ya sospechaba: había algo más aquí, una entidad más poderosa y peligrosa que la mente promedio, que tenía una especie de control sobre esta pequeña isla abandonada.
Admito que sentí un escalofrío a través de mí mientras releía la nota, antes de doblar el papel y guardarlo cuidadosamente en mi bolsillo. Lo que enfrenté aquí en la isla fue probablemente mi mayor desafío hasta la fecha, y realmente temía por mi seguridad, dado el trágico resultado de mi predecesor. Pero yo no iba a entrar en este ciego y creía que mis habilidades especiales y mi sexto sentido me ayudarían a pasar.
Mirando hacia atrás, ahora me doy cuenta de que estaba demasiado confiado. No obstante, tuve dificultades para dormir esa noche, sentada en mi cama individual, escuchando el viento golpeando las paredes de mi cabaña. Mi mente seguía recorriendo las enigmáticas palabras contenidas en la carta garabateada apresuradamente de mi difunto predecesor.
¿Qué vivía aquí en esta isla abandonada? ¿Qué podría ser tan poderoso que podría atrapar y controlar a los espíritus? No lo sabía, pero imaginé que lo descubriría pronto. Después de varias horas, finalmente logré quedarme dormido, solo para ser despertado groseramente en las primeras horas de la mañana.
Salté de la cama cuando lo escuché, teniendo que recordarme rápidamente dónde estaba y qué estaba haciendo aquí. Escuché gritos fuera de la ventana de mi habitación: hombres gritando y chillando, metal chocando con metal. Parecía que se estaba librando una batalla a gran escala.
Sentí una repentina oleada de adrenalina, en parte de miedo y en parte de emoción. Eso es todo, pensé. Los espíritus habían pasado por nuestro plano de existencia, lo que me permitió escucharlos y, con suerte, verlos. Rápidamente salté de la cama y me vestí, agarrando mi pesado abrigo y la linterna mientras salía corriendo.
Ya no llovía, pero seguían soplando fuertes vientos sobre el país y hacía mucho frío. Caminé en la dirección de los sonidos que parecían provenir del sur de la isla, notando cuán intensos se volvían cuanto más me acercaba. Poco después, pude escuchar los gritos agonizantes de los hombres con un dolor extremo. Me preguntaba qué horrible escena me esperaba, pero sabía que tenía que seguir adelante.
Subí una pequeña colina y me quedé conmocionado y consternado por lo que presencié. El sitio del antiguo monasterio – estaba en llamas. Feroces llamas se elevaron hacia el frío cielo nocturno, envolviendo las antiguas ruinas y la vegetación circundante. No era solo un sueño viviente o una ilusión paranoica. De hecho, podía sentir el calor de las llamas contra mi piel y oler el humo en mis fosas nasales.
Me paré en la ladera de la colina, aturdido mientras miraba el poderoso fuego. Todavía podía escuchar los sonidos de la batalla, pero se estaban desvaneciendo, sugiriendo que la matanza casi había terminado. De repente vi una figura oscura que se movía rápidamente en mi dirección, huyendo de las llamas. Apunté con mi linterna a la figura que corría y la vi claramente por primera vez.
Lo que presencié claramente no era una persona viva. Era la mente de un hombre de mediana edad, delgado y demacrado, y con un rostro de palidez fantasmal. Estaba vestido con una túnica de color marrón oscuro, que le cubría el cuerpo de la cabeza a los pies, y noté un crucifijo de madera colgando de su cuello. Rápidamente llegué a la conclusión de que este hombre era un monje, o al menos una vez lo había sido.
Continuó corriendo pero claramente estaba luchando, jadeando de cansancio mientras huía de las llamas. De repente, una segunda figura emergió de las sombras, persiguiendo al monje que huía y cerrando rápidamente la brecha. Alumbré con mi luz al recién llegado, revelando lo que solo puedo describir como un guerrero medieval, vestido con una túnica de cuero grueso y con un casco de metal para proteger su cabeza.
Sostenía un poderoso hacha en su musculoso brazo derecho, y noté que la hoja ya estaba empapada de sangre. Lucía una barba tupida y desgreñada, y su rostro estaba arrugado por la rabia. Il a crié avec une haine inhumaine alors qu'il chargeait, et je ne pouvais que le regarder avec une horreur choquée alors qu'il s'attaquait au moine sans défense par derrière, lui enfonçant sa puissante hache dans la espalda.
El monje gritó de dolor mientras caía al suelo. Vi el dolor en sus ojos mientras trataba desesperadamente de arrastrarse por la hierba empapada de sangre, jadeando mientras luchaba por respirar cada vez. El guerrero estaba de pie sobre él, disfrutando del sufrimiento del monje mientras se inclinaba y sacaba el hacha de la espalda de su víctima.
El guerrero se ríe sádicamente antes de golpear a su víctima indefensa una y otra vez, masacrando al monje sin piedad mientras rocía su sangre en todas direcciones. Finalmente, el monje dejó de moverse. Una vez que completó su tarea de oso pardo, el hombre del hacha levantó la cabeza y miró en mi dirección, aparentemente solo notándome por primera vez.
Me paré en la colina mirando a esta entidad cruel mientras me miraba a través del vacío. Para mi horror, vi que sus ojos eran de color negro azabache, sin alma y aparentemente desprovistos de cualquier rastro de humanidad. Me miró con sus ojos oscuros y llenos de odio y me dio una sonrisa cruel y sádica.
En ese momento, una ola de terror me invadió. Había sentido miedo antes, por supuesto, después de encontrarme con espíritus hostiles que me asustaban. Pero nunca antes había temido por mi seguridad física … por mi vida. Mi instinto me dijo que corriera y eso es lo que hice. Escuché un rugido sediento de sangre y el ruido sordo de botas. Mirando por encima de mi hombro, vi al Guerrero persiguiéndome con su hacha en la mano. Obviamente, él tenía la intención de hacerme lo mismo que hizo con el monje.
J'ai couru pour ma vie, aussi vite que mes jambes me portaient, fuyant vers le seul endroit où je pouvais, vers le sanctuaire de la maison du gardien. Je l'ai à peine fait, mon sang pompant et mon souffle court alors que je courais dans la maison, claquant la porte et la verrouillant derrière moi.
Un instant plus tard, j'entendis un gros coup de l'autre côté de la porte, suivi de près par un rire cruel… et puis, rien que le silence.
Je n'ai pas dormi un clin d'œil cette nuit-là, au lieu de cela, j'ai barricadé les portes et les fenêtres tout en montant la garde avec un tisonnier. Ce fut une nuit longue et terrifiante, mais il n'y eut plus d'incidents avant les premières lueurs de l'aube. Avec beaucoup d'appréhension, j'ai déverrouillé la porte le lendemain matin et je me suis aventuré à l'extérieur, tenant toujours le tisonnier à la main, même si je pensais qu'il n'offrirait que peu ou pas de protection contre un esprit vengeur.
J'ai immédiatement repéré la hache du guerrier, sa tête enfouie dans ma porte d'entrée et avec des empreintes digitales sanglantes recouvrant son manche en bois. J'ai ressenti un frisson glacial lorsque j'ai tendu la main pour toucher l'arme, notant à quel point l'acier était froid et le sang encore humide.
En l'occurrence, la hache était la seule preuve qui restait des événements de la veille. J'ai retracé mes pas à travers l'île mais n'ai trouvé aucune autre empreinte que la mienne, aucun moine mort ou traînée de sang, et aucune trace d'incendie. Je me sentais à la fois effrayé et excité après avoir considéré les implications. Ce dont j'avais été témoin la nuit précédente s'apparentait à une bulle temporelle, avec des esprits malveillants recréant un événement violent de l'histoire troublée de l'île.
J'ai pu confirmer mes soupçons après mon retour au chalet et en me référant au livre sur l'histoire locale. J'ai découvert comment le monastère avait été construit au 9ème siècle mais a été soumis à une attaque vicieuse par des raiders vikings en 923 après JC, avec des berserkers saccageant le monastère à la recherche de trésors et de reliques, avant de mettre tous les moines au fil de l'épée et de brûler la structure au sol. De toute évidence, le sang versé sur cette terre avait laissé une tache durable, un héritage tragique qui a traversé les siècles.
Le reste de la journée fut calme, mais je m'attendais vraiment à un autre incident cette nuit-là. Mais ma rencontre avec le berserker viking avait été trop proche, et j'ai réalisé que je devrais être plus prudent la prochaine fois, en observant à une distance sûre tout en ne révélant pas ma présence aux esprits.
Malgré mon rasage de près, j'étais déterminé à en savoir plus. Je me suis reposé cet après-midi-là, réussissant à dormir un peu pendant les heures de clarté et me forçant à manger, malgré le fait que mon estomac était noué.
J'ai attendu toute la nuit et je n'ai pas été déçu. Peu après 1 heure du matin, j'ai entendu des cris émanant de tout près, quelque part au nord. Quittant prudemment ma chaumière, je me glissai à travers le pays, suivant les bruits de cris et de cris de douleur. Le bruit menaçant m'a amené à l'emplacement du vieux village, où j'ai découvert un petit feu qui brûlait à l'intérieur de l'un des cottages en ruine.
Je me suis approché en me rapprochant, mais je me suis assuré de rester hors de vue, de rester bas et de me cacher derrière un rocher pendant que je regardais les événements se dérouler. J'avais ma torche avec moi mais je n'ai pas osé l'utiliser, de peur de révéler mon emplacement. Au lieu de cela, je devais me fier au clair de lune et à l'éclairage tamisé fourni par le feu.
J'ai vu une silhouette s'approcher du cottage, un homme vêtu d'une armure de métal semblant dater de l'ère Tudor, et portant une longue pique de guerre avec une pointe acérée à son extrémité. Le visage du soldat a été brièvement illuminé par la lune et, à ma grande horreur, j'ai remarqué ses yeux noirs de jais, les mêmes que ceux que j'avais vus sur le berserker viking.
Il marcha avec détermination, se dirigea vers le cottage en ruine et pénétra à l'intérieur. Ce qui s'est passé ensuite a été obscurci à ma vue, mais j'ai entendu un chahut et une voix crier, et un instant plus tard, le soldat Tudor est revenu, entraînant une malheureuse victime avec lui.
Le prisonnier n'était vêtu que de sous-vêtements souillés. Il semblait échevelé et en état de choc, du sang coulant de son nez cassé. J'ai remarqué à quel point sa peau était plus foncée que celle d'un Irlandais.
La victime a crié de douleur mais n'a reçu aucune pitié. J'ai reconnu la langue qu'il parlait alors qu'il plaidait pour sa vie. C'était de l'espagnol. Je ne comprenais pas toutes ses paroles, mais je pensais qu'il récitait une prière. Le soldat Tudor l'a frappé du revers de la main et lui a donné un violent coup de pied dans le ventre, le forçant à se mettre à genoux.
Le soldat rit cruellement, levant sa pique et la tenant sur la nuque de l'Espagnol. Il poussa lentement mais fermement la lame vers le bas, tranchant la chair et les os. Je regardais avec une consternation écoeurée les yeux de l'Espagnol se rouler dans la tête et sa bouche se remplir de sang noir.
Un instant plus tard, le soldat a sorti son arme et le corps flasque de sa victime est tombé dans la poussière. Le tueur a encore ri en voyant sa victime mourir d'une mort horrible. J'avais besoin de mettre ma main sur ma bouche pour m'empêcher de crier. Au lieu de cela, je n'ai rien fait – simplement me cacher et regarder le tueur s'attarder sur sa victime.
Finalement, le soldat leva sa pique et continua, s'éloignant du cottage jusqu'à ce qu'il disparaisse simplement dans la nuit noire, alors que son esprit méchant retournait dans l'autre royaume.
Quand j'ai été convaincu que c'était sûr, j'ai quitté ma cachette et suis retourné dans le sanctuaire relatif de mon chalet, encore traumatisé par ce que je venais de voir. Incapable de me reposer, j'ai fouillé le livre d'histoire et découvert l'histoire tragique de l'Espagnol perdu.
En 1588, le roi catholique d'Espagne Philippe II a levé une puissante armada de 130 navires de guerre, les envoyant au nord pour envahir l'Angleterre et renverser leur reine protestante, Elizabeth I. Cependant, les Espagnols ont subi une défaite surprise dans la Manche et ont été contraints à un longue retraite, naviguant à travers la mer du Nord et contournant l'Écosse, atteignant finalement la côte ouest de l'Irlande.
During this leg of their voyage, a combination of rough weather and poor navigation resulted in two dozen Spanish ships going down off the rocky coastline, leaving a trail of devastation reaching from Antrim down to Kerry. And one of the ships – La Muerte – hit the rocks off the west side of my island during a fierce storm.
Muerte’s crew and soldiers attempted to make it to shore, but the waves were so intense that they all drowned…all except for one – a single Spaniard who survived and found himself stranded on the island. Being a fellow Catholic and an enemy of England, the Spaniard gained the locals’ sympathy, and he was hidden and protected for a time. However, the Spaniard was ultimately betrayed by a farmer’s son who claimed a hefty reward from the English Crown in return for giving up the Spaniard’s location.
A party of English soldiers was dispatched to the island, and the Spaniard was quickly found and killed on the spot. This was the brutal slaying I’d witnessed that night. My heart went out to the poor man, who died scared and alone so far from home. And now his spirit was trapped in this God forsaken place, condemned to relive his horrible death over and over again.
First the Viking and the Monk, and now the English Soldier and the Spaniard…the violence I’d witnessed was taking its toll upon me, and I dreaded to think what horrors I would be forced to witness in the days and nights to come.
The next morning, I walked back out to the village to investigate. The weather had improved somewhat, and the winds had died down, for which I was grateful. As I expected, there were no signs of the violent events of the previous night, and the Spaniard’s body had disappeared without a trace. Still, I had an ominous feeling as I walked through the ruins of the old village, a presence I hadn’t experienced before during the daylight hours.
Suddenly I heard a new sound carried by the morning air, a soft sobbing which came from a small, wrecked cottage on the edge of the village. The structure was little more than bare stone walls overgrown by vines and grass, but there was someone inside – a woman by the sound of it, and she was clearly in distress.
I cautiously walked forward but then stopped dead in my tracks when I saw a figure approaching down the laneway. The newcomer was a tall man dressed in a black police uniform, complete with a peaked cap and heavy boots. He carried a long baton in his right hand, swinging it back and forth with menacing intent as he marched.
He whistled as he came, acting like he didn’t have a care in the world, but when I looked into his eyes I saw darkness, the same soulless black orbs as I’d seen on the Viking and the English Soldier from the previous nights. It didn’t take a genius to work out the connection. These were all wicked spirits, possibly under the control of a greater and more powerful demonic entity.
I was caught out in the open, standing in the middle of the road in broad daylight with no cover in sight. Nevertheless, the policeman showed no interest in me, instead proceeding straight to the cottage, banging his baton aggressively against the stone wall.
The ghoulish policeman tapped his foot impatiently as he waited. I heard the sobbing grow louder, and eventually a solitary figure emerged from inside the small cottage. The woman’s appearance shocked and distressed me greatly.
It was difficult to determine her age, given her far her health had deteriorated, although I guessed she was a young woman, or had been at the time of her death. She was so emaciated that the skin was practically hanging from her bones, and I reckoned there wasn’t an ounce of fat on her entire body.
I looked into her eyes and saw nothing but misery, pain, and an intense hunger. She was dressed in filthy rags and clutched a blanket close to her breast. I dreaded to imagine what was wrapped inside it. She looked up at the baton-wielding policeman, her eyes welling up with tears as she pleaded with him.
Predictably, the cruel policeman had no sympathy, instead grabbing the poor woman by her straggly hair and physically dragging her away from the cottage doorway and towards the lane, using his baton to smack her hard on the back of her legs, forcing her to walk forward.
I felt anger rising in the pit of my stomach as I watched the policeman continue to abuse the woman, as she struggled with each step he forced her to take. I knew it wasn’t wise to intervene in a paranormal event, but I couldn’t stomach standing idly by and watching this heinous crime.
I stepped forward, determined to intervene, although I didn’t know whether this would even be physically possible. Suddenly, the starved woman collapsed by the roadside, seemingly unable to continue. The unsympathetic policeman showed no compassion, literally kicking her while she was down.
I rushed past him and went to the woman’s aid, not knowing what I could do but feeling I needed to at least to try. As soon as I approached, my nostrils were filled with the foul stench of death, almost making me retch. The poor woman’s appearance was even more pitiful close up, her face emaciated and her eyes sunken.
She attempted to open her bone-dry lips and speak, but she could not produce any words. Instead, she exhausted her remaining strength to lift her pencil thin arms, holding aloft whatever was wrapped in the tattered old blanket she carried with her.
With some trepidation, I reached out with a shaking hand, gently touching the blanket and feeling the rough fabric against my skin. I slowly pulled the rag back before recoiling in horror and disgust by what I saw underneath – a dead baby, its skin appearing like leather and its tiny body wasted away to almost nothing. I could not determine the baby’s gender, but his or her eyes were shut forever.
This was the most tragic and heart wrenching sight I had ever witnessed. The mother looked up at me with pleading eyes. She wanted me to save her child, but it was already too late. I was so caught up in the tragic scene that I forgot all about the cruel policeman, that was until he was right on top of me, glaring down upon me with his jet black eyes, holding his baton aloft, ready to strike.
He opened his mouth to reveal a gaping hole and spoke in an otherworldly voice, shouting – “Get back, you rotten cur!”
And then he swung his baton, striking me hard on my forehead. I suffered a blinding pain within my skull and fell backwards, landing heavily in the dirt. I must have blacked out for a moment, but when I came to, my head was still throbbing, and when I reached up to touch my forehead, I felt a trickle of blood coming from an open wound – real pain, and real blood.
After I regained my senses and managed to stand, I soon discovered that the spirits had disappeared – the mother and her dead baby, the sadistic policeman…all were gone.
I sluggishly managed to make my way back to the cottage, where I used the first aid kit to patch up my head wound. Luckily, my injury wasn’t as bad as I feared it might be, once I washed away the blood. Still, the policeman’s assault had proved what I previously suspected – that the spirits here could do me physical harm.
Once I had rested and recovered, I picked up the history book, although I already knew which tragic historical event I had witnessed. The Great Famine. The result of a potato blight and criminal negligence by the British government and Anglo-Irish landlords, resulting in the deaths of over 1 million people and the emigration of close to 2 million in the years that followed.
Ireland is a country with a tragic history, but the famine of the 1840’s was by far the most devastating event, its grim legacy lasting even to the current day. Unsurprisingly, my island had not escaped the devastation, at its population was reduced from over 200 to less than 50 in only ten short years.
And there was another cruel twist to the island’s history during this era. The family that owned the island back then was named Burke. However, the landlord during the famine was absentee, meaning he lived in luxury in England whilst relying on local agents to collect rent from his starving tenants, and using the constabulary to evict those who could not pay.
This was the scene I had witnessed being recreated by the spirits – a starved mother and her already deceased baby, forced from their home and left to die by the roadside. She was one of the thousands who’d suffered the same horrific fate during the famine.
I felt both saddened and angered by what I’d witnessed, but also afraid. My visions were becoming more vivid…more real. It was now clear that I was in physical danger, and I dreaded what would come next.
I rested for the rest of that day and the night. Mercifully, the spirits left me alone that night, although perhaps they were just toying with me. I waited until dusk before venturing out and walking the island, hoping to pre-empt the next paranormal event. I walked along the eastern side of the island, somehow believing I would find someone or something out there. I wasn’t disappointed.
What I heard was a soft singing coming from the direction of the old manor house, a sorrowful ballad sung by a woman. The sad words drew me in, like a siren leading a sailor towards the rocks. I felt a powerful draw pulling me towards the manor house, and I threw caution to the wind as I followed the sound.
I saw her standing on a small hill to the rear of the ruined building, looking out to sea and the mainland beyond. The woman was dressed all in white, her long blonde hair flowing in the wind, and her deep blue eyes filled with sorrow and mourning. She was undoubtedly very pretty, or at least had been when she was alive, and her singing voice was a thing of beauty.
I didn’t recognise the song, but the words moved me, almost bringing a tear to my eye. As I approached, I half expected a violent event to play out before me, for some variety of hellish ghoul to appear and do something unspeakable to the lady in white. But this did not happen.
As I walked closer, the spirit woman acknowledged my presence for the first time, turning to face me, her long dress flowing as she did so. And then she spoke.
“Do not worry good sir. My time has not arrived quite yet. I still have a few moments to savor before my demon comes for me.”
I stood glued to the spot, awestruck and astonished by the woman who stood before me, and had just spoken directly to me. Now, I had communicated with spirits before of course, but never so clearly. This was like having a one-to-one conversation with a real person. But I couldn’t forget that this woman was dead, and she didn’t belong in this world.
The lady was radiant, almost glowing, but her eyes were lacking something – the glint one would expect to see in the those of a living, breathing human being. I opened my mouth but struggled to find the words.
“…What…who are you?” I asked nervously.
She scoffed dismissively before answering.
“Is this what passes for manners in your time, young sir? Standards seem to have dropped considerably since my demise…Well, I suppose its left to me to introduce myself. My name is Lady Elizabeth Burke, and I am – or rather was – the last owner of this house.”
She nodded to the crumbling ruin behind her, before looking back out to the sea, sorrowfully casting her dead eyes upon the far distant mainland. It took me a moment to get my thoughts in order and figure out the connection.
“You’re related to Lord Burke. The landlord who evicted his tenants during the famine.” I stated.
She nodded her head in shame.
“My grandfather,” she confirmed, “A cruel and greedy man. I believe he only set foot upon this island twice in his whole life, and he cared nothing for the people.” She shook her head before continuing, “My father had no sons, so I inherited the house and estate. I considered myself a strong and independent minded woman and took part in protests for women’s suffrage during my youth.
I was determined to do things differently, to make up for the wrongs committed by my grandfather. I made this place my home and tried to treat my tenants fairly…but, the Irish have long memories…”
She sighed aloud. I was listening intently as she told her sad story. I hadn’t asked to hear her tale, but I felt she needed to tell it.
“The country changed dramatically after the Great War. There was a revolution, followed by a civil war. I should have left the island while I had the chance, but I was too stubborn. Pride was my sin, I suppose…”
She fell silent for a time as a terrible sadness seemed to come over her. I felt it necessary to prompt her.
“How did you die?” I asked.
I swore I saw a tear drop from her eye as she replied in an emotional tone.
“It was the 23rd August 1922. A hot summer’s night as I recall. He came shortly after dusk – just a local boy with hatred in his heart, seeking vengeance for the suffering of his ancestors. He set the house on fire…I couldn’t escape…”
I lowered my head, my heart saddened by this woman and her tragic tale. It wasn’t just the circumstances of her death that saddened me, but the fact that she was still trapped here, almost a century later. I didn’t wish to add to the woman’s suffering, but there were still questions I needed answers to.
“You are the first spirit who has spoken to me, why is this so?” I inquired.
“I died more recently than the others you’ve encountered thus far.” she replied, “I was the youngest of the spirits here on the island, that was until the man who came before you…But you’ll meet him yourself soon enough.”
She looked me in the eye before speaking her next words, her cold eyes bringing a chill down my spine.
“Besides, I wanted to show myself to you, and to speak with you. I saw you go to the aid of the starving mother. You tried to help her. You have compassion young sir, although little good it will do you here…”
I gulped, deeply concerned by what she was telling me. However, this did lead nicely to my next question.
“What is it that keeps you here?” I asked with a quaking voice, half fearing the answer I would receive, “Why can’t you pass over?”
She surprised me by laughing out loud before replying. “He hasn’t revealed himself to you yet. Of course he hasn’t. He enjoys toying with his victims first you see. The locals call him Dullahan – the headless horseman. Some say he’s an embodiment of the Celtic God of Death, while others maintain he’s a demon come up from Hell. Legend has it, he once ruled the mainland, but was banished to this island during the time of Saint Patrick.
“And so, here he has remained, trapping and imprisoning anyone foolish enough to step into his domain. Fools like me…” She paused to glare directly into my eye before continuing, “And now you…”
In that moment I felt a primal terror, and for the first time I truly questioned my decision to come here. I noticed how the sun had set, cloaking the island in darkness. The Lady sighed again, before performing a half curtesy and bidding me farewell.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me good sir, I have a prior engagement to attend.”
With that, she gracefully turned on her heels and walked back towards the manor house, her dress and hair blowing in the cold evening’s air, until her physical form disappeared, melting away into the night.
I was still in a state of shocked confusion as I made my way back to the cottage. What I’d seen and heard, the terrible truths which the late Lady Burke had revealed to me – I couldn’t come to terms with it, now realising without doubt that I was in over my head.
I was oblivious as I wandered through the fields, and as night fell upon the island. A war-like cry in the distance was enough to bring me back to reality. I looked back to the ruined manor house, seeing a shadowy figure rapidly approach, carrying something burning in his right hand. He looked like nothing more than a child, a teenage boy wearing a peaked cap and with a red bandanna barely covering his mouth and nose.
He sprinted across the field, quickly covering the distance as he sprinted towards the house. The crudely built fire-bomb he carried looked like a sod of burning turf, with fencing wire pushed through to make a throwing handle. As he came closer to his target, I saw the blackness in his eyes, the same demonic look I’d witnessed before with the other entities, those sent to torment and destroy.
I could only look on in horror as the boy tossed his firebomb through the empty window frame of the house, cheering with sadistic glee as the flames quickly spread though the building’s interior. And then I saw her again – Lady Burke, now stood on the upper floor of the manor house, looking out wistfully as the fire tore through the structure below her.
She didn’t attempt to flee or save herself, merely seeming resigned to her terrible fate, reliving the nightmare she’d suffered so many times before. I saw the flames rising and experienced a surge of adrenaline, momentarily believing I could rescue Lady Burke from her terrible fate.
I sprinted towards the inferno, making it as far as the house’s front entrance, before the thick smoke and intense flames forced me back. I coughed and spluttered, struggling to see through the smoke as I looked upwards, seeing Lady Burke for the last time, looking into her sad, lost eyes as she moved away from the window, calmly turning around and walking into the flames, accepting her fate and eternal damnation.
My clothes still stank of smoke and my eyes were stinging by the time I made it back to the cottage. Nevertheless, I grabbed hold of my history book, determined to find out the whole story of that fateful night during the summer of 1922.
This was a time of political turmoil throughout Ireland. After the Great War, a violent revolution began, with the Irish Republican Army pitted against British forces. The Irish republicans won, but their revolution was incomplete, with the Anglo-Irish Treaty partitioning the island and forcing Southern representatives to take an oath of allegiance to the British Crown.
A resulting split in the republican movement led to a brutal civil war. In the chaos which followed, some sought revenge on old enemies, with many of the hated ‘big houses’ owned by Anglo-Irish landlords being burnt to the ground. While the war raged on the mainland, resentment brewed on the island, and the manor house was set ablaze in an arson attack, killing Lady Burke, and adding yet another chapter to the island’s tragic history.
There were tears in my eye as I finished reading. None of this was news to me of course. However, what Lady Burke had told me certainly was new information and it wasn’t good. I now knew what was happening on the island went well beyond any of my previous experiences with the paranormal.
These dark eyed entities held malicious intent, and they were capable of physically hurting the living, as the baton-wielding policeman who attacked me had already proved. But it wasn’t just these evil spirits I had to worry about now, it was the supernatural deity that controlled them – Dullahan, the Ancient Celt’s God of Death.
This was an entity with powers way beyond anything I’d previously encountered. I couldn’t sleep that night; tossing and turning, and jumping at every sound. For the first time in years I was truly afraid. It wasn’t just death I feared. After all, I know for a fact there is an afterlife. What did terrify me was the prospect of my spirit being trapped in this hellish place, tormented for all eternity by this wicked deity.
I still had two nights to get through before the fisherman would return, and I had no doubt that Dullahan would come for me before then. My only hope was to fight him, to discover his weakness. I needed information, and there was still a missing piece to the puzzle.
My predecessor. The former custodian who’d left the note for me to find, before taking his own life by jumping off the western cliffs. If his spirit was still trapped here, then I needed to seek him out and find a way to communicate with him. I believed this was my only hope of survival.
I didn’t dare to leave my sanctuary until dawn, fearing the creatures that I knew stalked the fields and beaches under the cover of darkness. After sunrise, I cautiously made my way through the rock-strewn fields and ruined buildings, approaching the cliffs on the island’s western side.
Peering over the edge, I saw the sheer drop, almost one hundred feet down to the sharp rocks below. I watched, mesmerised by the sights and sounds of the mighty waves crashing against the cliffside. The strong gale shook me as I looked out to sea. To the west there was nothing but open ocean, the mighty Atlantic, and no land between here and America.
I didn’t hear him approach and was taken completely off guard, the shock of hearing him speak almost sent me over the cliff’s edge.
“I wouldn’t recommend it.” He said.
I jumped, turning around to see a solitary figure standing about 6 feet behind me, his pale skin barely illuminated by the morning sun. He appeared as a man about my age, dark haired and with stubble on his chin. He wore modern clothes; denim jeans, white trainers, and a black bomber jacket. I wouldn’t have guessed he was dead if I hadn’t already known.
True, his eyes were lacking something, and on closer inspection I realised his spark of life was gone. But otherwise, he appeared just like a living and breathing human being. Then again, he was the most recently deceased spirit, which also explained how he was able to communicate with me so clearly.
I stood there, frozen to the spot and just staring at him, unable to think of what to say to this poor wretch. In the end, it was the spirit who broke the silence.
“What’s the matter mate? You look like you’ve seen a ghost?”
He surprised me again by laughing at his own joke. It seemed he’d retained his sense of humour, despite his terrible situation. I struggled to open my mouth, forcing the words from my lips.
“You’re the old custodian. You left the note for me to find…”
The spirit nodded his head solemnly, before confirming what I’d already guessed.
“Yeah, that was me mate. Didn’t do you much good though, did it? You still came out here to find me. Still, your fate was sealed as soon as you set foot on this God forsaken rock.”
I felt a cold chill run through me upon hearing those words. There was a lump in my throat as I forced myself to reply.
“What is your name?” I asked sheepishly.
The spirit looked puzzled by the very question, pausing before making his response.
“Well, around here they just call me the ‘custodian’ or ‘the mainlander’, but back when I was alive, I was called Davy. That’s what my friends knew me as anyway…” He laughed again before continuing, “I guess you’re the closest thing I have to a friend here, so Davy it is, I reckon!”
I didn’t quite know what to make of Davy. In all my years as a paranormal investigator, I’d never encountered a spirit like him.
“You took your own life.” I stated in a matter-of-fact tone, “Threw yourself off the cliff.”
He lowered his head, a sadness evident in his otherwise dead eyes as he spoke.
“Yeah, I did so. Believe it or not, it seemed like my best option at the time. I thought I could escape him, but I died as soon as my body hit the rocks, and now I’m trapped here…forever. A plaything for that sick fuck to torment until the end of days.”
I nodded my head sympathetically. I did feel bad for Davy – of course I did. His fate was horrifying. But, at the same time, I needed information from him, to learn the truth of what I was facing.
“You mean Dullahan, don’t you? He’s the one who’s keeping you trapped here.”
Davy snorted before replying. “Yeah, it’s him. It’s always been him. A headless horseman crossed with an ancient Celt God, ruling over an army of demonic minions. They didn’t mention him in the job description, did they?”
I could tell Davy was frightened, even if he was masking it with humour. He may be dead, but he remained in constant fear of this vile entity. Nevertheless, I needed to push for more.
“There must be a way to defeat him. He’s got to have a weakness.”
“None that I could find,” Davy replied, with a hint of anger evident in his voice, “Do you think I would have killed myself, if there’d been any other way?”
He paused, pointing to the gold crucifix I wore around my neck, the family keepsake I’d forgotten all about.
“You can put your faith in Jesus if you want. It might help, but I wouldn’t bet on it!”
Needless to say, I wasn’t reassured by his advice. I wanted to pump him for more information, but there was no more time.
Davy looked up at the rising sun with a deep sorrow in his eyes, as he stepped forward towards the cliff’s edge.
“I would love to stay longer and chat, but alas I have a prior engagement.”
I became anxious, frantically looking from side-to-side as I scanned the horizon.
“Your tormentor…is he coming for you?” I asked fearfully.
He stopped just inches from the cliff’s edge, turning to face me with a wicked grin on his lips. I looked into his eyes and was shocked to see they’d turned jet black.
“I killed myself, remember?” he answered, his voice suddenly becoming deep and disconnected, “I am my own tormentor.”
And a second later, he stepped off the edge. I gasped in disbelief, peering down just in time to see Davy fall, his form hitting the rocks below, before he disappeared beneath the crashing waves.
By the time I’d watched my predecessor jump from the cliffs I’d realised two things. Firstly, I knew that I had to get off this island, otherwise I would die here, and my spirit would be trapped in this hell until the end of time. But I also knew I would have to wait until the fisherman returned with his boat, and he wasn’t due for another 24 hours.
That meant I had to survive another day and night on the island. My only link to the mainland was the two-way emergency radio in my cottage. But try as I might, I couldn’t get in contact with anyone, as my frantic SOS calls were answered by nothing but static. I felt certain that Dullahan was responsible. Whoever or whatever he was, Dullahan clearly called all the shots out here.
He’d been toying with me thus far, showing me his power and demonstrating what terrors awaited me under his cruel dominion. Dullahan surely realised this was my last night in his realm, and so he would come for me after nightfall, seeking to claim my soul before the first light of dawn.
Its an odd thing, but I spent that final day in a state of relative calm, despite the extreme danger I found myself in. The sun was shining, and the winds had died down, allowing me to walk the island, taking in its unique sights and sounds one last time.
It really is a beautiful place, set right on the edge of the world. I could sense the spirits as I walked through the fields, along the beaches, and past the ruins. I heard them call out to me, their voices carried by the light breeze. There was so much tragedy here of course – the wars, the famine, and all the evil Dullahan had inflicted over the centuries. But in spite of all this pain and suffering, there were happy memories here, a triumph of the human spirit and the will to survive against all the odds.
But nevertheless, the ghosts trapped here yearned for freedom, dreaming of being able to pass over to the other side. They begged for my help, pleading to be set free. My heart bled for them, but there was nothing I could do. I was fighting for my own survival after all, and frankly I didn’t expect to live to see another day.
The hours passed by slowly as I watched the sun set on the western horizon, over the rough waters of the mighty Atlantic. I returned to the cottage as darkness gradually crept across the island. I wasn’t naïve enough to think I would be safe there, but it was the only place on the island connected to the modern world, and I wanted to read the history book again under an electric light, in the last-ditch hope of finding something – anything – that might help me in the fight to come. But there was nothing. I was truly alone.
I awoke in the early hours to an unholy din. Jumping up from the sofa, I took a moment to regain my senses. I couldn’t believe that I’d fallen asleep. This hadn’t been my intention, but I was so exhausted that I must have dropped off.
The sound I heard was horrifying, something akin to the unholy screech of a banshee, interspersed with a cruel high-pitched cackle, a sadistic laughter which drowned out every other sound. I felt an icy chill of terror pulsating through me when I realised what this surely meant. Dullahan was here. My time had come.
The ominous noises grew louder and closer. I heard the sound of horses galloping, and of men crying out for bloody murder. It seemed like the legions of hell were descending upon me.
I found myself frozen to the spot, the terror I felt was so all encompassing. I considered barricading the doors and windows of my small cottage and hiding myself away in the vain hope I could survive the night. But I knew this was pointless. Dullahan controlled everything on this island, and he would find a way in. Besides, despite my fear, I had the fire of defiance in my belly, and so I decided I would rather face this monster head on.
A moment later, I opened the front door before cautiously stepping out. The first thing I noticed was how cold it had become, freezing in fact. The temperature on the island seemed to have dropped by several degrees in a matter of minutes. The next thing that hit me was the foul stench – similar to rotting flesh. The smell was so bad that it made me retch.
When I looked up, I saw him for the first time – his hideous carriage illuminated by the moonlight. I can honestly say that I’ve never seen anything so horrifying and vile in my entire life.
Dullahan is in fact a headless horseman. Dressed all in black, he literally held his decapitated head in his skeleton-like left hand. The head itself consisted of rotting flesh, having the colour and consistency of mouldy cheese. And yet, it was still alive – his mouth forming a wicked and impossibly wide grin, stretching from cheek to cheek and revealing rotten yellow teeth.
And his eyes were filled with malice and hatred, constantly darting from side-to-side until they eventually focused upon me, appearing like the hungry eyes of a predator sizing up its prey.
The wagon he rode upon looked like something from a twisted nightmare. The horses were black and emaciated, their shredded flesh falling from the bone. I noticed how Dullahan held what looked like a removed human spine in his right hand, which he apparently used as a whip.
The wagon itself was of a macabre design, stitched together with assorted body parts. Its covering looked like it was fashioned from dried human skin, and the wheels appeared to be made from bone. The carriage was adorned with funeral objects, including skulls containing lit candles, their dim light shining a path for the hellish vehicle.
Behind the carriage stood Dullahan’s demonic minions, the four black-eyed malevolent spirits I’d previously encountered – the Viking Berserker, the Tudor Soldier, the Policeman, and the Young Rebel. They were all armed with their weapons of choice, and all stared right at me with their cold, dead eyes. But all four held back. Clearly, they were subservient to Dullahan and completely under his control. My soul was his to claim, and so his minions were only here to watch.
I was still trying to take in the terrifying scene before me when Dullahan omitted another cruel, shrieking cackle from his severed head. The din was so loud that I thought my head would explode, as I dropped down to my knees and covered my ears with my hands.
The hideous laughter continued unabated, but I fought through it, getting back on my feet and raising my head to meet my assailant’s eye. If I was going to die, I wanted to at least go with some dignity. I screamed my lungs out, trying in vain to be heard over his vile laughter.
“Begone foul beast! Leave me be!” I cried.
I don’t know what I expected to achieve by this outburst. Certainly, Dullahan was not impressed. Instead of retreating, he lashed out – swinging his whip and striking me hard across my chest. I experienced a sharp burst of intense pain, screaming out in agony as I fell backwards, landing heavily on my back.
I almost passed out from the pain, but when I opened my eyes, I was horrified to see him standing over me, holding aloof his hideous severed head in one hand while reaching out for me with the other. I was helpless, completely at his mercy…and of course, Dullahan has no mercy.
My panicked brain was running on overdrive, as the fight or flight impulse kicked in. Suddenly, I remembered what Davy had told me, his flippant advice about putting my faith in a higher power. So, with a shaking hand, I reached for the small gold crucifix hanging around my neck, holding it aloft in the minuscule hope that it would offer me some protection. I didn’t expect it to work of course, but I was desperate and out of options.
The sight of the cross had no visible affect upon Dullahan. He simply continued to laugh, reaching out with his bony hand and grabbing the cross, roughly pulling my necklace free. I was sure he would kill me there and then, but the strangest thing happened. I watched in astonishment as the beast’s hand began to burn, and he cried out in pain and confusion, dropping my grandmother’s necklace in the process.
Suddenly, all hell broke loose. Dullahan retreated, still screaming as he fled back towards the wagon with his severed head in hand. But the horses had already bolted, tearing across the fields and forcing their headless master to chase after them in a most undignified manner.
At the same time, the four evil spirits descended into a blind panic, fleeing in all directions, as they suddenly understood what it was like to be afraid.
I was truly astonished by this sudden turn of events and couldn’t believe I’d survived. With some difficulty, I pulled myself up, still feeling the pain from the strike of Dullahan’s whip. I reckoned I had a couple of cracked ribs, but this was a problem for later.
I looked up to the small hill overlooking the cottage and saw two figures standing there, watching me from afar. The light wasn’t great, but I recognised them nonetheless – Lady Burke and Davy, the lost spirits I’d encountered and spoken with over the previous days. I couldn’t tell for sure, but I thought they were smiling down upon me, proud that I had fought back and won.
However, I believed my victory would be short-lived. For the rest of the night, I hid away in the cottage, listening to the distant sounds of Dullahan’s hellish screams, and thumps of his horses’ hooves as they tore across the land. I fully expected the demon to return and finish what he’d started, and I didn’t think I’d survive to see the first lights of dawn.
And yet, somehow, I did.
Needless to say, I was standing on the jetty first thing, and I jumped onto the boat as soon as it arrived, leaving my luggage and possessions behind. None of that mattered anymore. I needed to get off the island, because I wouldn’t survive another night there.
I greeted the aging captain as my long-awaited saviour. He looked very surprised to see me still breathing. Our trip back to the mainland passed by mainly in silence. The fisherman didn’t say much, but I did notice the thin smile on his dry lips.
And, when we reached land, he patted me firmly on my back, and he said – “Well done, young man.”
After I got fixed up and went home, I made numerous attempts to track down my ‘employer’ and to contact the mysterious Mr Black, the man who’d interviewed me over the phone and offered me the job of custodian. Unsurprisingly, I had no luck. The original job advertisement had disappeared, Mr Black’s number was disconnected, and I found no trace of the corporation anywhere online. Predictably, I never received any salary.
Although I have little solid information to impart, I hope my cautionary tale will go some way to exposing this shadowy organisation, and in time we may be able to discover their true origins and aims. But this isn’t the only reason I’m sharing my story.
You see, I’m going back to the island. You probably think that I’m crazy or perhaps suicidal, but I have my reasons, and I’m not going unprepared. I’ve done my research – reading the ancient texts and folklore. I now know it wasn’t the sign of the cross that forced Dullahan to flee, it was the gold. This is his weakness.
And so, when I return, I will go armed with an arsenal of expensive and unusual weapons. I need to do this, to put an end to his evil reign once and for all, and to free all the poor souls trapped in endless loops of pain and suffering. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least try.
That said, I’m going back in the full knowledge that I might not survive this time, and my soul could become trapped like all the others. If the worst happens, I want my family and friends to understand why I’ve done this.
There’s not much more for me to say, other than to quote a well-known Irish blessing that I feel is somehow appropriate –
‘Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.’
Good luck, and I hope we meet again.
Credit : Finn MacCool
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