Ghost Storey Michael Fitzalan
Ghosts exists. They are not just in your head.
My mother’s Story
My mother was the first in our family to encounter the man shot in the half-landing bedroom.
George had taken the car to Galway driving the three children to collect some food for supper. Josephine was left alone in the house, a chance to relax. In the drawing room, the piano, polished to perfection, stood next to the sofa where she sprawled, finishing her book. A roaring peat and wood fire blazed in the grate; glowing brightly and emanating heat, driving out the damp and icy air. The peaty smoke sucked up the chimney left an earthy smell of bog behind.
The grandfather clock ticked away in the corner. The wide windows, one on the wall at the front of the house; the other on the side looked out over the wet fields. At the front of the house was a gravel drive that culminated in a circle allowing for carriages to turn around; at the side was an expanse of grass that led to a high dry-stone wall with a door in it.
Feeling secure, Jo relaxed. Dr. Murphy was on holiday, catching up on reading.
Outside the rain spat on the window, splattering onto the panes
It was 1956. Driving from London to Liverpool where the car had been winched by crane into the hold of a boat that sailed to Dublin harbour. Then, they decided to spend the night with Jo’s mother at Dundrum House, in Blackrock. As a result, they arrived at Balinrobe in the late afternoon, the summer’s sunshine was making the road to glisten and the fields to glow green.
Within ten minutes, they were turning into the property, passing the gatehouse. Settling into the house, they were to spend their fortnight holiday in August at the house where George had been born. George’s father had received the house as a dowry.
Because Ireland won independence from England; the British authorities sold off lands and properties, and the glebe went up for sale.
George’s grandfather from his mother’s side was a wool merchant; and at the start of the First World War he had bought up huge quantities of wool bales; thinking troops of both sides would need uniforms and blankets. The price of wool went higher than he imagined. This gave him the cash to buy the glebe. In that way, Mile Hill House became the Fitzpatrick’s home. Lily and Patrick had two sons George and Henry.
George met Jo at the Royal College of Surgeons, felt inlove with Joe and then they married.
Deliberately, turning the page slowly, Jo realized she had finished her book, P G Wodehouse’s ‘Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit’. Having a walk, she saw to her left was the porch and front door, to her right was the wide staircase.
There was a thick carpet on the steps, and she walked upstairs, slowly and deliberately, enjoying the fact it was not steep like the one at home.
At the half landing, she could see the six paned window that overlooked the stable-yard at the back of the house, the hay barn, at the end, filling up the frame. There were two identical rooms, narrow, single bedrooms for the staff, the one to the right was used as a bedroom still, the one to the left of the landing was used as a library where she intended to return the book and select another to wile away another half an hour.
As she walked into the room, a cold wind seemed to stir. Being very intuitive my mother noticed the change in atmosphere, it was cold that day, but the icy air seemed to be more like the one she had experienced in the morgues her pathology studies had necessitated her attending. It was deathly cold, she felt.
Written by Michael Fitzalan
