by Lila Dubois
That left only the second floor of this wing, which was a risk since he weighed more than the girl who had clearly fallen through. He climbed the circular stone stairs, feeling the worn places in the center of each tread. It was chillingly cold here, colder even than the second floor of the main wing. At the top of the staircase he found a hallway, the end of which was obscured by ivy, which had grown in through cracks and created a thick green curtain. Séan wondered if that was what the girl had gone to investigate—it was pretty, in a strange, sad way.
For a moment he thought he saw the curtain of ivy move and heard something almost like… He shook his head. There were probably rats in here.
The floor was wood, and he could see the gaping hole where the girl had fallen through. There was no way he could walk in the center, where the wood looked weakest, but he could see that at the edges wood floor was supported by stone. Careful to stay against the wall, where he was walking on wood-atop stone, he inched down the hall to the first door.
The room seemed frozen in in time—silk papered the walls, a small chandelier caught the last rays of sunlight and oilcloth-draped furniture seemed ready to have the covers drawn off. It was a room from a later period in the castle’s history, and one that had survived the neglect and failed renovations that left much of the rest of the castle a stony shell. The windows were intact and closed.
He’d started to pull the door closed when he saw her.
The shimmery gray figure stepped away from the wall. Her hair was long and as white as that of an old woman, though her face was young. She raised her hands toward him, eyes pleading. Séan froze, shocked and disbelieving.
Then the ghost’s face turned hard, her eyes disappearing until there were two gaping dark sockets in her face. Then she raised her hands and raked her nails down her cheeks, seeming to scrape strips of flesh from the bone. Her mouth opened, and kept opening, the gaping maw too large, the jaw dropped down like a snake’s.
He ran. He ran down the stairs and out of the castle, so desperate to escape that he broke a rib as he threw himself out of the one window he’d yet to board up. The sight of that woman in such pain haunted him. He’d run to the area where they’d parked the cars, only to find that everyone but him was gone, off to wake and bury the dead girl. Shaking from what he’d seen, he jumped into his father’s battered farm Jeep and raced home.
His mother was waiting for him with tea and freshly baked bread. She’d already heard they’d found the girl’s body. He’d opened his mouth to tell her what else had happened but stopped, not wanting to alarm her. Instead he’d gone out to the barn, silently rejoining his father as they went about the evening farming chores.
That night, sitting on the old stone fence outside the barn, he told his father what he’d seen. His father, a quiet, strong man, nodded as Séan spoke. He then helped him wrap up his ribs, as neither of them was a stranger to broken bones.
“Tomorrow, we will get help for her,” Séan’s father said.
“The girl who died?”
“The ghost.”
* * * *
The next day Séan and his father went to the parochial house. With his father sitting at his side, a mug of tea in hand, Séan explained what he’d seen. Their parish priest knew better than to tell anyone from around Glenncailty that ghosts weren’t real. When his tale was done, Séan, his father and the priest went out the castle, taking care that no one else saw them. It was mid-day, and pale white sunlight made Glenncailty valley glow a lush green. The silvery stones of the castle and the abandoned outbuildings seemed out of place, as if the glen were meant to be nothing but trees and grass, the human presence foreign and wrong.
Séan hesitated as they approached, but a quick look at his father and the priest helped him find his courage. His father climbed in the window that Séan had thrown himself out of the day before. With his help, and that of the priest, Séan was able to climb in without hurting his ribs too much. The priest passed the small case he carried when making house calls to Séan and then scrambled through the window after them.
They went to the top of the main stairs, where the priest’s words would echo through the first and second floors. Séan folded his hands and prayed as the priest blessed the property, casting all lingering souls into the arms of the Father. They then walked the other wings, the priest using burning incense and holy water to cleanse. When they reached the second floor of the west wing, Séan tensed. But there was nothing there except rotting wood and creeping ivy.
When it was done, Séan felt better. As they made their way down the stairs, he looked over his shoulder. For a moment he thought he could see pools of darkness, shadows with nothing there to cast them.
He didn’t know if the ghost he’d seen was one who’d haunted the place for centuries or that of the girl whose body he’d just found, but he hoped that she was gone and at peace. And that the shadows he’d seen were nothing more than his imagination.
* * * *
Eight years ago himself, his father and the parish priest had blessed the place, casting out the ghost he’d seen there, but for Séan it would always be haunted. Though the priest’s words had sent the ghost on from this life in to the Heavenly Father’s arms, the sadness of the living lingered here. His own memories were dark enough that in those eight years he’d never come back to Glenncailty Castle.
Chapter 1
The Cold Stones
Glenncailty Castle Grand Opening, Two Years Earlier
Séan Donnovan knew Glenncailty was haunted, knew it was not a fit place for any person. He wanted nothing to do with the darkness that draped it, and yet he found himself taking the road down to the castle on that Saturday night, parking in the freshly laid gravel lot and joining the press of people headed for the castle’s newly opened pub.
Séan wedged his Jeep into a space and got out. Standing in the dusk light, he examined the scene before him. Light and music spilled from the doors of the east wing, pushing away the quiet night and seeming to fill Glenncailty with life. There were lights on in the first floor of the main wing, but the west wing was dark.
“Surprised to see you here.”
Séan nodded to one of his mother’s friends, who had parked beside him. He held out his arm. “And a good evening to you, Mrs. Hennesy.”
Eve Hennesy patted his arm. “Your mother will be sad she missed this. Is she having a good time in the west?”
“She is.” Seam measured his stride to match hers.
“Just like your father, so quiet.” Mrs. Hennesy crossed herself. “God rest his soul.”
Séan looked up at the looming castle, touched by her words but not wanting to talk about his father’s death.
If not for Mrs. Hennesy on his arm, he would have gone back. His fear and distrust of the place was hard learned. Eight years ago a girl had died wandering the then-ruined castle. He’d been one of the people to find her body, and afterwards…
Before he could suppress it the memory of a shimmery gray figure with hair long and as white as that of an old woman but the smooth, lovely face of a girl. She’d raised her hands toward him, eyes pleading. The ghost’s face had turned hard, her eyes disappearing until there were two gaping dark sockets in her face. She’d raised her hands and raked her nails down her cheeks, seeming to scrape strips of flesh from the bone. Her mouth opened, and kept opening, the gaping maw too large, the jaw dropped down like a snake’s.
Séan stilled as cold swept through him. Luckily Mrs. Hennesy was waving at someone she knew and she didn’t notice that he was frozen. She patted his arm and took off, leaving him behind looking up at the forbidding stone walls.
He wanted to believe it was safe. All those years ago, after what he’d seen and been through, himself, his father and the parish priest had blessed the place, casting out the evil and darkness, but for Séan it would always be haunted. His memories were dark enough that in the eight years since he’d see the ghost he’d never come back to the castle.
Tonight was th
e grand opening of Glenncailty Castle, which was now not just their local ruin but a fancy hotel, restaurant and pub. In the past months, this end of the valley had been alive with people as the buildings were gutted and repaired. There’d even been some new additions to their little village as the owner of the castle, Seamus O’Muircheartaigh, brought in experienced people to staff and run the hotel.
It took Séan twenty minutes to make it from the door to the bar. The pub was full of people from Cailtytown, and he was greeted by friends and acquaintances with each step. The pub had only been open a few nights and the novelty—not only of having a pub of this size in their glen, but of being at Glenncailty Castle—had brought out most of the village.
It was strange to see everyone here, a place that for most of Séan’s life had been a dark blight in their little valley and the source of much of the suffering in their history. There was no one in this room who could claim ignorance of the castle’s past—what little was known of it. Built centuries ago as a fortified manor home for the Englishman who’d been “given” their land to rule, the castle was a part of their past and, until now, had no place in their future.
Séan’s father—dead a year now, may he rest in peace—had occasionally told stories about previous attempts to renovate and open the castle. None had ever succeeded. Both limbs and lives had been lost to the renovation attempts, and the overgrown grounds were treacherous to any who ventured onto them. Children had been maimed or died falling into overgrown wells, others crushed by stones as they tried to climb the crumbling walls of outbuildings.
As he looked around the pub, breathed in the smell of malt, chips and fresh wood, Séan wondered if this time it would be different. Previous attempts to bring the castle to life had been at the hands of Dubs, down from the city trying to impose themselves on a place and a people they saw as culchies.
Now it was the owner himself who’d undertaken the revitalization. The O’Muircheartaighs were nearly as old as the glen, and Séan had once heard that it was they who’d named it Glenncailty—valley of the lost.
He scanned the room again, idly curious if Seamus was here. The O’Muircheartaighs were a solitary group, and Séan wasn’t sure how many of them were still around. He knew Seamus, who’d been five years ahead of him in school, had gone off to Galway to university, then traveled and worked for nearly ten years before returning home. Now he was back and apparently planned to change their little corner of Ireland.
He scanned the room for Seamus, but instead he caught sight of her—the redhead.
Sorcha.
He’d seen beautiful women before. Even been with one or two. Sorcha was more than beautiful. There was something about her that called to him. The way she tilted her head, put her hands on her hips and laughed with her whole body made him want things he’d long ago stopped dreaming about.
He’d first met her two weeks ago, in the market. Turning away from the display of vegetables, he’d seen her—a vision in a simple dress with her hair hanging over her shoulders and framing a face so lovely his breath caught. She’d looked at him, and for a brief moment their gaze held, before Séan hurried away, bag of tomatoes in hand. Luckily he had to go no further than the checkout to find out who she was.
A friend of his mother rang him up and told him what she knew about the redheaded newcomer, as Séan did his best not to look as if he’d just been knocked on his ass. His mother’s friend told him that Sorcha had moved to Glenncailty only a few months ago and was part of the staff that would turn the main body of the castle into a hotel. Séan hadn’t asked exactly what she did, how old she was or if she was married. His mum had yet to give up on marrying him off despite the fact that he was thirty, and if he showed interest in any woman his mother would move heaven and earth to try and make the relationship happen. He’d settled for what information he had, happy he knew her name.
A cluster of older men Séan recognized had taken over a table near an open space on the floor. A few of them nodded solemnly to Séan as they unpacked their instruments, the nods a recognition of him and of his father, whose loss was still heavy in the hearts of Cailtytown. After the first awkward notes of fiddle and guitar being tuned, they started thumping out traditional songs. He watched as Sorcha accepted the hand of old Mr. Ruin, the butcher. Mr. Ruin was in his seventies and still as spry and charming as his son, James, who was the actual butcher, but no one would grant him that title as long as his father lived. Mr. Ruin led Sorcha to the center of the open space—an impromptu dance floor.
Together they kicked up their heels in a formal set dance. Soon others joined in. Laughter and shouts of encouragement spurred the dancers on. The barman set a pint of Smithwicks at his elbow and Séan nodded his appreciation. Holding his drink in one hand, his elbow on the bar, he settled in to watch Sorcha. She tossed her head as she danced, red hair catching the low lights of the pub, her tresses as luscious as old rubies. The skin of her cheek was creamy smooth, her blue eyes bright.
The song ended, and while the musicians gathered themselves for the next, the dancers dispersed.
Sorcha turned and their gazes met.
Séan tensed, and the noise and movement of the pub seemed to freeze. Even from across the pub he could see her eyes widen, her lips open.
He wondered if that meant she felt what he did—a stirring deep within the soul. He’d felt it the first time he saw her but tried to tell himself it was a fluke.
The musicians started another song and Sorcha turned away.
Séan dropped his gaze to his beer, jaw clenched.
He watched her dance whenever he wasn’t busy having a chat with friends and acquaintances who hailed him with smiles and nods. When the pint was done, he set the empty glass on the bar and stood from his stool. His threshold for people and noise had been reached.
Séan pushed through the crowd, eyes on the door. He was vaguely aware that a merry jig had stopped, and the tin whistle was now playing a slow song.
He cut across the corner of the dance area as many of the dancers returned to their seats to listen to the high, sweet notes of “Will Ye Go Lassie, Go?”
Séan absentmindedly hummed along, distracted enough that when Sorcha stepped out in front of him, he bumped into her. They each fell back a step, and Séan was painfully aware that this was the closest he’d ever been to her.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, heart thumping. “I…You…”
“I’m sorry.” She smiled. “I don’t think we’ve met, but I know I’ve seen you in town. I’m Sorcha.” She held out a hand.
“Séan.” He took her fingers in his for a brief moment, letting go as quick as he could and pressing his fingers against his thigh to stop the tingling.
They fell into silence as the music flowed around him.
“It’s good craic, isn’t it?” she said, motioning around them.
He nodded—like the damned fool he was.
Her smiled grew, kicking up one corner of her mouth. Her gaze skimmed him from chin to waist. “Did you want to dance?”
He stared at her, stunned by the question. Unable to muster the words to answer, he held out his hand.
When she slipped her slim, pretty fingers into his, Séan had to lower his eyes so she wouldn’t see his pleasure. He led her onto the floor. Most people had taken their seats, but a few couples remained—all of them over fifty.
Sorcha put her hand on his shoulder, and he put his on her waist, their other hands clasped together.
Séan couldn’t stop himself from drawing her closer as they began to sway side to side. She looked up at him from beneath her red-brown lashes. This close, her eyes were bluer than he could have imagined.
A guitar joined the flute, and after a moment one of the old men started to sing. His voice was deep, rough with age and life.
Séan bent his head to Sorcha’s, inhaling her scent, savoring the contact. She shivered a little, her fingers trembling in his. He pulled her closer to warm her, and her breasts brushed his chest. Her lips parted
, and her pink tongue darted out to moisten her lips.
They danced gently, barely moving, as the music flowed around them like water. When the song ended, they stood, unmoving, in the middle of the pub. Neither was aware that another song had started until the returning dancers jostled them. Sorcha bumped into him, and Séan wrapped his arms around her. He could feel her breath on his neck, and her body was a soft weight against his side.
Sorcha lifted onto tiptoe, her lips brushing his cheek as she whispered in his ear. “Follow me.”
Her hand slid from his shoulder, down his arm. Séan laced his calloused fingers with hers. Sorcha turned, headed not for the door, but toward the back of the pub. Not sure where they were going, Séan nonetheless followed her willingly.
As they skirted one of the snugs, he saw that there was a back door. He slipped ahead to hold it open for her. Together they stepped out into the cold, quiet night. Séan tensed as he looked left to the looming main wing of the castle. He jerked his gaze away, not wanting to think about old sadness when there was the possibility of something wonderful in front of him.
There was a concrete slab outside the back door, and Séan could imagine it full of people in the summer as those who needed it stepped out to have a smoke. He could make out the inky shapes of trees and bushes beyond that.
“Where are we?” he asked. The cold air had cooled the desire in him. If it hadn’t, he might have pushed her back against the wall and kissed her.
She considered him for a moment, as if debating answering. Séan swallowed, realizing that being pushed against the wall and kissed is probably why she’d brought him out here—not to have a chat.
But Séan barely knew her. Even the fact that they’d held hands seemed as if he’d been too forward. She wasn’t some Dub down for a day in the country, looking to have her moment with a farmer—she lived here, she was new, but she was a part of his village, his community. He would treat her with the respect she deserved. As far as Séan was concerned that was a proper conversation before kissing her senseless.
