The Haunting in the Hollow
WordSmith
The house didn’t look haunted. At least, not the way houses look haunted in horror films. It wasn’t perched on a hill like the sinister mansion in Shirley Jackson’s classic ghost story ‘The Haunting of Hill House’. No, this house was tiny and insignificant, tucked away on a small mound in the hollow of a steep hill in rural Cavan.
It had two rooms: a kitchen and a bedroom. There were no twisting staircases to creak in the night, no locked rooms containing dark secrets, no footsteps overhead to disturb the night’s silence. And yet this little dwelling was full of ghosts.
The man who lived there alone was neither young nor old. I don’t know his name, and I’m not sure anyone did. He was simply known as Mucker. The first inkling that Mucker suspected all was not as it should be came on an early October evening.
He was on the final leg of the five-mile walk from Cavan Town, facing the tough, upward climb of the hill for home. Head down, shoulders hunched, he trudged along at his usual steady pace. At the summit, he did as he always did: straightened his back, let out a deep, triumphant sigh, and looked down at his little homestead. But this evening, he let out a loud gasp. For there, in the gathering dusk, was a strange sight. Bright light shone from the two windows of his house, and smoke billowed from the chimney.
Mucker had no electricity, and he only lit the fire when there was a frost. This evening was mild, almost warm. He didn’t say it aloud, instead his head silently asked, “Who the feck is in my house?”
He lowered his head and raced down the hill, his heart pounding. When he reached the house, he stopped dead. The lights had gone out. There was no smoke from the chimney. Yet the door stood ajar. Mucker never left his door open. That night, he slept beneath the chestnut tree.
Later, Mucker was woken by a fierce light. He raised a hand to shield his eyes and stumbled forward, arms outstretched, groping for the source of the blinding glare. It was the morning sun. As his eyes adjusted, the events of the previous night came flooding back. He looked towards his house, wary of what he might find.
But in the clear morning light, his fear was lessened. There was probably a simple explanation after all. He walked towards the door, anxious to put the night’s strangeness behind him and return to the safety of home. He pushed the door open a little. “Hello,” he called, to be sure. There was no reply. Mucker let out a relieved sigh and prepared to enter. Then he heard something from within which caused him to stumble backwards – the sound of a child whimpering, fearfully. Fear froze him to the spot. He was torn: his heart urged him to go inside and comfort a frightened child; his head screamed one word – RUN! Then he saw it. A shadowy figure moved ghostlike across the window, heading towards the door. Mucker ran.
And he ran, and ran, straight past my father who was on his way to help pluck chickens in a farm beyond Mucker’s house. Dad looked back in bewilderment and called out to him. But Mucker didn’t stop. Dad, who was 10 years’ old at the time, remembers thinking that Mucker looked like he’d seen a ghost. Many moons later, on a Halloween’s Eve, Dad told me this story. I was 10 years’ old myself, enthralled by his every word. But at this point in the story, Dad stalled, prompting me to urgently ask, “Were they ghosts in the house, Dad?” He paused, looked at me and said, “That’s enough now, son. You’ll not sleep if I tell you more…”
I pressed him again, “Please Dad, tell me, did Mucker see a ghost?” Dad hesitated a moment, before turning to say, “No, son. I did.”
A shiver ran through me, “What do you mean?” He stared ahead and quietly said, “Mucker was found dead the week before, beneath the old chestnut tree.”
Still trying to make sense of it all, I blurted out the question burning in my mind, “Who was in Mucker’s house?” Dad didn’t hesitate, “A neighbour woman and her young son. She’d gone in to clean up the place, and the child was frightened by a ghost.” He paused before adding, “Poor old Mucker didn’t know he was dead, and was being haunted by the living.”
Now, this ghostly tale has become our family folklore, and we each have our own version of the telling. But it is rooted in reality: Mucker was real. His house has long gone, but the chestnut tree remains. And when I see it, I’m reminded that sometimes it’s not the dead who haunt us, but the living.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN.