The Summer House

The journey seemed to take forever. Only now, after six hours of driving, had Ryan finally reached the town of Killarney, not far from the Kerry border. He had at least another half an hour to go to Glenbeigh and he could hardly keep his eyes open. Pulling into McDonalds for a well-earned coffee and a rest, Ryan sighed at the sight of the empty streets. Killarney was a different place in mid November. Gone were the throngs of eager, enthusiastic American tourists and local Jarveys ready to fleece their victims to the last euro. Gone were the great crowds of Munster Football final day, their scarlet and greens put away for another year. Gone were the night revelers rolling around the streets intoxicated. In its place Killarney was a ghost town, a maze of empty streets where a cold winter wind blew litter across shop fronts, an empty vessel where the noise of the traffic lamps could be heard buzzing between gusts of wind. Everyone and everything seemed in some form of hibernation. Eventually Ryan got his coffee, loaded it with extra sugar and drove on. It had been a long journey from Dublin. His father had suggested that he paint the McDonoughs' summer house. He would be paid for his effort and it would give him time to refocus and contemplate his future. Now that Deirdre had moved out and they had both gone their separate ways, it really was time for a change. Besides, his one-year contract at Deane and Co. Engineers was up, the plans for the new road finished. So maybe it was time to heal the wounds left by losing Deirdre and focus on his future career. Some Kerry air and a bit of physical exertion while painting the house would help. Ryan arrived at the house around 11 o'clock. Immediately he phoned his father.

"Good, you're in then. Ted says there are sheets in the airing cupboard, the switch for the heating is there too." A cautious tone came over his father's voice, "You'll find the paint in the shed outside, and Ryan, don't let me down."

Hanging up the phone, Ryan found the sheets and made up his bed. The house was musty. Not a window had been opened to air the place. He walked round the house and opened all the bedroom windows. Gazing outside he saw the back garden in the moonlight. Beyond the bottom of the garden he could see a vast expanse of strand below; beyond that, the Atlantic Ocean glowed silver in the moonlight. Ryan climbed into bed and let his thoughts focus on the lapping of the gentle tide outside. He listened for a while and began to drift. He thought of Deirdre and their final break up. He saw again the smashed coffee pot and the broken kitchenware, the aftermath of his temper getting the best of him. He let out a small sigh as he pictured her going out the door of their Dublin apartment, her suitcase packed. Just as he was about to fall asleep he thought he heard a child's giggle. He put the sound down to tiredness and settled into sleep.

Ryan awoke the next day the same way he had fallen asleep the night before, with the sound of the ocean lapping against his ears. As he looked out his bedroom window into the dark morning, Ryan felt the usual sense of melancholy that November in Ireland brings, plus his own sense of loss that only a winter beach can bring. The day trippers had vanished, the joys and promise of summer were long gone.

Ryan focused his energies on the task at hand. The McDonoughs had left everything he would need for painting. He moved furniture and dropped dust-sheets to protect the carpet. He cracked open a can of interior paint, pulled out his stepladder, flicked on the radio, grabbed his brush and was off about his business.

He worked without pause until about three in the afternoon when, tired of the work, Ryan decided to finish early and explore the strand behind. The day had turned unusually warm and bright for November and he sweat profusely as he walked the five-mile expanse of sand. Thoughts of Dublin were momentarily forgotten as all around him the sea roared its mighty song. In the nearby dunes he heard birds chirping at the passing wintry brightness. The beach stood in stark contrast to Killarney's gloom. And Ryan wondered how such a dreary place could exist in this beautiful region. He thought briefly of the laughter on the wind the previous night but, in the bright light of the day, dismissed it as tiredness.

He walked on and saw a large rock looming out of the ocean floor. It nestled on the edge of the tide, a lonely bastion encircled by lapping waters. As he walked out to the rock he could see a crevice at its center. The middle of the rock was hollow and wet sand covered its floor. He looked more closely and shrieked when he saw the small skeleton nestled against the rock on the inside of the crevice.

"Helleo" said a voice in a strong Kerry accent. "Ar u the biy staying at the summer house?"

Ryan nearly jumped out of his skin. Behind him a small man around five feet four was coming toward him with a slight limp in his step. The man seemed to have come from nowhere.

"Yes, I'm helping to renovate the place. My name is Ryan," he replied, extending his hand. The old man took the hand and gazed at Ryan.

"I see you've discovered Maire Beag," said he.

"Should we call anyone?" asked Ryan.

"No, no. Shur she's bin dere since de famine. Poor divil, she must have crawled here during her last hours, dying with the hunger," said the old man shaking his head. "Sometimes when the tide is low, she shows herself, then again today isn't a very low tide. All the leocal knows she's dere, some say she even sits on the rock at night and cries. But shur dems only stories. Anyway, good luck now."

"Good luck," said Ryan, as the old man moved off. Ryan wandered along the strand shocked at his discovery. Here he was feeling sorry for himself and he finds this poor child. And he thought he had problems.

Dinner at the nearby pub was followed by a couple of pints of cider, a perfect remedy to his mood. The landlord informed Ryan that the man he'd met was Timmy Murphy.

"Timmy's a bit touched," said the man. "Not been right since the brother hung himself years ago. He's an alcoholic now, spends most of his time at the Drimbay Tavern. When he's broke he walks the strand or picks mussels on the rocks." The landlord smiled. "It's a wonder he didn't tap you for a few bob." Ryan returned the landlord's smile at this, but underneath he shivered. Timmy had seemed quite sane when they had spoken.

The next day dawned mild and clear again. Ryan took to his decorating with vigor. Sweat glistened on his brow as he attacked the walls and ceilings. He sang along with the dreadful Christmas tunes beginning to permeate the airwaves and he even commented gleefully on the shocking talk show that contained its usual offering of world weary stories. By evening Ryan had once again forgotten the day before, and enjoyed his dinner of beans and toast .

After dinner, he decided to take another walk on the strand to get some air. This time the night was black: with no moon to light his way, Ryan could hardly see his own hand in front of his face. The air was surprisingly warm and the tide seemed incredibly still. Ryan's mind wondered to the little girl on the beach... was it her laughter he had heard? Shrugging his shoulders he returned to the summer house. Walking through the back garden Ryan clearly heard footsteps on the patio at the side of the house. He walked in their direction, the nape of his neck beginning to go cold. Again the footsteps sounded. Rounding the corner to the patio, he called, "Hello," but no one was there. But only the gentle lap of the tide broke the silence as it called from the beach behind. From above, on the roof of the house, came the sound of more footsteps. The deeper thump of someone walking around on the flat roof was unmistakable. Ryan ran to the back of the house and jumped up onto the oil tank; from there he could hoist himself onto the roof. As soon as his vision cleared the flat roof-line he saw that no one was there. To be sure, he jumped up and walked around the old ash-felt roof. The view was better from up here. At last the moon had broken through the velvet clouds above. He could see the distant hillsides of the Dingle Peninsula glowing silver in the moonlight. He couldn't believe how spectacular they looked even at night. A child's laughter jolted him out of his viewing. Ryan had had enough. Climbing down the same way he went up, he stormed inside, grabbed the shaft of an axe handle left behind years before, and switched on every light in the house, examining each bedroom as he went. He found a flashlight in the broom cupboard and went outside to look around. For an hour he walked the narrow lanes outside in search of his intruder but none could be found. Returning home to the illuminated house, he bolted out the doors and windows and went to bed with the lights on.

In front of him he could see the little girl running, giggling as she stumbled through the weeds and out onto the sandy floor of the beach. She was wearing what seemed like her communion dress, and it billowed as it caught the sea breeze along the shore. The little boy giggled while he ran to meet her. The girl made for the large oval shaped rock at the edge of the tide. Together the two climbed the large rock as the waters of the tide encircled them below. They weren't worried about paddling ashore. Climbing steadily to the rock's center the girl stood aloft, her arms in the air.

"Look!" she yelled, "I'm on the top--the top of Danger Island."

The boy laughed and scrambled after her. Suddenly a giant wall of white exploded behind the girl. Its spray blinded the boy. He couldn't see, he could just barely hold on to the slimy rock on which he was perched. When his eyes cleared he screamed and screamed for his friend. He struggled to the top, but she was gone. The freak wave had washed her off. Panic gripped the lad, he called for her and searched the ocean for her but there was no answer. Tears welled up in his young eyes. He cried aloud and began to climb down the rock to the water below to get help. As he landed in the two feet of shallow water below, he felt something tighten on his ankle. He struggled against it and it moved with him like a large chunk of seaweed. He pulled with all his might but still couldn't loosen his grip. He started to walk ashore. The weed attached to his ankle dragged with him. As he broke the waters edge and touched the sand again he pulled from the sea a ball of seaweed at least four feet long. He knew he had to get help, so quickly he dropped to his ankle and began to tear away the weed. His hands touched something cold. Gently he removed a large clump of weed to reveal the sleeve of the dress below. Inside the sleeve the hand was grey and wizened. The boy exploded, screaming and tearing, trying to get away. But still the hand fell tight on his ankle. As he tore at the rest of the ball a clump fell away to reveal the girl's corpse like face. The boy became mesmerized by her features; her grey death face pulled his eyes in. He peered over her forehead, her closed eyes, her mouth with tongue protruding. He gazed at her grey cheeks and stared at her eyes again. The eyes opened.

"Tell them I'm coming," she said.

Ryan awoke shaken and unable to work. He walked further along the beach than he had the day before. He avoided the gruesome rock and walked around the spit of the beach instead. He passed the old light tower and walked onto the back strand. It was dark by the time he reached the old shipwreck and he sat on the broken timbers in the dark thinking of his terrible dreams and also of his recently-failed relationship. He wondered at his own situation and where Deidre was now. He was just thinking of her relaxing in some Dublin apartment when the noise came. The sound of a hundred voices came into his head, starting at a whisper then growing rapidly into a crescendo that nearly deafened him. It screamed into his brain making him reach for his ears. As quickly as they came, the voices receded back to a whisper. Ryan couldn't make out what they were saying, but it didn't matter, as the noise rose to a deafening level again. His eardrums thumped against the pressure. By now Ryan had fallen from his seat, clutching his ears. He screamed as he lay in the sand. Again the noise came; again he screamed. He looked to his left to see the waves crashing against the beach. He noticed immediately that the motion of the waves kept time with the rising of the noise. As soon as this thought had struck him the noise stopped and Ryan was left alone in the sand looking out upon the nearby white horses.

Rising gingerly from the sand, Ryan put a hand to his ear. His hand came away covered in blood. Later that night after a hot bath and a shave, he lay on the sitting room sofa in front of a roaring turf fire. Lingering over an ancient copy of Moonfleet, he felt the exertion of the day make him drowsy. Within ten minutes he was asleep.

This time he was in his office in Dublin closing his latest deal. Joking and laughing with his colleagues as he back-slapped his boss. As the laughter grew louder and louder in his ears, he surveyed the room. He saw each staffer lean over the boardroom table, except the table wasn't a table anymore, it was a giant hunk of quivering flesh. One by one the board members dipped their mouths into the flesh, chewing and laughing, blood running down their faces. His boss looked up at Ryan. "Tastes good doesn't it?" Then Ryan tasted blood on his lips.

He awoke from his dream screaming. Hot tears scalded his cheeks. Sweat bathed his body. He bolted out of bed and ran to the toilet, disgusted, spitting to get rid of the taste of blood. While Ryan brushed his teeth, he thought he heard a faint giggle from the hallway beyond, but he was too tired now to care about anything. He went to bed where exhaustion took him and he fell asleep.

The next day Ryan decided that he had had enough. He called his father telling him that it was time to leave.

"But you can't," yelled his dad. "You're paid up until Christmas and besides, the work isn't finished."

"Fuck the work!" screamed Ryan. "There is something wrong with this house.

Ryan's Dad lost his temper. "Ryan, you're a disaster. I thought you'd given up the acid. What are you saying. The house is haunted? I've stayed several times. There is nothing wrong with that house."

"Well who's the little girl then?"

His Dad explode. "There is no girl, there are no ghosts. And you're letting me down. Get the job finished for Bill. We'll talk then."

Ryan gave up. He said his goodbyes and hung up the phone. Immediately he dialed the number of the local Church of Ireland minister, Eamon Proctor. The man had invited him to dinner in the pub so he'd decided to take him up on the offer.

Eamon was delighted to hear from him.

"Certainly old boy," said the minister. "We'll see you at seven. Beware though, I dine alone."

"That's OK," said Ryan. "I have something to tell you anyway."

" I know," said Eamon. "You're having problems in the house." Ryan was amazed. "Come over this evening and we'll talk." Ryan hung up the phone his mind whirling.

"Awful place in winter," continued the minister over his after dinner brandy. "Always got a feeling there myself. Strange but it wasn't around a few years ago." The vicar knitted his eyebrows. "But in recent years, when the nights darken and the tourists desert the place, it develops some sort of atmosphere. The McDonoughs asked me to bless the place one time and I only got as far as the kitchen when I saw a child's reflection in a window. I ran out of the place in a hurry." Ryan was incredulous,

"You ran? Aren't you supposed to be a priest?"

"True I am, but not a very good one. Besides they don't pay me enough to suffer that kind of stress."

"Pay." asked Ryan. "Are you mad? If there is something in the house then you should have removed it."

"Don't you get it boy?" said the minister. "It's not just the house. It's the place, the beach out back, the road in front, the whole area is tainted in winter. It's too big for me."

"So call the bishop," said Ryan.

"Sorry," said the minister. "The bishop and I don't really speak. You see, I'm here in this backwater thanks to a certain indiscretion with parish funds. The horses you see, like many of my stock, I like the Gigi's." Ryan was astounded,

"Who else knows about the place?"

"Not many, just the few locals. It's avoided, so to speak."

"So basically I'm here for the winter, I can't leave as my Dad owes old man McDonough a favor, the church can't help me and I'm stuck in Spookville." Ryan was wondering what else could go wrong when the vicar spoke.

"You're too young to face this. There is deep anger in that place." He pleaded with Ryan, "Go home, go back to Dublin where it is warm and safe. The haunted shores of South Kerry are no place for a city boy like you."

"It's the child isn't it?" said Ryan. "It's that poor little Maire Beag who wandered to the rock nearby and died during the famine."

"Yes," said the rector, "and no. Some have encountered her ghost, yes, but mostly by the rock. The house is different Ryan. Leave it be, go home."

The dinner ended without anything being resolved. Ryan returned home feeling a little lightheaded after the brandy. As soon as his head hit the pillow he was asleep.

Christmas neared, the days continued and so, too, did the nights. And each night Ryan dreamed. One moment he was chewing the flesh in his office in Dublin; the next he was racing toward the rock, the young girl in front of him. His health deteriorated. He ate less and became weak. One day, before the painting was due to be completed, Timmy Murphy and an old woman appeared at his the gate.

"Will you come round this evening for the tae?" the woman asked. "You look like you need it."

"I will." answered Ryan carrying on painting as if they weren't there. He knew who she was. Everyone in Glenbeigh knew the old spinster who once had been a beautiful hostess with Irish ferries. Folk complained about her. Said she was filthy and that the house was walking with the dirt. They also said she was mad. Ryan wondered what she would have to say about the place. He wondered if she could help him get some sleep. He arrived at Meg Casey's house in a state of weariness. Neither spoke as they dined over a meatless dinner of boiled vegetables and jacket potatoes. Meg saw in Ryan's face his distaste toward the food.

"Eat your food biy," she called to him. "It isn't long ago we would have been glad of this. But nowadays," she mused, "only fillet steak will do. Shur if de gentry ever came back de'd fit right in." Then the old woman stopped abruptly stared across the dinner table and whispered, "You are to be visited tonight biy, yu'll need your strength."

"What strength? Who is coming? What is going on in that house? " He screamed at Meg, but she just sighed and the mad, glazed look returned to her eyes. Timmy quieted Ryan's screaming and the dinner ended with nothing more than a cup of tea and ten minutes staring at the warm turf fire. Meg refused to say any more.

That night Ryan lay in bed unable to sleep. Every creak or sound from the old house made him jump. His body was covered in sweat. His hair soaked, his right hand trembled in spasmic motions on and off. From outside he could hear the sound of the howling Kerry coastal wind, then, on the window, three loud raps announced his visitation had begun. He got up out of bed and tried to switch on the bedroom light. Nothing happened. A white-blue glow came from under the bedroom door. Realizing that one way or another he would have to face this, he opened the door. Ahead of him in the hallway, at least seven foot tall, stood a winged figure, robed in black. Its face seemed to shimmer: one moment a bird the next a wrinkled old woman. The image blinked several times then was gone. In its place, stood the young girl of his dreams dressed, once again in her pale white dress. She beckoned him with her finger. Crying with fear now, Ryan walked unwillingly toward her. She took him by the hand and led him outside. Out onto the moonlit beach. She turned then and pointed back to where the summer house had been. Gone was the house and in its place, hovering over the site, was what seemed like an old long-ship gold and glowing. The girl turned toward the sea. Night seemed like day now. He saw men coming ashore, men who had traveled to Ireland in boats of leather and hide among them a Druid who could calm the waves. She showed him the King's Palace at Tara, Maeve and her bulls, the coming of Patrick and the white friars. She showed him the plundering Norsemen in their terrible fury, the men of iron who married the old stock. She showed him the nobles leaving Ireland's shores bound for Spain and France; she showed him the great hunger and wept as she watched her children scattered to the four corners of the globe. She showed him a fair city in flames and her children giving their lives before the firing squads. She squeezed his hand so much he thought it would break. With spittle running from her mouth and malevolence streaming from her grip she showed him the present, a land decimated with greed. Neighbor refusing to help neighbor, politicians selling their people, both dead and living, for personal gain. Touched children left uneducated, a language in terminal decline, a land left desecrated. Her greatest anger she saved for last. Sacred temples, long survivors of a foreign occupation, were now torn up for housing, hidden treasures destroyed for roads leading nowhere. The landscape defaced, all for the greed of men. This flashed through Ryan's brain in seconds. He screamed in pain. She left go of his arm, her appearance flashed, blinked and changed. In front of him stood the tall crow-like creature he had seen before. It grasped his temples and roared a terrible scream of pain and anger. Instantly Ryan saw the office in Dublin again, the firm of civil engineers he worked for. He saw the contract for the new toll motorway they had won. He saw the destruction the road would cause. The creature roared again and he saw the faces of his colleagues dead, killed in terrible ways. He saw the politicians choking on their own blood, he saw the farmers broken in turned over vehicles and he knew, he knew it would all come true.

The creature let go of Ryan. In front of him the little girl was standing, smiling now, content. "Tell them I'm coming," she said. Then she turned and walked away in the direction of the large rock on the edge of the tide.

A week later the firm of Deane and Co, civil engineers, held their Christmas party in one of the best hotels in Dublin. The staff had earned their reward. It had been a good year. The new motorway would be a giant feather in the cap of this rising star of the new Ireland. The dinner had been excellent, a lavish five-course affair with young rare lamb as the entrée. Dixie Dean, chairman of Dean and Co. stood to give his festive speech and to include the year's satisfactory developments. He was a happy man. The government had just awarded Dean and Co. the contract for the latest toll motorway a road that would feed the infrastructure of Ireland's economy. Of course, there had been difficulties along the way, not least the environmental assessment and the historical survey. But, and Dixie smiled as he reflected on this, it was amazing how people in high places could be "persuaded" to see the wisdom of such a scheme. All in all, with minimal outlay it had been a good result. Dixie launched into his speech with a confident gleam in his eye; he sincerely wished all of his staff a very merry Christmas and a prosperous New Year. Then he began to speak about the importance of the new motorway and the benefits it would bring to its users. Just as he was about to continue the doors to the dinning room were flung open. A bedraggled, unwashed, emaciated figure erupted into the room.

He screamed at them, bawling at the top of his voice, "Stop the road!" He cried and ran from person to person, screaming at them, "Stop the road!" Following behind were the hotel bouncers who quickly grabbed hold of him. They pulled him upright revealing Ryan's distraught face. Dixie was amazed.

"Ryan! Ryan Costello is that you?" Indeed it was and he was obviously high or mad or both. "Christ, what's the matter with you?"

Ryan wailed and howled at the top of his voice, "It's all of you I'm here for. You must not go ahead with that road!"

Dixie laughed. "Why, Ryan?"

"Because she is coming." The insensitive side of Dixie was enjoying this.

"Who is coming?" asked Dixie with a gleam in her eye.

"The queen," said Ryan. "The queen of phantoms." Some of his former colleagues began to laugh out loud. They had filled up on the mulled wine earlier and were in boisterous spirits. The laughter became loud and hysterical as the bouncers dragged Ryan away. One or two looked on nervously, but most simply laughed.

The hotel staff called the police. Ryan was arrested and taken to Bridewell Garda station where a psychiatrist was called for his evaluation. He continued to scream and wail for most of the night until a sedative brought him some blessed relief.

No one saw the little girl let herself in the service entrance of the hotel. The cooks had slipped out back for a quick smoke during a lull in the busy evening schedule. The girl was barefoot, with a short ragged white dress. Her features were drawn, and a yellow tinge colored her skin. She was a frail creature, and seemed out of place in these heady affluent times. No one saw the little girl slip into the kitchen where she skipped merrily up to a stainless steel counter. There, a large bowl of whipped cream had been prepared. It was to be served with the festive plum pudding to the folks at the Christmas party. Holding her head back she hawked and spat a viscous glob into the whipped cream. She stared into the cauldron awhile and then taking her index finger she dipped it into the mixture, withdrawing her finger she tasted it and smiled. Then, as quietly as she had come, she skipped merrily out the door, mournfully humming the ancient "Coventry Carol" as she went.

Ryan woke to the sound of the mid-morning news being broadcast over the police station radio. He listened intently as he heard the morning headlines.

"Fifteen people are dead and 12 more are in critical condition after an outbreak of a mysterious illness at the Merrymount Hotel in Dublin last night. State health inspectors are still investigating the outbreak. It is believed it may have spread to a number of other hotels across Dublin. In other news, the minister for the Environment, Mr. Padraig Daly, was last night killed in a freak road accident. The Minister's driver who bizarrely was not injured in the crash stated that he had swerved to avoid a child walking toward the car in the middle of the road."

Ryan stopped listening. He closed his eyes and tried not to cry at what was happening. He tried to think of happier times, of Christmas in his past. He thought of carols and lights and church bells ringing in the Christmas morn. In his mind he remembered the church bells ringing and ringing, they were ringing loudly across Dublin, across the bog of Allen and into the rest of Ireland beyond. They rang with such splendor that everyone heard the call and everyman; woman and child raised their heads to listen.

Then the church bells went silent, not a sound was heard. In his jail cell Ryan heard faint skipping footsteps somewhere nearby, he turned over in his bed and faced the wall, too afraid to look. He heard a muffled giggle and then a whisper in his ear, "Tell them I'm coming."