The Haunting at Grattan Hall (part one)

12th Feb 1931

Dear Sean,

As you well know the death of my uncle came as a shock to me despite his eighty-three years. Being wholly without family I will always be indebted to you for your kind support at that most trying time. I only pray that distance will not diminish our friendship.

I am settling into my new home and no more miss the hustle and bustle of Dublin’s grimy streets. My uncle’s estate is some way off the beaten track. The village is quaint and its people a little old-fashioned. They have not made me feel unwanted but I sense I will always be an outsider in their eyes.

It seems also I have inherited a housekeeper and a gardener to whom I must pay a small wage. I feel obliged to keep them on as they both have a family to support.

My uncle’s affairs had been sadly neglected in the lead up to his sudden departure. Why he never spoke to me about these things will always be a mystery to me, but I’ll skip the tedium of any great detail on the matter.

As for Grattan Hall, I cannot wait until you visit. It has eight bedrooms, a large kitchen and dinning room, a library, a drawing room with a magnificent open fireplace made out of granite, a cellar to which you can gain entry beneath the stairs, and a large attic room my uncle used as a study. Really I do not wish to tell you more as I feel I would not do it justice. You must come and see for yourself.

Take good care and be sure to write me.

Your old friend,

Turlough Quinn

**

6th Mar 1931

Dear Sean,

I was most pleased when I received your telegram. As for the directions I have enclosed; however vague or imprecise they may seem it is the best I can do.

I look forward to your visit and hope you have a pleasant trip.

Turlough Quinn

**

Sean Farrell’s Diary

Friday 13th Mar

It has been a long and trying day.

Drove up from Dublin this afternoon crossing the border sometime after four. I then followed the road to Belfast, as per instruction, passing through the town of Newry before making in the direction of Glenmore. It was there my problems began. The signposts were barely legible and the village square was strangely deserted. Eventually I spied a young man, dressed in nondescript rags, coming out of a betting shop. He seemed reluctant to speak with me and the blood drained from his face at the mere mention of Grattan Hall. The young man hastily scribbled directions on the back of a used envelope and bid me good day. As I drove away I couldn’t help but notice him looking at me with some degree of disparagement.

Later, when I told a bemused Turlough of the incident he merely laughed it off with the suggestion that the locals are a little superstitious and somewhat set in their ways.

I drove out of town on the east side. Less than a mile and the road narrowed, so much that there was room only for one vehicle. Luckily I met no other traffic. I drove by several abandoned farms, in varying stages of ruin, before finding the inconspicuous entrance to Grattan Hall, during which time it grew significantly darker.
Its large iron gates stood open and a sign read: Private Property – Keep Out, on one of its crumbling pillars. Another most unwelcoming sight was the dilapidated gatehouse with its boarded up windows.

As I drove up its long and twisting narrow lane, flanked by trees, a stark feeling of remoteness came over me. If it weren’t for the exactitude of the young man’s directions I would have turned back. All doubt was dispelled, however, when I spied the lights around the next bend. Seconds later and I pulled up at the steps of Grattan Hall.

Even before I was out of the car Turlough came hurrying out to greet me. He ushered me indoors and insisted upon me a large helping of brandy - a tradition he upholds each time I visit.

The old war-horse was in fine spirits. After dinner we sat by the fireplace and polished off the dregs of a fine bottle of malt whiskey. We discussed many topics, and at times the sound of his voice and the fire reflecting in his eyes was hypnotic.

It was good to see him. A third party may well consider ours a strange friendship but despite the obvious age difference I was always taken by his gregarious nature.

At no point did my old friend talk about the death of his uncle. Turlough was very fond of him. One can only assume it is too painful still.

The hour is late.

**

Saturday 14th Mar

After breakfast Turlough gave me the grand tour.
Gratton Hall, named after Henry Grattan- the man who built it in 1803, is indeed a magnificent old Georgian house. Knowing little of the history of the area, it seems a little out of character located here at the gateway to the Mournes. Perhaps the structure of the house is in a state of good repair but some of its rooms are in great need of restoration. Whilst the library, the drawing room, and the dining room are quite exceptional in their antiquity they have not escaped the grey mustiness that resides throughout. Some, indeed the majority, of the bedrooms are uninhabitable due to damp, peeling wallpaper, falling plaster and general squalor. There are ghostly pieces of very old furniture I’m sure would fetch a shilling or two at an auction. Cobwebs add their own primeval touch to make the perfect setting for one of Poe’s macabre tales. The attic is vast but with little natural light owing to the small rectangular windows at the gable ends on each side. One half of the attic has been cleared to accommodate a writing desk and chair; the other is a ruin of chests of drawers, boxes, wardrobes, and a spinning wheel that reminded me of my grandmother. One could see the very scratches where all of these relics had been dragged across the floor.

But the most terrible part of the house is by far the cellar.

Even as we descended the rickety staircase into that dank and humid place I was repelled by a terrible, bestial odour. Yet more unsettling was the atmosphere in the place. Brave indeed is the person who would venture alone down into the murky cellar of Grattan Hall for not even in my wildest dreams would I dare to do so.

‘This is where they found him,’ Turlough informed me. We were stood at the bottom of the stairs, neither of us willing to venture any further. ‘He was lying right here.’

‘Who found him?’ I asked.

‘Mrs. O’Connor, my house-keeper.’

‘Did he fall?’

‘Only where he was standing,’ he answered. ‘Died of a heart attack. That’s the official verdict, whether it’s the actual cause of death is in itself a mystery.’

It was a peculiar thing to say, even to a friend.
‘You don’t suspect foul play, do you?’

‘Not in any conventional sense, no,’ he answered after a long pause.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Madeline… Mrs. O’Connor, said when she found him he had the most frightful look in his eyes.’

‘Was he dead then?’

‘Oh yes. He had been dead half the night. He was staring, fishy-eyed at that far wall.’

Turlough pointed and we stood in silence for a minute staring at a blank wall. I felt a chill pass through my body.

‘I know he was old and perhaps his heart was weak but something half frightened him to death.’

Ever since I’ve known Turlough – when I first started teaching at the school where he was head of department for History – he has had a scientific interest in what might exist beyond the known three dimensions, but he was never superstitious.

‘Perhaps he saw a ghost.’

‘That’s absurd,’ I told him.

His response wasn’t immediate. ‘Yes, yes you’re right.’ Turlough laughed. ‘It is absurd. Come. Let me show you the grounds around the house.’

I was relieved to be getting out of that morbid cellar.

As we climbed the rickety staircase I noticed Turlough glancing over his shoulder at the far wall.

Later, after a short stroll around the grounds and a chat with the gardener, Mr. Kearney, we drove into town and had lunch at Brennan’s bar where I felt less than comfortable with the looks from some of the locals. Perhaps, because he passed no remark, Turlough is used to being stared at.
The rest of today was uneventful. We did a bit of hill walking in the afternoon and took some photographs of the Mournes. After dinner we played cards.

**

Sunday 15th Mar

Didn’t sleep well. A strange thing happened during the night. I woke up shivering, only to discover that the window next to the bed was wide open. I swear it was shut when I turned the light out. A little later I thought I heard someone moving in the room directly above. I remember distinctly that that room was filled with junk. Turlough was sleeping down the hall. Then I heard a door opening and closing. My initial thoughts were that there was a burglar in the house; he must have come through the window in my room. The very thought made me quiver. I lay staring at the ceiling, listening intently. The faint, steady ticking of a grandfather clock in the downstairs hall was the only sound in an unusually quiet house. Every little din jarred the stillness; the creaking of a beam as the house slowly eased itself down upon its foundations, or the wind ululating through the branches of trees outside my window. Eventually I fell asleep and was reawakened only by the early morning sun.

During breakfast I asked Turlough did he sleep well, to which he gave a resounding yes.

‘And you?’

‘Very well, thank-you.’

Afterwards, whilst Turlough was attending to some business, I decided to look in the room above where I was sleeping. The disused door was locked so I let the matter drop.

Drove back to Dublin this afternoon but not before I took a photograph of Turlough standing at his front door.

It feels good to be back in my little terraced house in Clontarf. The hour is late and I have school in the morning.

**

10th April 1931

Dear Sean,

Ever since your visit I have been having trouble sleeping. I know if you were here you would insist I see a doctor but you know me, I’m as stubborn as a mule. What little sleep I do get is plagued by terrible, apocalyptic dreams. A psychologist would have a field day interpreting them. The other night I started out of just such a nightmare and saw a large, inexplicable shadow darken my window. At the time I fancied someone, exceptionally big, had just walked by, but as you well know I sleep in one of the upstairs rooms where there is no balcony and the window ledge is barely wide enough for a cat. You must think I’m going senile but I am convinced it happened.

The novelty of Grattan Hall is wearing off me now. Oh, how I long to return to Dublin. Here I live like a recluse. I have no friends in the village; Mrs O’Connor has left my service for reasons I cannot fathom; and my front door is never disturbed by the knock of a visitor. I feel like a stranger in my own home.

You must come and visit me again soon or else I’ll go mad.

Ciao for now,

Turlough Quinn

P.S. Any news that can break up the monotony of my existence would be most welcome.

**

17th April 1931

Dear Turlough,

I’m afraid it is quite impossible for me to come and visit you at this time as the Year Elevens are preparing for their exams and I am up to my eyes in work.

Nevertheless, and despite my absence, I still insist you should see a doctor. There’s neither of us getting any younger.

Perhaps the shadow you saw was nothing more than a hangover from your bad dream.

I have no other news.

Sean

P.S. You could always come and visit me in Dublin.

**

Sean Farrell’s Diary

Friday 1st May

Called with McKenna at the science lab this morning and picked up the most recent set of prints from my camera. I looked through them at lunchtime in the staff room. I was too embarrassed to show them to anyone because I do not have an eye for a good picture.

Two of the photographs were over exposed. The rest were fine. I was especially pleased with the picture I took of my sister and my nephew, Frankie, that day we went to Phœnix Park. But one in particular grabbed my fullest attention. It was the photograph of Turlough standing at the front doors of Grattan Hall. At first I thought it was just a smudge on the actual print, but I soon realised it wasn’t. Turlough is slightly off-centre as I attempted to picture as much of the house as I could. My camera is a Twin-Lens Reflex, which sometimes means that the frame of the picture seen on the screen may differ slightly from the picture area formed by the taking lens. Setting aside the picture’s alignment, however, it was the large, shadowy figure in the window of the drawing room to the very right of the frame that really intrigued me. I took the picture back to McKenna during a free period and showed it to him.

‘Hmm.’ McKenna scratched his head as he poured over it. ‘It could be just a fleck of dust on the mirror that reflects the image formed by the lens.’ He seemed to discard this theory in his own mind. ‘More likely there was some discolouring, perhaps even a mark on the film itself.’

‘But it’s too defined, don’t you think.’

‘Yes, it is a little,’ he agreed as he continued to examine the picture both sideways and upside down.

‘It’s perfectly within the frame of the downstairs window,’ I added.

‘That could be just a coincidence.’

I was unconvinced.

‘It might be nothing really, just a shadow inside the house. I tell you what. Why don’t you leave it with me over the weekend and I’ll see if I can enlarge the print.’

**

Monday 4th May

McKenna called in to see me just before the end of last period. The children were quietly reading over Macbeth and so I was able to step outside for a moment.

He started off by saying; ‘you realise my time is limited.’

‘Yes, and I appreciate all you’ve done.’

McKenna is a fine fellow really.

‘I wasn’t able to enlarge the print for you but with the aid of a dodging tool I was able to lighten the area with the shadow by holding back light so that the edges blended slightly better with the rest of the print.’

‘And what was the result?’

‘Well, see for yourself.’ He took the photograph out of an envelope and handed it to me. ‘It didn’t really improve it much but it looks like you have a ghost.’

The idea of a supernatural being had me trembling.
My disappointment must have been obvious though. McKenna had done a first rate job but the image was in no way distinguishable from that of a bright light.

Later.

When I got home I examined the photograph more closely using a magnifying glass. It was a strange phenomenon. To the naked eye the image is nothing more than a reflective light from the camera’s flash, but under closer scrutiny I was shocked to see the pale, ghostly figure of a man staring out at me.

**

18th May 1931

Dear Sean,

I was most intrigued by the photograph you sent me but it comes as no great surprise given some of the recent events surrounding Grattan Hall. I know you will laugh out loud at what I’m about to tell you but I truly believe I have inherited and taken residence in a haunted house.

My uncle Joseph was inebriated by strange customs, superstition, and unexplained phenomena. Indeed he spent his whole life chasing ghosts under the guise of an archaeologist. His fanaticism on the subject was uncompromising and perhaps it is the reason why he never married or raised a family of his own. Joseph Quinn was the type of man who would ignore ill fated predicts to cross wastelands in search of a lost Asian city, or linger around accursed monoliths on deserted Pacific islands. He’s even been known to hang around graveyards after midnight and explore through the ruins of a castle in the forgotten backwoods of some part of northern Europe. So it seems in keeping with his person that he should buy a haunted house for his retirement home.

I have no solid evidence to support my claim that Grattan Hall is haunted. How does one prove the existence of anything that has no physical form? Perhaps my uncle, if he were still alive, would have some thoughts on the matter. Other than the photograph you have presented me with I have not seen any faces in any of the windows or heard anything like the rattling of chains. Nor have the lights extinguished themselves, but sometimes, during the early part of the evening, I have felt a cold current of air like an icy finger touching the back of my neck.

But the real terror is at night.

It started some weeks back. I was sitting in my study reading; the clock on the mantelpiece had just struck ten, when I heard a young boy crying. I followed the sound of this crying to the door leading down into the cellar but when I opened the cellar door it stopped.

The following night the crying returned and again it was coming from the cellar, only this time when I opened the door it continued. I listened for a few moments then called out. The crying stopped abruptly. I waited, searching for movement in the darkness but there was none. I didn’t want to go down into that dark cellar alone. I’m almost ashamed to tell you that I was scared. Can you imagine how that feels? A grown man frightened in his own home by the sound of a little boy crying.
This went on for several nights but now events have become slightly more sinister. After I turn in each night I hear footsteps in the corridor outside my bedroom but there’s never anyone there. I’ve even taken to keeping a rifle at my bedside. One morning I awoke to find a chair, from the kitchen downstairs, outside my bedroom door as if someone had been sitting there waiting for me. Another morning I found that some of the furniture in my room had been moved, including a large mahogany double wardrobe. Such a job Mr. Kearney and I had shifting it back again to its proper place.

I know you must think I’ve gone senile but alas I feel too much has happened to give me such merciful doubts. I implore you, as my dearest friend, to come and witness first hand these strange occurrences. If anything I certainly need the company.

Yours, as always

Turlough Quinn

**

Telegram – From Sean Farrell to Turlough Quinn

21st May

Never fret, my dear fellow, I shall be there the day after tomorrow.

**

Sean Farrell’s Diary

Friday 22nd May

There must be a rational explanation. I have thought of nothing else since reading Turlough’s letter and have convinced myself of this.
I fear for my dear friend’s health. He has always been strong both physically and mentally but perhaps his sixty-seven years on God’s clean earth are taking their toll. Or perhaps he is drinking more than he ought to. Tomorrow I shall be better qualified to judge.

**

Saturday 23rd May

It is close to midnight as I sit down to write.

I can barely recall my journey north from Dublin as I am more concerned than ever before for the health of my dear friend. I was shocked almost to extinction when I saw Turlough this afternoon. He was thin and pale looking. All resolve gone from his tired looking eyes, and he had lines, perhaps of fear, set upon his face that were not there a month ago. Indeed I was reminded of Turlough’s uncle lying in his coffin before they nailed the lid shut.

I sent for a doctor right away.

Doctor Harrington from the village examined him and gave Turlough opiate to help him sleep.
Turlough was adamant it would make no difference. ‘Every night I have nightmares,’ he told me, ‘terrible nightmares. It’s this house, it won’t let me sleep.’

He scoffed at my suggestion to sit up all night with him. I am doing so anyway. The first signs of any nightmare and I shall do my utmost to waken him.

**

Sunday 24th May

Early morning.

A peculiar thing has just happened.

I closed my eyes to rest them for a moment and was on the brink of falling asleep when, at a quarter past the hour of two, I was rudely stirred by the sound of a thunderous knocking at the front doors of Grattan Hall.

Who could be calling at this ungodly hour? I asked myself.

The rapping became more frantic as I hurried downstairs to answer. It was only when I inserted the key into the lock did it stop. When I opened the door I found nobody in wait.

I stepped outside into the cool night and stood at the top of the steps.

‘Who’s there?’ I shouted. The response was an eerie silence. I waited for a moment. ‘I can assure you this isn’t funny.’ The silence unnerved me slightly. I turned and quickly went inside and locked the doors.

Halfway up the stairs and this time I heard the unmistakable sound of creaking floorboards.
I froze for a moment, listening for an intruder.
A deafening silence filled my ears.

My eyes pierced the semi-darkness, hoping- no, not hoping -daring to catch sight of a shadow that shouldn’t be there. I waited and I watched and I listened. But the house was as quiet and as empty and as still as an abandoned old church.

I returned to the bedroom, where the master of the house lay sleeping, peacefully, one hoped, and started writing.

Afternoon.

The rest of the night was without incident and at dawn, when the opiate had worn off, Turlough awoke with renewed strength. In fact he seemed a different man compared to the wreck he was yesterday.

After breakfast I took the opportunity to question him about his plans.

‘Clearly you are not happy here,’ I said.

Immediately Turlough was defensive. ‘I just need time adjusting, that’s all.’

‘Surely you don’t mean to stay on.’

‘I have no choice.’

‘Why?’

‘My uncle stipulated in his will that I have to live here for at least six months.’

‘Why in Heaven’s name would he do that?’ I asked.

‘He must have had prior knowledge to purchasing Grattan Hall that it was haunted.’

‘But your uncle must also have been aware that not everyone shared his enthusiasm for the supernatural.’

‘Yes, and I think it is for that very reason that he wanted me to stay here,’ Turlough answered.

‘I don’t understand.’

Turlough was looking at me patiently. He had the air of a teacher taking pains with a slow-learning student. ‘What I mean is, he must have wanted me to discover that Grattan Hall is haunted.’

‘But why?’

‘It is his way of proving to me that he wasn’t an old fool,’ explained Turlough.

‘You didn’t think that of him anyway.’

‘No, but a lot of other people did and it hurt him to know they were laughing behind his back.’

It seemed implausible but then again I didn’t know Joseph Quinn.

‘But perhaps there is another reason,’ said Turlough. He was staring into the middle distance. ‘Perhaps he wants me to finish his work.’

‘How?’ I asked but Turlough was momentarily distracted and when he returned it was as if our conversation never took place.

Later I tried convincing Turlough to return to Dublin with me, regardless of his uncle’s wishes, but he was his usual stubborn self.

‘Who would ever know? And in a couple of months time you could sell this place and buy back your house in Dublin.’

‘No, I owe it to my uncle, but besides which, I’ve developed a strange attachment to this house. I feel as if I’m a part of it and it’s a part of me.’

Grattan Hall has the opposite effect on me – I couldn’t wait to be away from the place.

‘Answer this one question for me and I shall defer any matter of our disagreement,’ said I. ‘How long did your uncle live here before he passed away?’

‘Six months,’ he answered.