The Scariest Story I've Ever Read

From Meeting the Other Crowd: The Fairy Stories of Hidden Ireland, collected by Lenihan and Green (2003)

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They say ‘twas here in the parish o’Crusheen it happened. There was a parish priest here, and he was well liked, respected. And the reason wasn’t because he said a short Mass and let the drinkers off to the pub early -- the same crowd, they’d go, anyway, ‘cause their thirst kept ‘em near the church door! No, ‘twas because he took his job serious, and not the kind o’ serious that prosecuted people for nothing, either’ there were plenty o’ them kind o’ priests around. The reason that man was liked was because anytime there was someone in trouble in the parish -- sick, especially -- he was there to tend ‘em, no matter if ‘twas in the middle o’ day or night. 

People appreciated that, too. Like I said, he was well respected. And rightly so. 

Now, there was this certain man in the parish sick, an old man, and he wasn’t expected to live long. He was nearly ninety! Four times the priest was called to him in less than six months, and each time he came, anointed him, and said all the prayers. And d’you know what! In each case, the man recovered. 

Naturally enough, the local people said, “Aha! There you are! The priests have the power, if they want to use it.”

But time went on, anyway, and ‘twas later on that same year, the month o’ November. And the parish priest, this night, was long gone to bed -- and the curate, too. ‘Twas well after midnight, in the dead hours, in fact, when all of a sudden there was this knock on the presbytery door. 

The parish priest was a very light sleeper -- used to being called in the night, I s’pose. He sat up in the bed and shook himself, wondering was he hearing things.

But he knew he wasn’t when the knocking started again. He jumped out o’ the bed, pulled his overcoat across his shoulders, and off out the hall with him. He opened the door, and standing there outside was a young man. The priest knew him immediately -- he was from the old house where the old man was sick. 

He wasn’t even asked in, only, “What’s wrong?”

“He’s sick again, Father. Bad. They want you to come, as soon as you can.”

“Go on back, now, this minute. Tell ‘em I’ll be there after you.”

He went in, to dress himself, but as he passed the curate’s room he knocked. 

“Get up.” he says. “And tackle the horse. We have a call to go on.”

The curate woke and started muttering and cursing under his breath, “God blast ‘em, but wouldn’t you think they’d pick some better time than this to be dying?...”

“None o’ that kind o’ talk out o’ you!” says the parish priest “Tackle up the horse. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

That’s the reason, you know, why curates were never given a parish in them days until they had about seven years served -- so that all kinds of impatience and dirty tricks could be knocked out of ‘em first by an older priest. Just like training a dog or a horse, you know. But that isn’t done anymore, o’course, more’s the pity. 

But…back to the story. 

The curate tackled up the horse and trap, anyway, and by the time the parish priest had his bag packed -- holy oil, candles, his book and all the rest -- there was his transport ready and waiting at the door. 

Now, you might ask why the parish priest wanted the young man to go with him. Grandeur? It wasn’t, but for company. And why? Every one o’ the old people that time -- and some of ‘em even today -- could tell you that a priest, or minister, going on sick-call at night was in fierce danger. 

From who? The Devil, o’course! That’s the time, when a person is dying, that he’ll try his best to sink his claws into him, to carry him to the Place Below. And the last thing he wants is a priest putting in on him. And you know, yourself, that the Devil can take any shape he likes. The Devil could be the person sitting next to you, your nearest friend. And often that’s proved. He could be on the road -- no, he WOULD be on the road, on a night like that, to put the priest astray if he could. And there was only one way to get the better o’ him: take company. And what better company than another priest!

That’s the main reason he called the curate, whether the younger man realized it or not. 

By the time he was dressed for the road, anyway, and had his bag packed, there was the curate outside the door with the horse and trap, all ready. 

They started off, down the Tulla road, and I s’pose with the jogging and swaying o’ the trap, they were dozing off to sleep. But it didn’t make any difference. The horse knew every foot o’ the road. Why wouldn’t he? The priest’s horse, in them days, he’d know every road in the parish, day or night. Wasn’t he traveling on them full-time!

They went on, anyway, a couple o’ miles south o’ Crusheen, and I’d say the priests were maybe asleep by the time they came to Sunnagh Cross. But the horse knew the way as well as themselves. He turned left at the cross, up that Sunnagh road. He knew where to go, I s’pose, from all the times that year they visited the man that was dying.

Whatever ‘twas, they were only gone a few hundred yards up the road -- narrow country road, overgrown with big trees, like it is to this very day -- when the moon came out from behind a cloud. And at that very minute, out from behind a big old bush -- ‘tis still there, on the right-hand side as you’re facing for Ballinruan -- a man stepped out, into the middle of the road. 

The horse shied, o’course, reared up. But the parish priest, he was awake you’d be counting one. Wide awake! And he was a good horseman, too. Calmed the animal in a few seconds. 

But…there in front of ‘em in the road was a man. No doubt about it! The first thing that came into their minds was, a robber. But no. There was no weapons, no orders. They could see him clear enough, though, all except for his face. He was wearing some kind of a hood, and his face was in shadow. 

Then, while they were half-wondering what they’d do, he reached in under his right oxter [armpit] and pulled out a fiddle. He reached under his left oxter then and pulled out a bow. And there, on that road, that very minute, he started to play -- the most lonesome music that them priests ever in their lives heard. It brought water out o’ their teeth, so it did. Never heard the like of it before!

And when that man -- whoever he was -- turned around and walked that narrow road in front of ‘em playing that music, every bit of it, what could they do? Only follow him. They couldn’t get around him. The road wasn’t wide enough. And they were hardly going to drive out over him -- priests in them days wouldn’t do that, whatever until today!

Step for step they followed him, until they came to the gateway to the house where the old man was dying. He walked three steps behind it, still playing, and just as the curate was turning the horse in between the piers, glad enough to get on with their business, the man stopped, turned, and held up his hand. He looked at the parish priest. 

“One minute, Father!” says he. “I want you to do something for me.”

They looked at him. Then the parish priest says, “If -- if ‘tis nothing sinful or unholy, o’ course we’ll do it. What is it?”

“I want you to ask a question, Father, to that man that’s dying above there in the bed.”

“What…kind of a question?”

“I want you to ask him what’s going to happen to the Good People on the Day of Judgement?”

The priest only nodded. He was half frightened. 

“All right,” says he, and the curate whipped on the horse. But the man had the last word. 

“Remember this, Father. I’ll be here, waiting for my answer.”

On they went then, up the passageway to the house, and when they arrived into the yard, there was the woman o’ the house, the wife o’ the man that was dying within in the bed, standing there in the doorway. I s’pose she heard the wheels o’ the trap coming. 

“Thanks be to God ye’re here, Father.” says she. “Hurry on, please. He’s very low.”

The parish priest took his bag, left the curate to tie up the horse, and hurried in after her. And there inside, the kitchen was full o’ people. All the neighbors were there; that was the custom o’ the time, and still the same today when someone is laid out at home. They were there to help, to console the poor woman, like any good neighbors would. And when the priest arrived in, they all stood up, out o’ respect. 

“Welcome, Father. Good night. And thanks for coming.”

He nodded. But first things first, talk later. He headed for the sickroom, closed the door behind him, and looked at the bed. 

There was the dying man, not a move out o’ him, eyes closed, hands folded. No sign o’ life at all, and that gray-green color on him that you’ll see on dying people. But the parish priest had it all seen before. That kind o’ thing was his job, wasn’t it? He opened his bag, took out all the bits and pieces he’d need -- his prayer book, the holy candles, the oil, holy water. 

He lit the candles on the little bedside table. He got down on his knee then and heard the man’s confession -- although I s’pose he didn’t actually hear it, when the man was so far gone. But you know what I mean. In cases like that the priest could give absolution even if a person was unconscious. They had a name for it, too: conditional absolution. 

Anyway, he said the prayers, and when he was finished, and the last blessing was given, he quenched the candles and put his stuff back into his bag. 

He had full intention, now, of asking the question, just like he promised, but…in them few seconds, while he was putting his bits and pieces away, there was silence, o’course. And I s’pose the woman o’ the house, she was listening at the door, worried, naturally. And when she heard nothing from the room, in she went to find out how things were -- and in her hand a glass o’ whiskey for the priest. She wasn’t alone, either, ‘cause in after her came most o’ the crowd that was in the kitchen. 

And that’s when the damage was done, ‘cause the parish priest wasn’t a drinking man at all. He might have a few small ones when friends called to the presbytery, or maybe at Christmas, but that was all. Still, when the mourners were there now with him in that room, what could he do? Only be sociable and take what he was offered! He was a friendly kind o’ man, like I said. 

He sipped away, anyway, while the talk went on all around him. And ‘twas mainly about the man dying there in the bed -- the good neighbor he was, a decent man, kind and charitable, never turned anyone away from his door. All that kind o’ talk. And you could understand that! What else would you say about a dying man, when he can’t talk for himself? That’s only ordinary decency. We’ll all need that when the time comes.

He finished the first glass o’ whiskey, anyway, but when he did, a second one was put into his hand. And the bother was, ‘twas neat. You see, the woman o’ the house wasn’t a drinker either, knew nothing about it! So she filled he glass up to the top. Left no room at all for water! Thought she was doing the right thing. What chance had the poor parish priest with that kind o’ drink?! I often said it, and I’ll say it again now: Non-drinkers do more harm than drinkers ever do! They have no notion how to handle drink, at all. And she proved it that night. A full glass o’ whiskey and no water!

The priest, in the middle of all the talk, sipped away. And when that glass was finished, the third one was put into his fist. 

But, by the time he was gone down halfway in that one, he was beginning to go sideways. Why wouldn’t he when he wasn’t used to it?! 

Lucky enough, the curate say the way things were. He leaned over, took the glass, and said, “We’ll go, Father. We have to be up early for Mass in the morning.”

Now, the parish priest, he was never a troublesome man. Even with drink in him now, he made no objection, only stood up, and said to all the people there, “We…we’ll see ye…in the morning. Good night! ‘Night.”

They stood, o’course, out o’respect. They knew the way he was, but not one of ‘em there was going to say a word against him. Why would they, a man like him!?

The curate took him by the arm and led him out. 

“Good night, Father,” they said, “and thanks again for coming.”

There was the horse outside. Same place, tied. They got into the trap, and off down the passageway to the road. But when they passed out the gate piers, turned right, for home, there in front of ‘em on the road was the lad, with his hand up. The horse stopped. 

“Well, Father,” says he, “have you my answer?”

They looked at him.

“Answer?” says the parish priest. “What…answer?”

“You promised you’d ask a certain question for me, Father. Have you an answer?”

He was moving towards ‘em all the time, and for the first time they say his face. ‘Twas yellow and wrinkled, a face that must be old as…as the hills. ‘Twasn’t natural. 

The parish priest -- he was sobering up quick, now -- he says, “Stay where you are! I forgot. But I’ll go back this very minute, and find out for you.”

He threw the reins to the curate.

“Here! Hold these till I come back.”

“Me? I will in my backside! I’m not staying here alone.”

He threw the reins over a bush, and back they went, the two of ‘em, up the passageway to the house. 

And when they knocked at the door, the woman came out. She was surprised to see ‘em back, o’ course. 

“What is it, Father? Is there--?”

“Nothing. Nothing. I forgot something, that’s all,” says he.

He made for the bedroom, left the curate there to keep the crowd talking, and closed the door behind him. There was going to be no mistake this time.

The man was still the same way inside the bed -- stretched, no move. 

The priest, he went to the bedside, down on the knees, and whispered into the dying man’s ear, “What’s going to happen to the Good People on the Day of Judgement?”

I don’t know did he expect an answer or not, but, by God, he got it!

The man in the bed, his eyes opened up, as wide as saucers, and he began to pull himself up on the pillow. The priest jumped back.

“Father,” says he, “isn’t it a strange thing, but I was just thinking about that same thing myself.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” says the priest. “But can you give me an answer?”

“I can.”

“Do so, like a good man.”

“I will.”

“Ah, God--” He was going to swear, you know, but he didn’t. Cool man! “In God’s holy name, will you tell me whatever you know,” says he. 

Silence for a minute, then he stared at the priest and said, “All I’ll tell you, Father, is this: If one drop of blood can be found in their veins on the Day of Judgement, the Good People will see the face of God.”

“Wha--?”

“One drop of blood, Father. That’s all.”

And with that, he fell back on the pillow, dead. 

The priest, he said a prayer, blessed him, and then out quick to the kitchen. He beckoned the curate and off they went, the two of ‘em, and down the passageway. Left the people there wondering what in the name o’ God was going on. 

They came to the gate, turned right for Crusheen, and home. But when they did, there was the horse and trap in the middle o’ the road. And there, in front o’ the horse’s nose, was the stranger. He held up his hand.

“Well, Father,” says he, “did you get my answer this time?”

“I got an answer all right, but I don’t know if ‘tis the one you want. It didn’t make much sense to me.”

“Ahh!” says he. “So you have it!”

He started towards ‘em, but the parish priest held up his hand.

“No, no!” he says. “No nearer. Stay where you are and I’ll tell you what I know.”

He stopped a couple o’ yards from ‘em, but they could see that wrinkled face of his clearly.

“Tell me!”

“He said…if one drop o’ blood could be found in their veins on the Day o’ Judgement they’d see the face o’ God. Does that make any kind o’ sense to you?”

“One drop o’ blood,” says the lad. “Only one drop?”

He stared at the priests again then, and it frightened ‘em, the look in his eyes. They thought something bad was coming. But no. All he did was to put down the fiddle on the road, and then the bow across it, very neat. 

And when he straightened up they were so busy watching his face that they never saw his hand going to his belt, slow, slow. ‘Twas only when he pulled up a dagger and held it out before him that they jumped back, sure he was going to attack ‘em.

But not a bit of it! All he did was hold it there at his full arm’s length, nodding away at it all the time, like he’d be thinking to himself. 

And then, while they were still wondering what to do, he stick that knife straight into his chest, pulled it out, and stabbed himself again. And again. Twelve times in all he stabbed himself. And not a drop o’ blood! What came out o’ him was thick green stuff like…like stewed apple, for all the world. 

He looked at the knife, then at the two priests again, then flung it into the darkness. He turned around, and they could see a fierce change in his eyes now. Something…something they didn’t want any part of. 

“Father,” says he, “for the last five thousand years and more, I and my people are traveling the roads of Ireland, and in all that time we never did harm to man, woman, child, or any living creature, only playing sweet music for all of ‘em in the dark, hurting no one. But from this time on, Father, there’ll be no more music.”

He turned to the fiddle and bow then, where they were left on the road. Then he jumped on ‘em, danced down on ‘em until he had matches made of ‘em. 

“There’ll be no more music, Father. But there’ll be this!” he stepped into the dark, picked up the knife, and held it under their noses. 

“Go home. Tell your people what you saw and hears here tonight. And tell ‘em that anyone we catch on these roads after dark anymore…this is what they’ll get. Now that I know we’re never to see the face o’God, we have nothing to lose. So, make sure you have your message right, Father, ‘cause there’ll be no other warning.”

He turned into the darkness then, and they saw no more of him.

They were frightened men, I can tell you, when they turned to the horse trap to go home.

But there was no “go home” there. The poor horse’s legs were shaking under him and he was foaming at the mouth with fright. I always heard that -- horses know when the Other World is near ‘em. ‘Twas they had to bring home the horse. Whether they brought the trap or not I can’t tell you, but they got back to the presbytery very different men than when they were starting out. They went to their beds, no more said. They had plenty to be thinking about!

And there was no more said about it until the following Sunday, at eleven o’clock Mass in Crusheen church -- the parish priest’s own Mass.

The people were in, and waiting for the prayers to start, but while they were sitting there, or kneeling, they noticed that there was something out o’ place. You know, now, yourself, the way ‘tis in a church. Nothing ever moved much from one end o’ the week to the next. But they couldn’t make out what ‘twas until the sacristy door opened and out came the priest. ‘Twas then they saw it -- a stool against the wall outside the door. But that wasn’t all. Out after the parish priest came the curate, and then the altar boys. And that was unusual, ‘cause the curate had his own Mass said earlier on. 

They were all looking out of ‘em now, to try and see what was going on. What was the concelebrated Mass for? But the parish priest started as usual -- “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti…” You remember, the grand old Latin prayers. 

And still nothing strange, until it came to the sermon time. Now, the other thing about the parish priest, as well as being a nondrinker, he was a hopeless man to preach a sermon. Useless entirely. I heard he was so bad that every Sunday, when he’d start, the people used to go to sleep while he’d be at it, and the ones at the back and up in the galleries, they’d curl up on the seats to do it. And that’s no easy job on church seats!

But on this Sunday not one went to sleep, or yawned, either. ‘Cause all he did was to tell ‘em about what he saw and heard on that road near Sunnagh bridge the few nights before. And there was the curate, sitting on the stool near the sacristy door, nodding at every word. 

And you can say what you like -- one priest might tell you a lie, but two priests together? No such thing! I wouldn’t believe it, in spite if all the bad things we’re hearing about the clergy for a few years back.

Anyway, he told ‘em every bit o’ what happened. And the man that told it to me, he was ‘twas the damnedest thing he every saw -- people’s hair beginning to stand above on their heads with the fright. And ‘twas even funny in one way, to see old lads that were bald and whatever few ribs they had behind their ears sticking out!

But I can tell you, by the time Mass was finished, the last blessing given, and people stood up to go, there was a good third o’ them people who couldn’t rise out o’ where they sat. Stuck to their seats! He frightened the…you know what…out of ‘em. 

That was fair work for a man that couldn’t preach a sermon, hah!

From there the word went out, o’ course, into all the parishes around -- into County Galway and Tipperary and Limerick, and farther, too.

After that, walking stopped entirely in all this part of Ireland. And they say it got so bad for a finish that country pubs started to go out o’ business -- no customers once dark’d fall. Publicans started to take the train and the boat to England, America, even to Van Diemen’s Land [ ] -- and by God, that’s a place you’d persuade no Irishman to go unless ‘twas a last resort! There were pubs selling here in Clare that time for forty pounds -- and no takers!

‘Twas only in the late ‘50’s, when cars began to get a bit plentiful, that people started traveling out again at night. ‘Cause you know as well as me that people are very brave when they have lights in front of ‘em and maybe a radio to be listening to. 

But I know this much, and you can believe it or not, whatever you like: That road isn’t right. The whitethorn bush where the priests saw that lad, I often passed it in the dark, cycling home, and I’d always feel safer when I’d be past it.