unwelcomeness

This is the Bloody Chapel at the top of Leap Castle’s central tower keep in County Offaly, Ireland. We visited because of the castle’s reputed most-haunted-place-in-Ireland status; supposedly it’s home to not one but many spirits, including children, a murdered monk and a malevolent, inhuman elemental presence that looks like a dead sheep and is redolent of rotting flesh. We were shown around by Martin, resident carpenter and historian, who is restoring the castle (which is partially in ruins) with its owner, Sean Ryan (the Ryans have lived here since the 80’s). Before the tour, Martin shared some tea with us next to a giant fire and told us a bit about the castle’s history. Most of what he related concerned wars, changes of ownership, destruction of the castle’s wooden guts by fire, re-construction, etc., and very little of what he said involved paranormal stuff of any kind. He only mentioned that he himself had never experienced any kind of ghostly occurrence here.

The castle was built around 1250 on a high rocky spot, strategically important for control of the valley below, and as part a chain of 29 or so castles that were each within sight of another, so that emergency communication could be quick. Leap is one of the few left in any kind of un-ruined state. The castle’s site was important to the pre-Christian residents of the area also, as bronze-age artifacts uncovered around the castle attest. It’s said that, when the castle was built, stones from a previous ancient structure, most likely a tomb, were incorporated into the walls (a practice which was common), and that human blood was mixed into the mortar. The spirits of whomever was interred in the pre-existing tomb provide a kind of foundation cursedness. For many years the area was controlled by the O’Carroll clan, a family so brutal and cunning that they’d already been kicked out of the North of Ireland, and, many years later, banished from Ireland completely, settling mostly in Maryland, in the US. Leap Castle was the seat of their power for hundreds of years.

The Bloody Chapel is the most infamous of the castle’s rooms for at least two reasons. One is the fact that, on the right side of the far window, hidden from view in the above picture’s angle, is the opening to an oubliette, which is a kind of death-shaft, sometimes covered with a drop floor, used to conveniently dispose of enemies. If you were tossed in the Bloody Chapel’s oubliette, often referred to as its dungeon, you’d fall ten or more feet onto long spikes, and the remains of your new tomb-mates. If you didn’t die right away, you’d spend your last hours or days in agony, forgotten, hence the name. The oubliette was emptied in the 1800’s, and “three cartloads” of bones were hauled away. Knowing victims would sometimes request to be thrown in head-first, so that the chances of a quick death would be better.

The second reason is a story about fratricide. In 1532 the clan’s leader died, leaving his sons to vie for chief-hood. Although Martin pointed out that one of the brothers, a priest, apparently had a nearby church/monastery to run, which could have meant that he wouldn’t have been much of a threat, the story goes that his brother, who was obviously more ruthless, wanted him out of the way regardless. He invited his brother to say mass in the tower’s chapel, then cut his throat at the altar. The priest’s ghost is supposed to be haunting the chapel now, and his spirit might be what tossed one of the American paranormal investigators on the floor in one episode of “Ghost Hunters.” While Martin was showing us the chapel, I brought this story up, and he pointed out that so many people had died here, including an entire dinner party of neighbors that the O’Carrolls owed money to (who were poisoned and then slaughtered, their bodies thrown down the oubliette, their heads kicked out the windows like footballs), that it would be hard to figure out just who was haunting the Bloody Chapel. More likely, I think, if it’s possible at all, it’s the accumulated, concentrated killing, and the viciousness of the deaths, which are causing any haunting. The room’s atmosphere was unsettling to me in what I might best describe as a calm way. It’s creepy, not least because you have to climb the last bit of the spiral stone stairway by candlelight, since there are no electric lights in the top of the castle. Martin gave each of us our own candle holder to carry. Gail and I returned together to take this picture, since I was too freaked out to be up there by myself. I’ve never had a serious, wide-awake ghostly experience, but I think if I could have stayed the night in this room, maybe in a sleeping bag on the floor, or awake all night with a few candles, I’d have as good a chance as I ever will.

This is a “cave” in Joshua Tree National Park, near the boundary, that, according to my book of hikes, was built in the 40’s as a waystation of sorts between a certain area of the exterior of the park and Barker Dam inside, where there is a small lake. Over the years the boulder cave has been stocked to varying degrees and log-booked. We got there the hard way, from within the park, through, among other things, a “challenging” boulder-filled canyon which turned out ot be rather dangerous. Known as “Oh-Bay-Yo-Yo,” the shelter is not on the topo map, and we found it through luck more than anything. The above-mentioned book has what we found to be a cursory description of the route to the cave, but when you’re out there (in the Wonderland of Rocks area, also a Bighorn Sheep preserve) everything looks exactly the same: massive piles of car-sized boulders separated by washes and yucca plants. I’ve read that you can obtain the UTM coordinates from friendly rangers. Inside we found a fire pit, some logs for sitting, battered kitchen utensils, greeting cards (blank), a hardened suitcase containing various paper items, pens, a can opener, some dead lighters, and a spiral-bound logbook.

In a cloud. I’d say it’s fog, but there’s never fog here. More like a probable malignant mist, damp and smelly, a non-corporeal wet dog. Our eyes are peeled for flying polyps. A never-ending night. The moisture is in the air as fat gobs of fluid, swirling around underneath the orange streetlights like a swarm of drunk moths. We bivouac in a depression in a field, underneath some plywood and found tarps. Dwarf and I chat in lowered voices about tomorrow. There’s a flashlight next to us pointing up, a quarter-twelver nearby. We have gained items and power. Bog Man shoulder-tapped at a liquor store and got us the twelver for free by using his ghastly appearance and brain-controlling skills. We’re still excited about his being a member of our team, it’s sort of like hanging with your hugest hero, someone you thought you’d never actually meet.

Cranberry’s for some reason getting mushy. It’s a little awkward since no one gives much of a fuck about him. Listen to that cricket, he says. I love that cricket. We all look at each other. Who invited him? Did he eat something poisonous? No one knows. I break out a deck of cards and start to shuffle them, Pingpong lights a Newport. Cranberry’s crying, he crawls out of the hideout, on his hands and knees, looking for the cricket. You’ll never find it, says Dwarf. Nobody ever finds any crickets. People are defaulting into sleep because of fatigue, habit. Bog Man has materialized next to where Pingpong’s curled up, is spooning him, and Pingpong’s whimpering and clearly terrified. He can’t get a boner, I tell him. Don’t worry, just roll with it.

As the sun rises I’m out in the damp grass. Several of our number have disappeared in the night, I’ve noticed, either back to Scout House, or who knows. Dwarf’s still here. The plywood’s sort of settled down overnight and it looks like there’s no way humans could fit under it, an excellent hidden fortress. Pingpong emerges from the ground and informs me, and by extension, Dwarf, who is squatting right next to me, that he’s going to quit, because he can’t handle the living dead trying to fuck him while he’s minding his own business. His actual words are something less coherent, more impassioned. And my response is: Well, we each had different upbringings, didn’t we? Besides, I tell him. I’m out next. At least not last.

Bog Man’s a pile of crap, can hardly animate himself, which is a further depression in the wet morning. The ultimate anticlimax. No one got to explode, or be annihilated by his terrible telekenetic power. He was modest with his second try at things, I think he mostly blew his reanimated do-over. Maybe he was all talk. I bump his scapula with my toe. Nothing. Something might have moved. I grab his leather skullcap and try it on. It’s a bit stiff and has a horrifying odor. Ancient skin is weird, I don’t recommend it. Then, a movement. I look down, and Bog Man’s trying to do a sit-up, but he can’t get it together. One arm is stuck out like a zombie, the other apparently powerless, and his abs are jittering, which makes his neck vibrate, which makes his hardened brain bang around inside his skull like a grapefruit, which makes his head jerk forwards and back again, which makes his movement plan disturbing and arbitrary. His sad algae-slime face is proof that the universe is the opposite of warm and friendly. I try to remember what it was like when being a Scout was new and exciting, and I can, but it’s a further compounding of the bum-out, because my remembered exuberance is now revealed to have been shamefully stupid. Dwarf helps me scoop Bog Man and dump him into someone’s backpack. He’s like a few armloads of bony kelp; the fronts of our shirts are wet and brown. He needs to keep moving, says Dwarf, maybe if we can get him back to the bog- but he doesn’t finish the sentence. My guess is he’ll mostly leak out of the bottom before we get very far in any direction.