The Kylemore Abbey Ghost Whistler: A Father Declan O'Shea Supernatural Mystery

By Patrick Dorn

A Macabre Musical Mystery.

 

When a restless ghost's incessant playing of bawdy tunes on her phantom tin whistle drives the elderly Benedictine Sisters to distraction, a Franciscan friar is summoned to use his spiritual gift of Insight and bring blessed harmony back to Kylemore Abbey. Featuring a guest appearance by the spirit of shepherdess Bina McLoughlin, the Queen of Connemara.

 

The Father Declan Supernatural Mysteries are a series of standalone upbeat, redemptive, and often humorous urban fantasy short stories set in Ireland.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrick Dorn
• Release date: Mar 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393198956

Patrick Dorn

Patrick Dorn used to write weird westerns set in Old California, New Mexico, and Colorado, but then he visited Ireland. Now his supernatural fiction alternates between The West and The Emerald Isle, but is always, always weird. He's also an Anglican priest and a full-time chaplain. Check out Patrick's blog, stories, plays, musicals, children's books, and more at www.PatrickDorn.com. You can reach him at [e-mail]

Book preview

Chapter One

Franciscan Friar Declan O’Shea squirmed on a slickly polished oaken pew in the opulent neo-Gothic chapel at Kylemore Abbey, feeling like a tourist.

The diminutive replica of Cirencester Cathedral had never been about giving glory to God.

He regarded the light creamy-yellow Caen sandstone and the delicately fan-vaulted ceiling. It was impressive, somehow feminine, but the chapel contained less actual sacred space than the modest nuns’ graveyard out back.

At its heart, Kylemore Chapel was little more than an ostentatious English financier’s testimony to his love for a dead woman.

The priest was surprised to hear that the secular chapel was haunted. But nuns don’t often lie. At least not about things supernatural. He’d see for himself soon enough, and took a deep, relaxing breath.

Father Declan readied his spiritual gift of Insight.

He also steeled himself for the final rehearsal of the Gaeilge Girls Choir.

The priest had been given less than twelve hours to rid Kylemore Abbey of its pesky and persistent phantom before family and friends arrived to hear the children perform. So far, he’d failed to sense any restless spirits.

Beside him sat Mother Abbess Agnes Curtis, stern but capable administrator of what had once been a sprawling Victorian summer estate. Since 1923 it had served as a Benedictine abbey and school for girls. But now it was regarded as western Ireland’s premiere tourist attraction.

Run by nuns.

Kylemore Abbey was rivaled only by the somewhat over-rated Cliffs of Moher, three hours south in County Clare. Both were included in nearly every tour package and brought a much-needed boost to the economy of the underpopulated and scarcely developed Wild Atlantic Way.

Mother Agnes had bags under her gray eyes, a slightly bent patrician nose, and thin lips pursed over grinding teeth. She tugged nervously at the sleeve of her uncharacteristically rumpled black Benedictine habit. Her fingertips were stained red and she smelled like simmering strawberry jam.

I can’t thank you enough for coming to help us, Father. The sisters are at our wits end.

Father Declan thought about patting her bony knee in fraternal reassurance but changed his mind.

It's really no bother, Mother Agnes. As it happens, I was in Clifden investigating a supposed banshee at the castle ruin.

She faced him, gray eyes widening with curiosity.

Turned out to be a feral cat in heat. His face grew warm. Excuse my language, Mother Agnes.

She waved a thin, blue-veined hand in dismissal. God has brought you to Connemara so we might be delivered of this torment. None of us has been able to pray the Office for weeks. Our sleep is constantly interrupted, our production of handmade jams has suffered, and I’m becoming snippy toward our visitors. Especially the Asians.

She bowed her head and made the Sign of the Cross over her chest.

Father Declan recalled that the Benedictine order was devoted to prayer, work, and hospitality. If their vocation had been disrupted since mid-February, they must truly be suffering. It spoke to the sisters’ discipline and perseverance that they’d only reached out for assistance when the public was in danger of being affected by their ethereal affliction.

I’ll do my best to help get you back on your knees, he said, then winced at the phrasing.

Chapter Two

Father Declan turned and looked behind him as a heavyset nun with narrow shoulders, an upturned nose, and flushed cheeks marched into the chapel. Her mouth was set in a downward scowl that didn't look at all natural on her otherwise cherubic face.

Then he noticed the terror in her darting eyes. Not the shocked look of someone