Father Declan's Ghostly Miracles: A Father Declan Supernatural Mystery, #1

By Patrick Dorn

An Irish Franciscan priest with the spiritual gift of Insight and the heavenly assistance of popular saints pursues his ministry of helping the haunted and releasing earthbound spirits.

In these six long-form short stories previously published individually, Father Declan helps a jolly jester battle a rampaging wraith in knight's armor, brings blessed harmony back to an abbey plagued by a persistently musical teenaged spirit, joins psychic Morgane Delaney in confronting a wailing banshee at a burned-out castle, delivers an anorexic woman from an insatiable Famine ghoul, fights fierce phantom Vikings alongside a gaggle of hurley stick-wielding little girls, and organizes a merry liberation event for restless haunts at a Dublin pub.

The Father Declan stories are always upbeat and redemptive. Some are humorous, and others mildly horrifying.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrick Dorn
• Release date: Apr 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201149765

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

The Jester of Malahide Castle

An Unlikely Action Hero

A jolly ghost enlists the aid of a Father Declan to help thwart a malevolent phantom in shining armor at one of Ireland’s most haunted castles. Featuring a cameo appearance by Sir Sly the Sacred Eel.

Chapter One

EELING THE WELL

It was the 19th of April, and with all the Masses and obligations of Holy Week behind him, Franciscan Father Declan O’Shea was eager to venture back out into the world and catch up on the duties of his sacred supernatural vocation. Like blessing and tossing a writhing, meter-long eel down an ancient holy well behind Saint Sylvester’s church in Malahide, Co. Dublin.

The honor of leading the annual Eeling the Well ceremony, which probably dated back to pre-Christian days, had fallen to Father Declan because he’d accidentally taken the wrong Castle bus north from Dublin. Intending to investigate sightings of a red-eyed hellhound at former Archbishop Comyn’s 12th-century administrative palace at Swords, he’d arrived instead outside the spacious castle parkland in Malahide, six kilometers east.

Weary of eel-wrangling, Father Cahill, longtime rector at Saint Sylvester’s, offered to pay Father Declan’s bus fare to Swords in exchange for the favor of saying a few words and dropping the squirming, snake-like fish down the well.

The Franciscan could easily have walked to Swords in about an hour, but compassion for the elderly and arthritic priest, along with a tug at his spiritual gift of Insight caused him to reconsider.

He accepted Father Cahill’s offer.

The holy well, at the corner of Old Street and Malahide Road, hadn’t been in use since the installation of a modern water main in 1929. It was covered by a tall, octagonal, bell-shaped stone lid, about the size of a confessional booth, with barred windows to prevent children falling in.

Once a site for triple immersion baptisms, the sacred spring was reputed to possess healing properties, which may or may not have a supernatural origin. Consecrated fish and eels were often associated with such wells, helping to keep the water potable by reducing the undesirable population of grubs, crustaceans, mites, flies, nympha, and the like.

Now, the disused well was a relic of a bygone day, ignored by the locals and only of scant interest to the curious tourist.

But traditions have a way of persisting, so Father Declan, with a heavy orange plastic paint bucket containing the guest of honor beside him, raised a hand in prayer. In that hand he held his plastic Holy Water bottle. The priest squirted the blessed water on the well cap in the Sign of the Cross and down the well, speaking to the smattering of onlookers.

O Lord, sanctify this fountain of water with Thy heavenly blessing and make it suitable for every use. Drive from it every influence of the devil so that whoever draws from it or drinks this water may enjoy good health and full vigor, and give praise and thanks to Thee, the Sanctifier and Preserver of all things. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

He felt a twinge of guilt for pulling the prayer off the internet at the last minute, but supposed it didn’t matter since no one would actually be drinking the well water.

His private prayer was that all those who looked upon the well would receive a blessing and turn their minds to spiritual things.

As an afterthought, he squirted a little Holy Water into the bucket, then folded down the nozzle on the plastic bottle and returned it to the front trouser pocket underneath his habit.

Next came the tricky part. Father Declan reached down into the bucket. After several attempts to get a firm grip, he lifted the squirming, slippery eel by its gills, held it over his head and turned in a circle so all could see the thrashing well sentinel.

Cold water poured off the eel and up the sleeves of Father Declan’s russet brown winter weight habit. It puddled around his Irish Setter Southpaw waterproof oxford shoes.

The Franciscan abruptly realized why Father Cahill was so eager to pass the unpleasant job to someone else.

What shall we name the protector of the well? he asked the handful of onlookers.

It was just a formality. Apparently, every year the eel was named Sylvester, after the church’s 4th-century patron saint.

Sylvester! a couple rocking a sleeping baby in a pram offered in unison.

Sly! came a voice, which sounded to Father Declan as if it had come from deep within the well itself. He felt a shiver in his Insight, and decided to lean into it.

The couple with the pram laughed and nodded their approval.

So they’d heard the voice, too.

No one else objected.

Father Declan turned the bulbous black eyes and gaping snaggletoothed mouth toward his face. By popular acclamation, we dub thee ‘Sir Sly,’ protector and defender of the well. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Sir Sly, apparently unimpressed with the designation, wriggled and squirmed, trying to escape Father Declan’s hold. Its cold, slimy tail slapped him on the cheek.

The priest declined to turn the other one.

Not wanting to suffer the embarrassment of dropping the writhing creature on the cobblestones and causing chaos, he tipped Sir Sly face first through one of the barred windows and released him to the dubious depths, at most two meters below.

Everyone listened for the splash, then turned and drifted away.

The bus to Swords would leave in half an hour.

Father Declan pushed his face against the barred window and peered into the darkness.

A voice came from below. Hello there.

The Franciscan was taken off guard by the resonant, somewhat high-pitched, and decidedly friendly greeting.

Can I help you? he asked.

I hope so. My name is Puck, and I’ve served as the watchman at Malahide Castle for more than 500 years. Trouble has been brewing amongst our resident ghosts. I need you to help avert a tragedy.

Chapter Two

A GRAVEYARD GHOST

Father Declan hated getting involved in domestic disputes, especially those involving earthbound spirits. To be honest, most specters had an annoying tendency toward obsessive self-absorption.

He sighed and set the empty bucket against the back wall at Saint Sylvester’s church, next to the rectory door. Father Declan walked from Old Road to Malahide Road, then onto the 260-acre castle grounds.

Of all the tourist-friendly sites in Ireland advertised as one of the most haunted, Malahide Castle, situated about ten minutes north east of Dublin Airport, actually merited the title. The well-kept 12th-century bastion boasted a Ghostwikia top rating of 5 at ghosts.fandom.com.

There were no fewer than half a dozen well-documented specters, and Puck was probably the most famous.

Invisible except to Father Declan’s Insight, Puck led the priest in a circuitous route along several footpaths to the castle, passing the cricket pitches and nine-hole golf course.

The priest grudgingly paid the entrance fee granting access to the famous walled garden, one of only four in Ireland, as well as admission to a climate-controlled Butterfly House and an amusing child-friendly Fairy Trail in the woodlands, along with the 45-minute castle tour.

As he pushed a noticeably thinner wallet through the slit in his habit and into a back trouser pocket, the priest scowled at the diminutive ghost.

Puck stood no more than four feet tall and was dressed in the classic garb of a court jester with a bright tan tunic and bouncy, three-horned cap with bells on the tips.

Puck shrugged and quirked a mischievous smile. Ghosts get in free.

Why are you showing all this to me? Father Declan asked, as they passed the cannon-blasted ruin of Malahide Abbey and Graveyard.

Well, for starters, Puck said, gesturing to the graveyard. That’s where Mad Maud rests, in between bouts of tormenting two out of three of her dead husbands and keeping the rest of us awake in the dead of night with her deranged ranting.

Right on cue, a wildly disheveled phantom with frightful hair that reminded Father Declan of a rat’s nest popped up from behind a tombstone. Her pinched face was garishly made up and powdered, and she wore a ragged, weedy, bruised puce dress no woman of any century should be caught dead wearing.

Puck! You whoreson pox-faced rascal! Have you seen my worthless, layabout husbands? She waved what looked like a human femur at him. I have a bone to pick with them.

No, milady. Not since yesterday.

Some watchman you are, Devil take you!

Yes, milady.

For some reason, she paid no attention whatsoever to Father Declan. He might just as well have been invisible. He didn't mind escaping her notice in the least.

The unlikely pair hurried up the castle steps, leaving Mad Maud to her colorful cursing.

All right, Father Declan said. I can appreciate that you want me to get a feel for the castle grounds and graveyard. But why show me the Butterfly House?

Puck looked up at Father Declan, smiled and gestured with open palms. Who doesn’t like butterflies?

Chapter Three

A PERNICIOUS PURITAN

Father Declan couldn’t stay annoyed with Puck. The ghost was simply too amiable. He wanted to help the jovial jester, if he could.

As a tour guide led a group of chatty Americans through the entrance hall at Malahide Castle, Father Declan joined them, following behind and to the side. He resisted the temptation to rap on the hollow chest plate of a free-standing suit of armor.

The priest whispered to the ghostly jester. Tell me about the others.

We’ve already met Lady Maud Plunkett, Puck said. Then there’s her first husband, Sir Walter Hussey, a 15th-century Cavalier who was murdered by a Roundhead rival on his wedding day. He loves to moan in misery and show off the spear wound in his side like he’s the Risen Lord or something.

Father Declan thought that sounded a bit blasphemous, but let it go.

But mostly Sir Walter’s upset because Lady Maud married his murderer immediately after he died.

I could see how that might chafe a little, Father Declan said. And the Roundhead rival who became Maud’s second husband? Where is he?

Puck rolled his round eyes and pointed downwards at the flagstone floor. Burning in Hell with Oliver Cromwell and all his ilk, I hope. His face twisted like he’d sucked on a lemon, then brightened.

On the other hand, her third husband, the Chief Justice, is a fine old fellow. Loves to tell tales of his years on the bench, and is a gracious loser at backgammon. Lord knows how he got saddled with Mad Maud.

The knowledgeable and enthusiastic tour guide, a round-faced young woman with ginger hair and a lilting voice, led the group through a dining parlor and the Great Hall.

They stayed in the Great Hall for some time, admiring the many portraits mounted on walls painted the color of blood oranges.

Puck pointed toward a painting of a stunningly beautiful woman lounging on a chaise. She wore a white dress, and her black hair was done up on top in a complex braid.

The dwarf sighed. Lady Lenora. A face and figure worthy of a week’s infatuation, but not a whole lot going on in the belfry. He tapped his head and the bells on his cap jingled. She’s known to others as the White Lady. Maybe you’ll get a chance to see her. She drifts through from time to time.

The tour group climbed an impressively carved wooden staircase to the restored bedrooms, complete with period props and furniture.

The castle had been thoroughly refurbished in 2012, and the guide seemed to take such pride in ownership that Father Declan wondered if she’d actually been part of the restoration project.

Pardon me for saying so, Puck, Father Declan whispered. But it sounds like your castle ghosts are managing pretty well, considering the inevitable annoyances of so many spirits haunting one place.

Puck’s face clouded over. That’s because I haven’t yet told you about that Puritan villain Miles Corbet, may God damn his soul to perdition. Puck made the Sign of the Cross over himself. Forgive me, Father, but Corbet’s black heart is filled with murder still. He makes unlife in the castle intolerable.

Father Declan recognized that name. The tour guide had said that the Talbot family owned Malahide Castle for nearly 800 years, except from 1649 to 1660. That was when the maniac Puritan Oliver Cromwell, after leading a civil war against Charles I and seeing the king beheaded, swept through Ireland like a genocidal pestilence, executing priests, Franciscan friars, and Irish soldiers, showing even Catholic noncombatants no mercy.

Cromwell exploded and set fire to thousands of churches, monasteries, and abbeys across Ireland, then handed most of the seized lands and property over to his loyal English lackeys.

Miles Corbet had usurped ownership of Malahide Castle.

Corbet was one of the fifty-nine regicides, judges who signed the death warrant for Charles I. After the Restoration of the Monarchy and enthronement of Charles II in 1660, Corbet and the other traitors were hanged, drawn, quartered, castrated, and their decapitated heads mounted on pikes at Tyburn.

Father Declan couldn’t think of a more ghastly prescription for creating a vengeful ghost.

Miles Corbet is still here?

Puck’s eyes flashed with anger, which looked shockingly incongruous on his otherwise cherubic face. A hairbrush and hand mirror resting on an antique dresser rattled and flew across the room, startling the ginger tour guide.

The priest was surprised to see the jovial watchman produce such a violent psychokinetic reaction.

Puck?

Today is the anniversary of Miles Corbet’s execution, the jester hissed. He has recruited two anti-Catholic co-conspirators from Yellow Walls Cemetery.

Father Declan held his breath, his stomach sinking. His forehead grew cold and his fingers tingled.

That’s what dread felt like.

Puck’s usually jolly expression was grim. He’s planning to commemorate the occasion by murdering the old priest at Saint Sylvester’s Church.

Chapter Four

A CERTAIN UNCERTAINTY

Father Declan didn’t doubt for a second that Puck was serious. Some earthbound spirits, like a select few of the living, are capable of turning homicidal. Miles Corbet was a prime candidate to become a murderous ghost.

I’d better call Father Cahill straight away.

And what will you tell the old fellow? Puck asked. That a ghost who signed the death warrant for Charles I in 1649 and his gang are out to get him?

That did present a problem. The two priests didn’t know each other very well, and the somewhat homebound Father Cahill had seemed uncommonly reluctant to leave his rectory except to celebrate Mass in the adjoining church. Where could he run?

It wouldn’t hurt to try, the Franciscan said, but he failed to convince even himself.

He and the jester would have to work this out themselves.

Puck led Father Declan away from the guided tour and up a narrow circular staircase to the top of a turret. The tiny, unlocked timber door was so low, the priest had to nearly get on his hands and knees to pass through. His shoulders scraped both door jambs.

The Franciscan hiked up the hem of his habit and duck-walked into the small, empty, low-ceilinged room. Arrowloop windows were spaced evenly around the bare stone walls. Dust particles floated around him.

This has been my home for five centuries, Puck said. It’s just the right size for me, and I can see pretty much the entire castle grounds from here. He puffed out his chest. I’m the watchman, you know. I take my job seriously.

I believe you, Father Declan said. Tell me how we can stop Miles Corbet.

I won’t lie to you, Father. Corbet is a powerful, malevolent spirit. He’s capable of animating an entire suit of armor and wielding a sword. He’s taught his two assassins to handle physical objects, so they present a danger as well.

This is serious, Father Declan said. He briefly wished he’d taken the correct bus from Dublin. But maybe Providence had maneuvered his error to achieve a greater good.

Puck paced the floor. "And just look at me! I’m a watchman, not a warrior. I was deficient in life, and no