The Dancing Jig Doll: A Father Declan Supernatural Mystery

By Patrick Dorn

No Strings Attached!

 

When a shabby antique puppet begins to move on its own at a Dublin pub, an unconventional Irish priest strives to discover what manner of spirit is animating the wooden dancing doll.

 

Set in Ireland, the Fr. Declan Supernatural Mysteries are upbeat, redemptive, contemporary fantasy short stories. Some are humorous, and others mildly horrifying.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrick Dorn
• Release date: Nov 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215046128

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

Recalling a Ghost Gun

Father Declan O’Shea sat on a sturdy stool at Slattery’s Bar in Dublin’s Beggars Bush district and considered how little he’d enjoyed having an angry ghost point a pistol in his face. He cradled his steaming mug of hot coffee with sweet cream and topped with a pat of Kerrygold butter, trying to stop his adrenaline-fueled shivers from spilling the soothing brew.

Dangerous encounters with supernatural beings were a regular occurrence for the priest as he pursued his peculiar ministry of helping the haunted and releasing earthbound spirits. But facing down the vengeful specter of executed Fenian revolutionary Erskine Childers at the former garrison headquarters at Beggars Bush Barracks had revealed a side of himself he didn’t like.

True it had been a ghost gun Childers was wielding and probably could have only caused a temporary psychic wound, but it was Father Declan’s reaction that left him feeling glum. The compassion he normally felt for suffering spirits had fled as he stared down the barrel of the phantom revolver. Instead, he’d gotten mad. Really, really angry. Outraged, even, and he couldn’t simply rationalize it away as righteous indignation.

Without compassion, he’d momentarily lost both permission and the ability to help the raging revenant. And along with it, his charismatic gift of Insight.

Only the timely intervention of the spirit of Irish revolutionary leader Michael Collins himself had prevented Father Declan from wrathfully consigning the armed and dangerous specter to the Outer Darkness. Instead, Collins had gently ushered Childers into a longed-for place of consolation and rest.

Worst of all, before departing with his charge, Collins had given the priest a withering look that smacked of disappointment.

Father Declan considered adding a shot of Jameson to his coffee.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he hunched over the bar, feeling sorry for himself. Maybe he should take a holiday. Retreat to Raphael’s Healing Garden in County Wexford for a few days.

He sipped his coffee, which miraculously remained piping hot, and avoided looking at his reflection in the mirror behind the brightly lit shelves of hard liquors.

The proprietor of Slattery’s Bar, a short, bald man with an athletic build and sleeves rolled up over muscular arms approached the priest. How’s the coffee, Father? Too strong? I don’t usually sell much of the stuff until near closing time.

Father Declan took another sip. It’s grand.

And actually, it was.

The barman offered a heavy, hairy hand. Name’s Joseph. Joseph Burke. This is my establishment.

The grip was firm and the priest was relieved to find that his own hand had finally stopped shaking. Father Declan.

The disheartened priest looked around. He’d been so intent on the coffee he hadn’t noticed his surroundings.

Slattery’s was a surprisingly well-lit, upscale rugby bar for a Grand Canal neighborhood so close to Aviva Stadium. Slattery’s boasted five distinct bars, several projectors and more than a dozen flat screens, all currently muted, showing rugby match highlights.

He smelled pizza, but wasn’t feeling hungry. Johnny Cash’s Forty Shades of Green was playing through the sound