The Curse of Sligo Abbey: A Father Declan Supernatural Mystery

By Patrick Dorn

Caught in a temporal loop! 

An unconventional Irish priest must undertake a dangerous journey back in time to unbind a ghostly Dominican friar from a 400-year-old curse. Inspired by "The Curse of the Fires and of the Shadows" by W.B. Yeats.

Featuring guest appearances by the spirits of Saint Columba and Sir Frederick Hamilton. 

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

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrick Dorn
• Release date: Jan 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215065884

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 Father Declan O’Shea wondered if he’d ever walk again as he knelt on the stone steps before the high altar at Holy Cross Priory in Sligo Town late one evening in July. He was having trouble remembering the Latin version of the prayers for Vespers and half-heartedly cursed whoever came up with the notion that kneeling on stone somehow made a person holier.

At least the steps weren’t marble.

Beside him, Dominican Prior Daniel O’Crean chanted the prayers in flawless Latin and looked like he could bend the knee on stone forever. Which was not surprising, since the diminutive friar had been dead since 1642 and so had plenty of practice.

Father Declan’s spiritual gift of Insight revealed the priory in its early 17th-century splendor. He could also discern the various stages of restoration from the 13th-century Norman original to the 15th-century Gothic addition of a stone-cut, three-bay rood screen and the centrally-placed tower whose underside was closed by a ribbed and groined fan vault.

The priest wasn’t certain how much of what he saw in reverie was a collective memory from the priory’s past or its current pristine state in the finer, spiritual realms.

While Father Declan gazed around in wonder in a failed attempt to distract himself from painful patellas, the center of ghostly Prior O’Crean’s attention was fixed on the marvelous stone high altar with nine arched panels and carved foliage in front, and a magnificent stained glass window above.

Most of all, the phantom’s focus was riveted on the brazen crucifix containing a sliver of the True Cross that stood atop the altar, surrounded by flickering and smoking tallow candles.

In reality, the crucifix was long gone, perished centuries ago in fire and violence along with all the friars and the ancient church in which they prayed. But the spectacularly sacred object of devotion still shone brightly in Father Declan’s Insight.

Though it may change form, that which is of the Lord never passes away.

The Dominican prior put so much feeling into the penitential mea culpas of the liturgy, Father Declan wished he could somehow grant the contrite specter absolution.

But this case wasn’t so simple.

He offered the sharp, throbbing pain in his knees as a sacrifice, recalling the Savior’s falling thrice on the Way of Sorrows under the weight of the Cross for which the priory was originally named.

Father Declan was likewise humbled to acknowledge that his weeping companion had endured acute spiritual agony since committing an undisclosed, unforgivable sin and then suffering a particularly violent death nearly 400 years before.

He vowed to do everything he could to free Prior O’Crean from torment and commend him to peace everlasting.

Buoyed by his resolve, Father Declan felt more confident reciting the Pater Noster, the Our Father. He slipped up only once, during the sed libera nos a malo, the deliver us from evil part.

He shifted his weight from one aching knee to the other and hoped the verbal stumble wasn’t a sign of impending trouble.

But his Insight suggested otherwise.

Chapter Two

Father Declan emerged back into the present moment and found himself surrounded by the ruins of Sligo Abbey, on the east side of Sligo Town and a stone’s throw from the Hamilton Gallery.

Darkness had fallen and the cool breeze coming off the adjacent Garavogue River was refreshing. A handful of straggling tourists on the sidewalk outside the grounds found the waning light around the ruin’s outer walls inadequate for selfies, and moved off in search of a lively pub.

He was grateful the caretakers of the ruin had granted permission for him to remain beyond closing time.

All night, if necessary.

Considering its antiquity and violent history, Sligo Abbey was fairly well preserved.

Much of the original priory (it was never an abbey despite its current appellation) remained. The tower, three sides of