The Changeling of Menlo Castle: A Father Declan Supernatural Mystery

By Patrick Dorn

Franciscan Friar Frees Flatulent Fairy!

An unconventional Irish priest risks his soul to retrieve a young girl who was stolen by fairies and replaced by a grotesque Changeling more than a century before. Featuring a guest appearance by Saint Brigid and introducing Bruscar as The Changeling.

 

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: Jun 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223816317

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

PART I

A Night at the Museum

Franciscan Father Declan O’Shea was growing weary of pretending to be a mannequin. His shoulders ached, his nose itched, and after feasting on jalapeño poppers with mac ‘n’ cheese ‘n’ chorizo tacos at Sliders in Galway’s Latin quarter for lunch, he had a slight touch of heartburn.

His spiritual gift of Insight had advised him to order the milder Pick-A-Dickle burger instead, but he felt a head cold might be coming on and decided eating something spicy could help ward it off.

And so the friar stood, uncomfortable and motionless at St. James National School’s A Night at the Museum fundraiser, posing as a life-like example of Antiquated Medieval Religious Costume.

Perspiration dampened his forehead and his absurdly petrified prayerful pose meant he couldn’t use a sleeve to wipe it away. A salty, stinging drop crept into the outside corner of his left eye and he blinked it away.

The priest tried to convince himself that a little discomfort, not to mention mortification of the flesh, was a small price to pay for a worthy cause. The saints and martyrs endured much worse.

Not to mention the Lord.

Responding to the clergy shortage in west Ireland, Father Declan had agreed to say Mass at St. James Church all that week and the next while staying at the Franciscan Abbey across from Nuns Island in Galway City. The agreement included serving the parish school.

He couldn’t think of a better use of his time and presence than to help raise money for the special education program.

St. James National School had instructed the children of Bushypark, County Galway’s 3,525th largest townland since the early 19th century. The school was less than four kilometers up the River Corrib from the Spanish Arch, with only a hockey club separating it from the prestigious National University.

In stark contrast, the hauntingly forlorn, burned out ruin of Menlo Castle rested on the opposite side of the river, its sad visage gradually succumbing to the encroachment of leafy green ivy. Father Declan knew the manor house’s tragic history, and that the ruin had a reputation for being haunted.

He planned to go there later in the week to make a paranormal pastoral visit, and perhaps offer peace and release to any restless spirits he might discover.

But the friar’s immediate concern was for those still living in remarkably mundane Bushypark.

The co-educational Catholic primary school enrolled more than 400 pupils, but due to insufficient government funding, three special education instructors, who in no way reminded him of the witches of Endor, concocted the museum scheme as a creative means to raise money.

And so, when they implored him after morning Mass to attend their Night at the Museum gala, he’d gladly agreed.

All we want is for people to see you, Father, they’d said.

It wasn’t until after he agreed to their plea that the youngest teacher revealed they actually intended to put him on display.

Father Declan suppressed a smile. Their ruse was harmless to everything except his pride.

Using his peripheral vision, he watched the children and their parents milling about the classroom, evaluating the exhibits. Regardless of the funds that might be raised, these shared moments between parent and child were precious. He felt privileged to stand and bear witness.

Even though Father Declan’s shoulders ached and his nose itched, he reminded himself again that there was no place else he’d rather be.

His stomach rumbled and he suppressed a spicy belch.

But not for much longer.

While on display, Father Declan tipped his eyes downward and noticed half a dozen special needs kids gathered around him. They screwed up their faces, trying to evoke a reaction. The friar felt like a guard at London’s Buckingham Palace, forced to stand at attention while tourists teased and taunted with impunity.

Very slowly, Father Declan crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue.

The kids laughed as if a Franciscan priest making faces was the silliest thing they’d ever seen, then skipped off to another display.

Father Declan loved children, especially the specials. They instinctively recognized he was one of the safe priests. Or perhaps his spiritual gift