Phil Carrick was born and raised in Ireland in the 1950s. She was educated at both UCD and Trinity College Dublin.

Galway Review published her fiction: The Night Visitor in 2020, A Woman in Need in 2021, Backseat Passenger in 2022 and The Bicycle Shed in 2023.

Phil’s memoirs were published in ‘Mining Memories’ Writing.ie in 2022. Fish Publications, Cork, long listed a memoir in 2019 and a short story in 2020.

Three of Phil’s poems are published in the Poetry Collection “2020 Visions” produced by the Ballymun Library Writers Group, Dublin.

She enjoys writing fiction and poetry and is currently working on a book of short stories.

The Haunting of Dinsmortan House

By Phil Carrick

On a sunny day in July 1964, we arrived at our new home in Co. Kildare after a long drive from Galway City. My brothers and I headed in different directions to explore the surroundings. An impressive semi-circular garden to the front of the building boasted a central rockery surrounded by a moat. An orchard of fifty fruit trees lay to the right of the house, and beyond this, there was a paddock nestling against a woodland of firtrees. It was called Dinsmortan House and was over a hundred years old; a sharp contrast to our three bedroomed semi-detached council house. An elaborate building in Tudor style sitting on a farm of over 200 acres managed by the Harper family down through the generations. Over the years, part of the property had been demolished, and what remained in 1964 were front rooms with tall ceilings, tall windows arched with leaded glass panels comprised of many small frames and an added porch that was not characteristic of the style. All needed restoration. To the back of the house was a big kitchen area with a black stove that took up most of one wall. This led to two smaller larder rooms with shelving and a designated dairy room with whitewashed walls and high shelving. Black stone slabs made up the kitchen floor, and there were lots of iron pots and pans about the place, with all surfaces covered in a thick layer of dust. There was no electricity or water.

Over the weeks of summer, we became established in our new home, adapting to the unusual circumstances. Dad organised a generator for electricity and rigged up a water system that provided enough water for cooking and cleaning daily. Water was sourced from a pump in the farmyard. A dry toilet facility in the orchard often meant going out in the darkness. Our furniture arrived and was installed throughout the rooms. My aunt and uncle came with extra beds and, most importantly, our dog Rex. The house took on that lived-in look, and since we were on holiday from school, we had plenty of time to explore the fields and woods. It was a significant change from our home in the city, but we were young enough to be intrigued.

Adding to the intrigue were the stories the local woodcutter, Barry Barton, told my father. The previous tenants occupied the house about five years back. Barry maintained that they were driven out after a few months because of unusual and frightening happenings. He said the family heard eerie sounds downstairs at night and that their crockery was lifted from the tabletop and hurled against the walls. Rumours said that in the late 50s, Mrs Harper’s two sons fought with each other incessantly, often taking their shotguns out to the paddock for a firing match. Her husband, Anthony Harper, dug a deep pit for potatoes under the apple trees in their beautiful orchard. Early one morning, he left the house with his shotgun, stepped into the potato pit, and shot himself. In the years since, the soil level in this pit has never returned to its prior level. It remains like the outline of a grave. His distraught wife boarded up the windows on that side of the house overlooking the orchard. All windows overlooking the orchard were indeed blocked up. My mother refused to reopen them, making the rooms on that side very dark.

My mother was determined to get the old cooking range working, but all my parent’s attempts to salvage it failed. Smoke built up in the kitchen and refused to go up the chimney. Nevertheless, she placed a wooden table and chairs in the kitchen along the wall opposite the range. She set the place settings for the morning breakfast each night before heading to bed. One morning, Mam asked if we had been up during the night and gone downstairs. We answered no, bewildered by the question. I was nine, and my brother, Padraig, was eleven, neither brave enough to creep about at night. She said the pots and pans had been moved about and the place settings on the table altered.

The house was dark, especially at night, due to wooden wall panels, chocolate-coloured wallpaper, and dark wood furniture. The electricity, powered by a generator, provided a low-level yellowish light that lacked brightness. Oil-wicker lamps in the bedrooms produced constant flickering shadows. We became wary of being the last to leave a room and did not want to go either up or downstairs alone. Padraig overheard Mam saying that she sensed another woman’s presence in the kitchen and that a dark shadow in the form of a woman crossed in front of the range. My fathers replied:

“Sure, what harm can they do us, the poor souls?” Mam said she would sprinkle holy water into the room at night and leave our dog, Rex, there to keep them company. We were unhappy to hear Rex might be keeping spirits company, so my brother devised a plan to investigate the moving pots and place settings. He asked:

“What would you think of going down to the kitchen some night?”

“You’re mad. Why do you want to do that?”

“Just to see if plates and things are moving about.”

“You can go on your own, then.”

“Ah, come on. Wouldn’t you like to know for sure?”

“I don’t like the dark, anyway.”

“I have the big flash lamp Uncle Andy gave us. I need someone with me to hold the lamp.”

“I don’t know, and what if we are caught?”

It would be challenging to get from the bedroom, down the stairs, and open the latch on the kitchen door. A few days later, Padraig had his plan in shape and could not wait to include me. I secretly hoped he had forgotten the whole business.

“I have a plan, and it’s easy.” He announced.

“When are you going to try it?”

“Friday night?” he said.

“What?”

“Look, it is the best night. It’s the end of the week, and everyone is tired, so they’ll sleep soundly.”

“You’re scaring me!”

“There is nothing to be scared about.”

“Listen, I have a watch and the flashlight, so I will slip in near the end of your bed at around half past midnight and wake you. Try to stay awake, though. I don’t want you making noise.”

“It’s going to be cold,” I said.

“Keep most of your clothes on. Nobody will notice. And put your jumper at the end of the bed. You can take it with you.”

It was beginning to sound exciting, like when we’d sneak down part of the stairs on Christmas Eve to check on the Christmas tree.

“What do we do inside the Kitchen?” I asked.

“Look, we are just going to sit on the step inside the door. I will use the flashlight, so it won’t seem too dark. We will sit still and watch.”

“I feel scared thinking about it.”

“Remember, Rex will be there beside us. We’ll be fine.”

That cheered me up a little. I had forgotten about Rex. Friday arrived. I was on edge all day. At lunchtime, Padraig whispered,

“I will call you tonight.”

I took a long time to fall asleep, then woke up with a start feeling something tugging at my leg. I was about to call out when I remembered the plan. I waved my hand to Padraig to let him know I was awake. I met him on the stairs; he held the flashlight in one hand. We went down slowly, making little noise. At the bottom of the stairs, Rex let out a whimper in his sleep, making me jump. Padraig put his finger up to his lips, indicating ‘Shush.’ We both put our jumpers on as the house was freezing. Padraig dimmed the light from the flashlight to avoid startling the dog. Luckily, Rex was not a good guard dog; he rarely barked at anything. Padraig handed me the flashlight and whispered to point it at the lock. He said:

“When I push the door in, you walk in behind me. Then keep the light on the latch until I have the door closed.”

As the door opened, I concentrated on pointing the flashlight, and once Padraig had stepped into the room, I followed. I accidentally stepped on Rex’s paw, and he yelped. My heart stopped. I could feel Padraig glaring in my direction. He held calm, closed the door softly, and released the latch quietly. We were in.

Rex was awake now, but as usual, he did not bother to move. There were two stone steps down into the kitchen. Padraig sat down beside me and took hold of the flash lamp. A smidgen of moonlight shone through the window, so he turned off the flashlight. I could make out some of the place settings my mother had arranged. The range cooker was in darkness, making it difficult to make out the pots from pans on top. A strong smell of smoke and ashes filled the room. I concentrated on rubbing the back of Rex’s head as he slept. Now and then, my brother used the low setting on the flashlight and scanned around the room.

Then it happened. Padraig gripped my arm so tight it hurt. We stood up. Rex became alert but made no sound. A small side plate had moved to the table’s edge with a tiny scraping noise. The rim of the dish was off the table. Fear struck me to the spot. I wished Padraig would loosen his grip. I wanted him to switch the lamp on full, but I couldn’t speak. The plate moved from the table as if floating in the air, it stayed at the same level as if a child was taking it somewhere, but I could see no person. The plate moved away from us towards the corner shelving unit. It must have been put down there. It was too dark to see clearly, but it did not fall, or we would have heard the crack on the flagstones.

I was shivering but strangely wanted to see what was happening. Padraig let go of my arm and moved forward. He was staring at the range but high up towards the chimney area. A horrible screech came from him as he collapsed onto the stone floor. Screaming, I tried to reach the door latch. I felt hands on either side of my waist. Terrified, I did not know if someone was pulling me back down the steps or pushing me up. Like a wild thing, I was scratching at the door panels when it came towards me. Someone grabbed me.

It was my mother. I began to cry uncontrollably. She saw Padraig on the ground and roared for Dad. Someone said, “Get them out of here,” Mam carried me into the front room and put me in a chair. She headed back to the kitchen. Between them, my parents carried Padraig into the room and laid him out on the sofa. Mam handed me a glass of sugared milk. I saw blood coming from Padraig’s nose and forehead, and Dad said, “He’s unconscious.” It was the middle of the night, and Dad sounded panicked. Mam sent him upstairs for bandages and told him to soak a towel in cold water. She went and sat with Padraig and listened for his breath. Dad placed a cold towel on Padraig’s forehead. He woke up after a while but didn’t know where he was.

Mam made tea, and we shared a plate of biscuits. As I recovered, I became worried about the questions my parents were about to ask. I tried to make eye contact with Padraig to see if he remembered anything, but he looked pale and sick. I got an instant pain in my stomach when my mother said:

“What were you two doing down here anyway?”

I felt so sorry for myself that I started to cry again. Then I blurted out.

“We were just playing with the flashlight.”

“What Flashlight?”

“The one Uncle Andy gave us.”

Padraig and I never spoke about our adventure that night. Shortly afterwards, my mother removed her furniture and dishes from the back kitchen. She set up a makeshift kitchen in one of the front rooms, and my father bought a two-ringed gas cooker. We lived in this house for about four more years but never used the old kitchen again.

Curiosity brought me back to visit Dinsmortan House in 2001. I met Maude and Raymond, who purchased the house and farm after my family vacated. There were significant changes to the landscape around the building. Still, the façade and front rooms of the house remained unchanged as the property was protected by its characteristic architecture. I noticed that the two blocked windows in the room that overlooked the orchard were now open to daylight. I told the owners some stories about that room and why the windows had been blocked. Maude said the room was difficult to keep because wall coverings came down quickly despite being treated for dampness. Also, an inbuilt cupboard unit she wished to use as a display cabinet left her frustrated with items falling over and shelves becoming displaced. The semi-circular front lawn, rockery, and moat were replaced by flat grassland. I mentioned the copious bunches of daffodils initially planted by the Harper family that sprung up on the lawn in Springtime. Maude was moved by the tragedy that had struck this family and said she would put daffodils in the front room at Eastertime.

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