East Wall tales of terror
“For Whom the Banshee Howls” is the totally and utterly true story of the last sighting of a Banshee in Dublin City, which actually took place in our community of East Wall . Read on if you dare.
Census – Third 218 Seven Towers Anthology
For whom the Banshee howls
Everyone has heard of the Banshee, which is a supernatural creature that is native to Ireland. Mythology and supernatural fiction the world over have similar tales, such as the German Lorelei, but the Banshee is a uniquely Irish phenomenon. The Banshee is a messenger of death, and legends say that when her fearsome wailing is heard somebody nearby will die. She roams the countryside, and anyone out on their own at night, anywhere in Ireland (especially if you have an Irish surname, or a name beginning with Mac or O) should beware if they hear a horrible wailing. It could be her, or so the ancient warning goes.
The Banshee has been described as a woman with very long hair. She wears long flowing robes and continuously combs her hair in accompaniment to her wailing. She is not necessarily ugly or frightening in appearance, but radiates a supernatural aura, and anyone seeing her is struck with a feeling of dread, if not simply outright fear. But truth be told, she’s more often heard than seen. Many Banshee stories tell of the terrifying wailing, while in only a few is she actually seen by anybody. The wailing is said to begin late in the evening, and will continue until some unfortunate has passed away. Sometimes the Banshee is known to sit on a windowsill,
crouched tight, combing away and wailing until death comes to call on
somebody within. Details of her behaviour also vary – in some accounts she
wails mournfully while almost absent-mindedly combing slowly, as if lost in
thought or in her own personal tragedy. At other times she is described as
combing furiously, aggressively dragging the comb through her hair while
her wailing matches this pace, louder and more piercing, and she glares at
any witnesses freezing the very blood in their veins. Verifiable, detailed
accounts are too rare to reach any guaranteed conclusion, but it is likely
that the difference in behaviour may be dependent on the form of death she
is foretelling, the more violent and tragic this is forcing her on to a more
grotesque display.
In the 21st century are we too sophisticated to believe in this “Angel
of Death”, or has her wailing simply got lost in the hustle, bustle and noise
of the modern world? Did Banshees ever really exist or are they just a myth?
Well, throughout history people have sworn that they are real. Tales of
Banshees can be traced to the early eighth-century (13 hundred years ago),
and even today in 2011 belief in the Banshee is common in many parts of
Ireland. And while the countryside she is said to have roamed in olden days
may have given way to towns, housing estates, motorways and retail parks
who is to say that the Banshee has not survived unchanged and her grim
duty remains the same? Truth be told, it would appear that the Banshee
could adapt, and while predominantly a rural phenomenon, reports from
urban locations are not unknown, and occurrences in even the bigger cities,
while rare, are not completely unheard of. And even in our capital tales of
sightings of the Banshee do exist. The most recent of these took place within
living memory, and is as authentic as any you will hear in the wilds of
Connemara or the “far flung Kerry Mountains”.
You probably heard of a part of Dublin called East Wall. It’s located
down by the Port, and if nothing else you will have passed through it to visit
the Point Depot, or the O2 as it’s now called. During the Celtic Tiger years,
regular readers of the property supplements would marvel at the area, as it
was a constant source of “success stories”. House prices soared, development
land was amongst the most expensive in the country and shiny new high
rise buildings rose up all around. No patch of land was considered too small
to build on by the property developers and financiers who cast their greedy
gaze in an Eastern direction. Historical buildings, traditional industries and
much loved local landmarks all fell to the conquering army of “the property
market” and overpriced apartments, hotels and empty office buildings rose
phoenix-like from the rubble to take their place. Despite this “prosperity”
and scramble for land, there was one spot in East Wall that remained
untouched and elicited no interest, let alone a bidding war. While far lesser
properties were snapped up at ridiculously inflated prices, this strategically
placed site was never placed on the market. And more tellingly, nobody ever
tried to chase down the owners to make them “the offer of a lifetime” that
was common currency in those crazy days. The house stands at the junction
of Seaview Avenue and Church Road, the community’s main thoroughfare.
It stands out as unique, not just because it was unaffected by the world
changing around it, but by its very appearance. As one of the older houses
in the area it has a peculiarly antiquarian look, made more unusual by the
modifications and additions made in nearer days. At the side of the house,
the windows have been completely bricked up, as has a small door there.
The front of the house is secured tighter than the ‘Joy’. A heavy iron gate
from the street leads into a caged tunnel of sorts to cross the small front
garden, and up the seven steps to another caged door, through which is the
many-locked hall door. With locks on the gate and doors, it looks just as if a
section of a prison was lifted away and attached to the front of this old
house. But it was not always like this, and was once beautiful, with an
abundant flower garden, and was the source of much admiration (and not a
little jealousy) in East Wall at that time. So what happened, and why did it
change? It is in the explaining of this history that we will hear of the most
recent appearance of the Banshee within Dublin city, and discover how this
now deserted house is central to the chilling tale. These events occurred on
the 31st of May, seventy years ago.
The house was occupied by a very well respected family by the name
of McDonald. The father, James, was the local doctor here in East Wall. His
beautiful wife Eleanor was a trained school teacher, and had spent some
years working in the local Wharf school. As was the custom of the day, she
had to give up her profession when she married, and now devoted her time
to raising their three adorable children.
It was late in the evening on that last day of May, when the good
doctor was suddenly called to visit the house of a very sick man. Remember,
70 years ago, medicines were not as effective as they are these days so
people often died from illnesses that would not be considered fatal now. If
anybody wants to do a little bit of maths, can you figure out roughly what
year this was occurring in, and what was going on in the world at that time?
Exactly, World War two was raging, with fighting going on all over Europe.
Ireland was a neutral nation, but a state of emergency had been declared,
and rationing was in effect. Medicines were in short supply, so the doctor
would have to work extra hard, and use all his medical skills to save the
man.
The doctor set out for the sick man’s house which was located on
Abercorn Road, which was on the other side of the railway track, near Sheriff
Street. The exact number of this house has been lost to time, unfortunately.
He promised his wife that he would be as quick as he could, but he knew
how sick the patient was and how hard it would be to save him, so he would
probably stay for much of the night. Knowing how committed to his profession
her husband was, Eleanor knew he would not return until he had done
everything he possibly could. She decided to take herself and their three
children over to stay with her mother in Newcomen Cottages in the North
Strand. If you know a little restaurant called “LET’S Eat” on the Strand,
there’s a lane beside it, and Newcomen Cottages could be found up that
lane. That’s where her mother lived.
During “the emergency” items such as coal and lamp oil were in
short supply. As a result of this scarcity, and also due to war time security
measures, the streets were not lit up at night as normal and most houses
would remain in complete darkness. For the doctor, this meant a not too
pleasant journey as he walked over Johnny Cullen’s hill to reach the patient’s
house, with visibility very poor.
When the doctor arrived at the house of the sick man, the mans wife
brought him straight to the patient’s bedroom. The room was dark; a small
candle barely illuminating an area near the patient, while all else was deep
in shadow. Even in this poor lighting Dr. McDonald could see that the man
in the bed was very, very sick. His face was deathly white and there was a
bluish tinge to his lips. A dreadful wheezing noise came rattling from the
man’s throat. It didn’t take a medical professional to see that he was close to
death, and the doctor quickly set to work to do what he could.
Suddenly, a dreadful moaning was heard outside the window. The
woman of the house rushed in to the bedroom screeching “Please don’t take
him, please don’t take him” as the dying man gasped for air. The woman ran
to the bedside locker and pulled out a small vial of holy water and began to
sprinkle it around the dying man, and splash it towards the window. The
sick man suddenly sat up in the bed clutching at his chest. As if his illness
was not bad enough, the latest burst of activity had startled him, and he
was now experiencing a massive heart attack. The doctor slowly eased him
back down onto the bed, and anxiously administered to him, his sole focus
on dealing with the effects of the heart attack. His task was not helped by
the events surrounding him – the moaning continued, persistent and
mournful, and strangely affecting. The wife had dropped to her knees, and
was pushed up against the wall under the windowsill. She was begging and
pleading, repeating over and over “Please don’t take him, please don’t take
him”. Despite these less than ideal conditions, Dr McDonald was the
consummate professional and overcame the chaotic and bizarre events and
remained steadfast in his work. As the evening progressed he not only
addressed the heart attack, but stabilised the man’s other symptoms. As he
worked throughout the passing hours, the environment around him had
changed, but he was too focused on the task at hand to chart the events.
The wailing had subsided and eventually ceased. The woman of the house
had stopped her pleadings and replaced them with mumbled prayers and
gratitudes to the Holy Father, his son, the Blessed Virgin Mary and all the
saints. The doctor’s sense of dread, the chill and the hairs standing on end
at the back of his neck all relaxed, though he’d been so single-mindedly
committed to his patient that these had barely registered with him.
The patient was now stable, and comfortable in his bed. All was quiet
and the lady of the house composed herself. She praised the doctor for his
work, and was insistent he would not leave the house “without a cup of tea
at least”. Exhausted by his efforts and the lateness of the hour he was more
than happy to oblige before setting off on the dark and wearisome journey
home. Sipping on the tea, his mind began to consider the events of the
night. He enquired as to what the woman’s hysterical behaviour was all
about, and gently admonished her for adding to the difficulty of his task.
She was surprised that the doctor had not understood but was eager to
explain. Had he not heard the Banshee howling outside the house, there to
foretell her husband’s death? The undisputed fact that this was a house of
“great devotion”, the sprinkling of the holy water and her powerful prayers
were all that had saved his soul. While she was genuine in her appreciation
of the doctor’s great skill, she was clear that this was only incidental to the
“great miracle witnessed here tonight”. The doctor simply nodded, not
believing a word of it. He knew that it was his medical skills that had saved
the man. Of course, the strange howling of that animal (dog, cat, or whatever
it was) had been unsettling, and accompanied by the woman’s hysteria it
had slightly shaken him. He was over it now. He was a man of science, and
had no regard for the supernatural or daft superstitions. Dublin was still a
relatively young city, and in working class areas such as this there were
many whose family had started out as rural labourers. Their traditions and
their old superstitions had come to the city with them, and some had yet to
shake off this ignorance. But he was too polite to argue this point, and
besides, the man’s life had been saved and with time he may even return to
good health. That’s what was most important, and he was content to let the
woman believe as she wished. It was time to head back to his own house.
The area was in almost total darkness now, and it was with great
difficulty that Dr McDonald made his way home. With visibility so poor, if he
hadn’t known the route so well it would have been near impossible. He crossed
over Johnny Cullen’s Hill, which spans the railway track and connects East
Wall with North Wall. He then made his way onto Church Road and started
heading slowly towards his house, stepping carefully. Suddenly he heard a
clattering noise on the ground nearby, as if something had been dropped. It
was too dark to see anything, but he quickly checked his medical bag and
reassured himself that it was still closed and nothing had fallen out. Despite
the strange occurrences of earlier he thought nothing of this incident and
continued on. It happened again, with the clattering louder and obviously
nearer. In the darkness he could still see nothing, and this time he did begin
to feel a little uncomfortable at least. “Hello, is there somebody there?” he
asked quietly, hoping to hear an animal scuttling away. Not a sound could
be heard in reply. If the source of the noise was a person, hopefully it was a
courting couple in a nearby garden, now remaining quiet to avoid further
embarrassment. He walked on, and there was another clattering, this time
louder again and undoubtedly right in front of him. He felt, or possibly sensed
that there was an object near his foot, and he bent to pick this up. It appeared
to be a comb, quite large and very rough, as if carved out of raw wood. He
could only feel its shape, but not properly see it – if it was a comb it was very
old and not something that could be bought in a modern shop. With events
of the evening intruding again on his mind, he remembered some more of
the legend of the Banshee. It was said that if anyone found or was touched
by a Banshees comb they would soon pass into the spirit world or faerie
realm. He realised he had been standing still, clutching the object and thinking
this ridiculous nonsense. He became angry with himself, a man of science
being affected like this. No doubt this was a toy, dropped by a child earlier in
the day and he had kicked it in the dark. His tiredness, his exertions and the
dark of the night were taking its toll. He needed to get into his house and
have some much needed sleep. He stepped on, moving swifter now towards
his final destination.
A soul-chilling sound pierced the night, a piteous wail that clutched
at his heart. The sound chilled him to the very centre of his being, for he
knew that it was a sound not of this earth. He did not even try to rationalise
what he was experiencing, all his previous held certainties fading as the
very blood seemed to freeze in his veins. He blessed himself and rattled off a
quick prayer and hurried to cover the remaining few feet to reach his home.
In the pitch dark he reached his goal, and stumbled against the railings. At
that very moment, perhaps as cloud cover broke, the moon illuminated his
house, and the grotesque presence that awaited him. He gasped in terror at
the thing that sat perched on his front doorstep. It was an old woman,
dressed in rags that crouched there and in her wizened ancient hand she
held a small black comb. With her head bent low, she combed her tangled
grey hair and moaned that eerie moan again.
The old woman slowly raised her head and stared at the good doctor.
Her eyes, despite all that had occurred up to now, were what unnerved him
the most. They were completely black, not like the colour, just a pure and
total absence of any light or life at all. She pointed her long finger at him
and wailed again, more soul-rattling and terrifying than ever.
The doctor was frozen to the spot, and could not move. He closed his
eyes so he didn’t have to see that awful stare, and covered his ears so he
didn’t have to hear her terrible screams. How long he stayed like that who
can tell. But eventually he sensed a change in the atmosphere. He reluctantly
opened his eyes, and she was gone. He slowly began to move his hands from
his ears, cautiously, because he could still hear a wailing but subtlety different
than that which had held him rooted to the spot.
And suddenly, reality intruded. The sound was real, not supernatural,
and there was a screeching in the sky above his head. He looked up and saw
three large aeroplanes passing overhead, very low. He tried to make sense of
what he was seeing and hearing. In those days it was unusual to see planes
flying over East Wall, and more so German war planes, for that is what they
were. The sheer strangeness and terrors of the night finally took their toll on
the doctor, and he collapsed in a faint on the pavement. It would be many
hours before he was revived, and only then would he discover the true horrors
of that faithful night.
On that night 70 years ago, on May 31 1941 the terrible bombing of
the North Strand took place. Despite the fact that Ireland was a neutral
country, and not involved in the war, German planes dropped 4 large bombs
on the North Strand, destroying over 300 houses, and killing 28 people.
Many more were injured and the impact on this tight-knit community was
devastating. It was nothing supernatural, but very real evil that was present
in Dublin that night.
One of the streets destroyed was where Newcomen cottages had stood,
and amongst those who died there was the doctor’s wife, her mother and the
doctor’s children. The doctor was now convinced that he had been haunted
by a Banshee and knew why she had appeared. She had wailed outside the
house on Abercorn Road but did not expect the old man to die. She had
followed the doctor, throwing her combs, but was not there to witness his
death. She was there to warn him, and wail and mourn at the death of his
family, each and every one of which was to die that very night.
After that night, Dr McDonald was never the same. The tragedy was
too much for him, and he could never forget the horrors that he witnessed,
the terrors of the supernatural, and the real tragedy of human war. He no
longer practised medicine, and in fact refused to even talk to anyone in East
Wall. What eventually happened to him nobody can remember for sure, and
there are two opinions that hold currency with locals. Some claim he moved
to Leitrim, to live on his own away from anybody. It has been said he is still
living there now, almost 100 years old, but that in the 70 years that have
passed he has never spoken a single word to anybody.
The other story, less common, seems more likely to be true, looking at
the house. It is said that he first bricked up the door and windows at the
side of the house. He next put the bars on the windows at the front. He then
had the cage built that surrounds the front door. Once the work was complete,
he locked the front gate, locked the cage, walked through the hall door, and
having closed and locked it behind him never left the house again.
And there ends of the history of the house, and those associated with
it. Or does it? There are those that say that on May 31st of any year, you
can stand outside, and at the right time, when the night is at its darkest …
a heartbreaking moan and chilling wails can be heard echoing through the
walls within this house. Is it Dr McDonald’s ghost still mourning the loss of
his family and crying out on their anniversary, or is it the Banshee’s wail?
Your humble scribes have never ventured to that particular spot on the
appropriate night, and there are many more like us in East Wall.
Maybe you dear reader will be brave enough to listen next year, and
you will of course let us know?
“For Whom the Banshee Howls” was written by Caitriona Ni Cassaithe and Joe Mooney for the 2010 Halloween festival , and was published in “CENSUS 3: The Third Seven Towers Anthology” in 2012. Copyright is retained by the authors. This story was first published in Census 3 The Third Seven Towers anthology
For more tales of terror, follow link to see some great spooky stories written by the children in third class , St Josephs co-ed.
http://www.stjosephscoed.ie/39/post/2012/10/spooky-stories.html