It was supposed to be a peaceful holiday. A week in a small village in County Wicklow, the birthplace of my wife Alice’s great grandfather. It was unforgettable, but not in the way I had hoped. The bloodshed, the murders of that first night, I will never forget.
We arrived at our inn late in the afternoon, our flight from Stansted having been delayed over five hours. After dropping off our bags, we explored the quaint village. It was charming in a way. No Tesco, but a variety of shops where we stopped to assemble our dinner. Two loaves of fresh bread and an apple cake from the baker, a block of Irish cheddar from the cheese monger, and black and white pudding, along with smoked ham, from the butcher. We also picked up a bottle of Irish red. I didn’t even know Ireland produced wine and was sceptical that it would be drinkable, but Alice insisted. She wanted to have a true Irish experience.
Our dinner assembled, we walked a few miles south of town to what our guidebook described as “perhaps the prettiest little church in Ireland.” Was a little let down, just a small, nondescript grey-stoned edifice set on top of a hill, surrounded by a tall iron fence. Pretty yes, but not spectacular, nothing you couldn’t find in any village back in England.
“Look at that funny fellow,” Alice said loudly, pointing to a haggard man sleeping next to a crooked tombstone. “He looks like an overgrown leprechaun.”
“Shhh,” I said, “don’t want to wake him.” As we made our way to the other side of the church, I looked back, making sure the man, who did look something like a leprechaun, with his red beard, green top hat, and ratty tweed suit, was still sleeping. Thankfully he was.
We laid our blanket on the grass and unpacked our picnic. Spread apple chutney on the thick bread, before layering on slices of cheddar and ham. Truly delicious. Can’t say the same for the wine. Drinkable, but nothing like the wine back in my homeland of Greece. Tired from the traveling, we soon fell asleep.
I awoke in the dark to a distant scream, a haunting, shrill shriek. Looking ghostly in the full moon, the haggard man approached us, swaying like a drunkard.
“That was the cry of a banshee,” he yelled. “Death is nigh, nigh! This very night. It will come. It will come to this churchyard.”
Before I could respond he ran off, jumping over the iron fence that encircled the churchyard.
“Probably just an owl our something,” I told Alice, who looked petrified. “Let’s head back though, it’s getting late.”
We quickly packed up our things and made our way to the gate. Locked. Chained and bolted. The fence was over four feet tall. No way my wife would be getting over that. I looked around and noticed two cars parked outside the gate, cars that weren’t there before.
“Must be someone in the church,” I said. “Let’s try the front door.”
It was locked. I knocked several times. No answer. We made away around the church. On its right side was a small wooden door. Alice tried it. To my surprise, it opened.
I followed her inside. A narrow stone staircase led downwards, dimly lit by ensconced candles.
“Probably leads down to the catacombs,” I said. Alice, who had already started down the stairs, wasn’t listening.
I chased after her. Must have been five flights until we reached the stone bottom. There was a small door, no more than four feet high, to our right, and a narrow tunnel to our left, from which I could hear chanting in Latin. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I realized the tunnel was made from skulls and bones.
“Reminds me of that place in Italy,” Alice said.
It did not remind me of the Capuchin Crypt in Rome, but someplace else, someplace evil from my childhood in Greece. But before I could voice my concerns, Alice had already started through the tunnel. I followed her, having to stoop to avoid hitting my head.
After twenty feet, the tunnel bent to the right. Around the bend, I saw four men, about thirty feet away, standing in a circular chamber, dressed in black robes, chanting around a stone coffin.
“Hello!” my wife shouted. “Can you unlock the front gate please.” One of hooded figures turned and stared menacingly at us, his face skeletal.
We ran back through the tunnel and dashed up the steps, hearing footsteps behind. At the top, I pounded on the door, but it was locked. Slowly, the footsteps advanced up the stairs. I tried to force the door open with my shoulder, but it wouldn’t budge.
A figure finally appeared a few minutes later. A robed man, making his way up the stairs with the help of a cane. An old man, but not the skeletal face of before.
“Should I throw my shoe at him?” asked Alice.
“No need for that,” said the surprisingly jolly voice. “There’s no need to fear me, just an old parish priest. Father Jack you can call me.”
I relaxed, embarrassed at how silly I acted. “Sorry father,” I said. “It’s been a long day and we’re tired.”
“That’s quite alright. Where are you two visiting from, can’t quite place your accent.”
“From London, although I grew up in Greece. I’m Giorgios, and this is my wife Alice.”
“Lovely town, London. What brings you here? Don’t get too many visitors here.”
“My wife’s idea. She wanted to learn more about her family. Her great grandfather, her mum’s maternal grandfather, was born here in the late 1800’s before he moved to Liverpool”
“Lovely, what was her name, dear?”
“Patrick McNamara,” Alice said. “Never met him, died the year before I was born.”
“McNamara! My mum was a McNamara. Lots of Paddys too in my family tree. We’re probably related. Although everyone from a place this small basically is. Even that man who gave you a wee fright, Monsignor Michan, is a second cousin. On my mum’s side. Fifth cousin on my dad’s,” he said with a chuckle. “Why don’t you come down with me. I promise we’re not summoning the devil.”
“That sounds lovely,” my wife said before I could object.
We followed Father Jack down the stairs and through the tunnel of bones. Around the large open coffin were three men, two young priests standing close together and the ancient skeletal one standing across from them. I peered into the coffin. To my surprise, the body was mummified, dressed in armour, and well over 7-feet tall. A sword, still sharp after all these years, lay beside him. Above the giant’s head, a narrow shaft had been bored into the limestone ceiling, through which a few stars were visible.
“Surprised to find a mummy, here?” Father Jack asked. “So was I when I first got here, read that the limestone walls help preserve the body. Now for introductions. You’ve already been acquainted with Monsignor Michan. The two young lads are Fathers Mike and Stanislaw. Father Stanislaw is from Poland, sadly Ireland does not produce the great number of priests it did in the days of yore, so many come from abroad. You can him Father Stan. You’re probably wondering what we’re doing here. We’re on a pilgrimage to the resting place of St. Finbar the Giant. He led the resistance against the Vikings in the 9th century. Legend has it that he was so strong that he once decapitated five Norsemen with a single swing of his mighty longsword. He’s been forgotten mainly, like many of the saints of the first millennium. Early Christian Ireland produced dozens of saints, so many that Erin was once known as the land of saints and scholars. And I think it is important to pay homage to them, to honor them, to make offerings to them. Grab these two!”
I turned to run when I heard Father Jack laughing. “Sorry mate, I couldn’t help myself. We’re not going to sacrifice you, the Church doesn’t do that. Although I’m sure there were lots of sacrifices down here; before St. Paddy converted the island, this was an ancient Druid site. It—”
“Glad to know that you think this is a funny matter,” interrupted Monsignor Michan, the skeletal priest. “So tell me, why did you bring these intruders down here?”
“They’re curious, the young miss’s family is from here originally, McNamara is the name.”
“I don’t care where she’s from,” said the monsignor. “Look at her, wearing trousers like a man, an abomination. Bet she’s not Catholic.”
“I’m Anglican actually,” Alice said. “Although I don’t go to church very often, to be honest. My mum was Catholic, converted when she married though.”
“Utterly null and void,” screamed the monsignor.
“What is, love?” Alice asked.
“Your faith, if you can call it that. And you,” he said, pointing a bony finger at me. “What are you?”
“Greek Orthodox, sort of. I was raised Pagan. Grew up worshiping Zeus.”
“They use to burn people like you,” he screamed. “If we were a proper—“
“Michan please, he was joking,” said Father Jack. “Please, try to relax.”
“I won’t relax. They’re schismatic heretics, the lot of them.”
“Please forgive him,” Father Jack said. “He was a young lad during the Great Schism of 1054. A tender subject for him.”
I looked at the scowling face of Monsignor Michan. I needed to get myself, and my wife, out of here. “Father Jack, we’re a little tired from our flight and would like to get back home. We’d love to get together for tea or a drink in the village though. Can you please send one of the two younger lads up with a key, we don’t want to make you do those—“
As I was speaking, a ray of moonlight entered the shaft and struck the mummified head of St. Finbar. He rose from his sarcophagus, sword in hand, and swung it at Father Jack, decapitating him. Fathers Mike and Stan headed towards the tunnel. I grabbed Alice and ran after them.
We were about thirty feet up the stairs when the walls started crumbling. A large stone hit Father Stan on the head, sending him plummeting to the stone floor below.
“This way you eejits,” Monsignor Michan shouted from below, pointing to the small door I had seen earlier. “The stairwell is going to collapse, this way leads out.”
Alice and I ran back down the stairs, Father Mike following behind. I looked at the tunnel, which had completely caved in. Hopefully that would trap Finbar, at least for a little while.
As the stones kept falling, Alice and I followed Michan through the door. I wondered how an old man like him had managed to escape. I didn’t hear any footsteps behind me when I was running through the bone tunnel. A few seconds later, Father Mike came through, weeping, carrying the body of Father Stan. Michan slammed the door shut.
I looked around. We were in another tunnel, about five feet in height and three feet in width, its walls carved from limestone. A few ensconced candles, spaced about 100 feet apart, gave off a faint light.
I looked at Father Mike, who was bent over the body of Stan, weeping, holding a crucifix and praying over the priest’s lifeless body.
“Get away from him you bloody sod,” Monsignor Michan yelled. “He’s dead, he’s in Hell, there’s nothing you can do.”
Father Mike kept crying. Michan slapped him.
“Father, please,” Alice said. “There was no reason to slap him,”
“Address me as monsignor, you filthy whore,” Michan hissed.
“That’s enough,” I said. “Let’s go and leave this miserable old bastard behind.”
Michan laughed. “How do you think you’re going to find your way out, Greek? The labyrinth of Daedalus is mere diversion compared to the maze you’re in.”
I didn’t believe him, but didn’t want to risk it. “Fine, show us out.”
Michan grinned and pulled out a metallic torch from his robe. “Follow me, lads.”
We walked for about thirty minutes. The tunnel curved, but never branched. After we came around one bend, I could see a spot of light in the distance.
“Bastard lied to us,” Alice said. “There were no maze.”
Michan laughed and ran ahead, pressing something on the wall. A metal grate descended from the ceiling, blocking our escape. Five feet behind us, another grate fell. We were trapped.
“I woke up today thinking that I would send three heretics to the pits of hell today,” the murderous monsignor hissed. “Looks like there will be five dining at the Devil’s table tonight.”
“You are not a man of God,” Father Mike said.
“To the contrary, I am his faithful servant, carrying out his orders. Greek, let me ask you a question. Who is the Hound of Hades that guards the gates of the underworld?”
I didn’t respond.
“You must be aware of Cerberus. Tonight, you will meet one of his kin.”
I watched in desperation as the mad monsignor danced a little jig before heading off towards the light.
We tried to lift the grates, but they wouldn’t budge. We checked our mobile phones. As we expected, no service. I looked at the wall, trying to find the switch that Michan pressed to trap us. In the dim light, I thought I could see a protrusion from the wall, about fifteen feet away. I took off my shoes, stuck them through the 6-inch square openings in the grate, and threw them at the switch. No luck. The others tried with the same result.
“Does anyone know you’re here,” I asked Father Mike.
“Miss Doyle, the housekeeper,” he said, his voice trembling. “She’s probably gone off to bed, won’t notice we haven’t returned till the morn.”
“Nothing to do but wait, I guess,” I said. I lay down on the hard ground. For the first time, I noticed that there were symbols etched into the ceiling. I had seen some of them before, on an amulet that my father gave to me back in Greece, an amulet that likely saved me from a gruesome fate. After immigrating to the UK, I had taken it to an expert at the British Museum in London. She told me that it contained symbols from the Linear B script, along with some from the undeciphered Linear A and Cretan hieroglyphic alphabets. In addition, there were symbols that she had never seen before. In her opinion it was a forgery, made in the 19th century when the market for classical antiquities was hot. But I knew that was rubbish.
“Father Mike,” I said, “do you know about those symbols on the ceiling?”
He shook his head. “I’ve never been in here before. Heard this tunnel is over 5,000 years old though. The ancient Celts had a fortified town on the hilltop, with this serving as a secret escape route in the event of a siege.”
We lay in silence for what seemed like hours. Eventually, I dozed off.
I awoke to screaming. Heading towards us, from the direction of the distant light, was a monstrous creature, resembling a three-headed vulture. Its long, thick tail was protected by dark green scales, like those of a crocodile’s. Its body and snake-like necks were covered with drab grey feathers, but its bald heads were as colorful as those of tropical parrots, their skin ranging in colour from lavendar to sea green. Bright fleshly orange caruncles hung from its sharp blood-red beaks.
It made its way slowly towards where we were trapped, its heads sniffing the ground like a pack of bloodhounds.
“Ellen Trechend,” whispered Father Mike.
“Who’s that, love?” asked Alice. “Is Ellen your mum?”
“It is that monster. My grandmother told me stories of him growing up.”
“Did she tell you how to kill him?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“Can you raise your crucifix to it?” I asked him, remembering how I repelled a lamia, a child-eating monster, when I was a child in Greece.
“I will try, but I do no not think it will be effective. I did not decide to become a priest because of my faith.”
“Don’t think it will work either love,” Alice said. “That’s only for vampires. Met one in Brighton in ’87. Beastly thing.”
As the monstrous chimera continued to approach, we backed ourselves against the far grate. The creature stopped at the first grate briefly, before sticking its necks through its narrow openings. Thankfully, their beaks couldn’t quite reach us.
Father Mike raised his crucifix a few inches away from one of its heads, and recited some lines in Latin. The monster opened its beak and shot out a long, yellow forked tongue. As Father Mike continued to pray, it licked his hand.
“Rough as feckin’ sandpaper,” he screamed, dropping the crucifix. I picked it up and tried a Greek prayer I was taught as a child. No effect. The monster kept flicking its tongue a few inches from my head.
As I deliberated my next move, I heard heavy footsteps from behind. I turned my head, and saw Finbar come around the bend, sword in hand. Couldn’t be more than twenty feet away from us. In desperation, I raised the crucifix and jabbed it at one of the creature’s eyes. It shrieked and started thrashing. Its armored tail hit the switch, causing the grates to rise swiftly.
“Run,” I shouted. I grabbed Alice and we dove under the grate as the monster struggled to extricate its heads, Father Mike close behind us. We ran towards the light. About halfway there, I heard the creature shriek again. I looked back and saw that although Finbar had lost an arm, he had managed to slay the creature, whose heads now lay at his feet. He stopped for a second to look at his handiwork, before resuming his steady march towards us.
We sprinted to the exit, where there was a small opening in a pile of boulders, barely big enough for someone to fit through. I looked back. Finbar was about 50 feet away, advancing steadily.
“You first,” I told Alice. She nimbly slid her small frame through the opening.
“You next,” Father Mike said. I looked back at Finbar, who was now only thirty feet away. With difficulty, I managed to squeeze through the opening, landing in the mud next to Alice. We were by a stream, the sun rising. I looked back at the opening and saw Father Mike’s head and torso emerge from the hole. He never had time to scream. His upper body landed next to us, cleanly severed at his waist.
Finbar’s leathery face emerged from the hole. Even though his eye sockets were empty, he seemed to stare at us. Suddenly, as the rays of the rising sun struck his head, he turned to dust.
As Alice and I embraced, I heard whistling from behind me. I turned and saw the haggard man from the churchyard walking towards us.
“For you are dust, and to dust you shall return,” he sang merrily as he passed us.