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Halloween 1999GRAVEYARD LURCHING by Pat Lawlor Pat Lawlor is an Irishman who writes for the ‘Shooting Gazzette’. He grew up in a large family which included his maternal grandmother. This lady was a renowned storyteller with her special forte being - ghost stories. This is Pat’s story from the latest edition of the magazine. She was at her very best in the weeks coming up to Halloween. She would warn us not to go near certain places after dark. Fairy forts, lone thorn bushes in a field, the tops of certain hills and graveyards were high on her list of no-go areas. For all our scoffing and derisory comments at her tales she really could scare the living daylights out of us. The longest trip one could make after one of her sessions, and the one completed at the most amazing speed, was the dark journey from the light switch to the comfort of the bed sheets, which were quickly pulled tightly over the head. As I reached my teens the TV replaced the story teller. With hindsight I can say it was a bad swop. Halloween and the nights around it were now given over to excursions with Jack and the lurchers, lamping for rabbits. One of the areas we lamped was near two graveyards: we called them the old and the new cemeteries. Jack had no fear of traversing these burial places, but I still had recent memories of tales around the cast iron range and would make every excuse not to cut through them. Jack never argued. He knew very well why I declined, but he was not a man to belittle a friend. Once I asked him if he was not afraid of ghosts. He told me that he never knew of anybody that had been harmed by the dead, but he knew a lot of people who had suffered at the hands of the living. One Halloween night we had made a good bag. The night was just right for it, high winds and a dark angry sky. Eventually it rained. The rain swiftly became a deluge. We made for home bedding into the storm and hugging the hedges for shelter. We missed our turn in the dismal conditions and inadvertantly arrived at a situation where we had to cross the old graveyard or make a long detour to get home. I was far from easy moving between the large old-fashioned flat tombstones. I tried to stay close to Jack but somehow lost contact with him. The ruins of the old church were barely visible against the rain and dark sky. Eventually I reached a perimeter hedge. I was confused. Surely it should have been a wall onto the laneway. I decided to climb over in any event. At least I would be out of the graveyard. I reached up with one hand and grabbed a branch. As I heaved myself up, the branch came towards me. I grasped at another branch with my free hand. It was then I sensed the sweet sickly smell and felt the clammy touch of something horrible and unhuman move across my face. In terror I grabbed harder at the branch to get out of the graveyard. I felt my hand move over something cold and clammy. I realised the branch in my hand was not timber. It felt like horn. I knew then that my grandmother’s tales were factual. I was surely in the grip of something from the pits of hell, maybe the horned one himself. The cold hand moved over my face once more. I was too terrified to scream. I became aware of a bright light shining in my eyes. I heard the voice. "Pat, will you stop arseing around with old Clarke’s cow and get over the hedge". Jack told me afterwards: "I knew you got lost in the graveyard and I went back to look for you. You missed the lane and was trying to climb into the field and hadn’t you a hold of the old cow by the two horns trying to get her to pull you up and her licking your face. You’re a right eejit, frightening the poor old cow like that. |
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