The Ghost of Connaught Manor
Terrence Francis O'Connell returned home to Boston after the emotionally charged breakup with his wife, Gwen Nevins, but there was no peace to be found there. The paparazzi stalked him night and day, eager to know how the end of the marriage would affect the future of their band. It was a question to which Terry himself had no answer. That was one of the reasons he had left Los Angeles. He needed time to think.
The one thing Terry did know was that he and Gwen could not continue working together. Either the band would replace his soon-to-be ex-wife with a new lead singer, or he would leave and strike out on a solo career. He had no intention of turning Nytemare into a rock and roll soap opera like the Mamas and Papas or Fleetwood Mac.
As the well-known musician walked down Tremont Street, deep in thought, a group of teenagers spied him.
"Oh, my God! Look! That's Terry O'Connell," one young girl screamed.
The rock star quickly ducked into a small pub where the underage girls were refused admittance. He walked up to the bar, sat down and ordered a beer. Hopefully, by the time he finished it, the fans would be gone. If not, he was fairly certain the proprietor would let him exit through the rear door.
I've got to get out of Boston, he thought grimly, but he had no idea where to go. I need to be alone right now.
As he sipped his Sam Adams, Terry looked around the pub. It reminded him of the many similar places he had played when he first embarked upon his music career, before he and his friends formed Nytemare and before he met Gwen. The tables were covered with green cloth, and on the walls, cardboard shamrocks vied for attention with posters of the Emerald Isle and framed Irish proverbs.
Terry recognized the photographs of Kilkenny Castle and the Cliffs of Mohr on the wall on either side of the men's room door. His grandmother, who had come to Boston from Limerick when she was a young girl, often told him the old folk tales of Ireland. In fact, when he was a boy, he had longed to travel to "the old country," to see its ancient castles and verdant fields. Terry suddenly realized there was no better time than the present to fulfill that boyhood dream.
* * *
Anxious to leave his marital problems and career decisions behind, Terry O'Connell packed a bag, took a taxi to Logan Airport and flew to Heathrow. After a brief stay in London and then a trip to Liverpool to visit the city that gave birth to the Beatles, he took a ferry across the Irish Sea to Dublin. There, he hired a car to take him to the western coast of Ireland. His manager's secretary had arranged for Terry to rent an old manor house located just west of Galway.
"Here's your key, Mr. O'Connell," the rental agent said. "I've asked Mrs. Doherty to air out the rooms and stock the cupboards. You can discuss cooking and cleaning arrangements with her yourself if you'd like."
"And who exactly is this Mrs. Doherty?" Terry inquired.
"The elderly lady who looks after the place. Nice enough person, but a bit odd—always talking about leprechauns and banshees."
"Sounds like my grandmother," Terry laughed, fondly remembering the old woman who had loomed so prominently in his childhood.
The manor house looked like the setting of a fairy tale, more closely resembling a castle than a mere house. Terry entered the building and found Mrs. Doherty busy in the kitchen. He introduced himself to the woman and was pleased to see that his name meant nothing to her.
"I've got a pot of lamb stew on the stove," she informed him in her heavy brogue, "and scones in the oven. You can leave your dirty dishes on the table when you're done. I'll clean up the mess when I return in the morning."
"Don't you live on the premises?" he asked.
"I never stay in the manor house after dark, sir."
"Why not?"
She didn't answer right away, but after several minutes, she admitted, "That's when she wanders about the house."
"She?"
"The lady of the manor."
"But I was told Lord Fitzgerald was the owner and that he was a bachelor who lived in London."
"The lady doesn't actually live here. She more or less just visits."
"Are we talking about a living, breathing woman, Mrs. Doherty, or a ghost?"
The old woman quickly crossed herself.
"I really have to be going now, sir. The sun is about to set."
"Mrs. Doherty, is the manor haunted?"
"There are some who believe it is," she replied quietly, her somber manner indicating that she was one of those believers. "I hope I haven't said anything that might make you want to leave Connaught Manor, Mr. O'Connell."
"Don't worry, Mrs. Doherty," he laughed warmly. "I'm not afraid of ghosts. On the contrary, I'm quite excited about the whole prospect. Some of us Americans live in awe of haunted castles and the long history of these islands."
"Then you ought to be happy here," she said, grabbing her shawl and hurrying toward the door.
* * *
It was more than three weeks before Terry experienced anything supernatural in Connaught Manor. During that time, he enjoyed the peace and quiet of the Irish countryside. He took long walks in the morning, during which he thought about his career, his marriage and life in general. In the afternoons he wrote music, not the frivolous pop songs he had written for Nytemare to record, but serious music, lyrics with a message that went deeper than adolescent romance and teenage angst. Maybe he was no Bob Dylan, but he always felt his writing skills went beyond the pathetic lyrics he penned solely for commercial gain.
At night, alone in the manor, Terry would usually read one of the many books in Lord Fitzgerald's library. He found the factual history of Ireland to be as fascinating and entertaining as the fanciful tales his grandmother had spun for him when he was a child. From time to time, though, he would pick up a volume of legend. The Irish, it seemed, were a people enamored with fairies, elves, trolls and magic.
It was while he was reading about the Dullahan, a headless horseman who was said to roam the Irish countryside, that Terry sensed he was no longer alone in the library. An odd feeling crept up his spine, like a sound he could feel rather than hear, a faint, inaudible tingling along his nerves. He tried to make light of the experience and tell himself it was only his overactive imagination, but it was to no avail. Someone or something was in the room with him.
* * *
The lady of Connaught Manor, curious about the new tenant, began visiting the handsome young musician in the evenings. A week after their first tentative encounter, Terry got a good look at the resident ghost. She did not appear semitransparent, as he had always imagined ghosts would. Her spirit was opaque like the body of a living woman, yet so pale as to be almost devoid of color. Although she appeared to him for only several seconds, Terry could discern her youth and beauty with total clarity.
After he recovered from the initial shock of the meeting, he became intently curious. Who was she or, rather, who had she been? How and when had she died? Why had she come back to haunt the manor? He suspected that if anyone knew the answers to his questions, it would be Mrs. Doherty.
Early the following morning, Terry eagerly awaited the arrival of his housekeeper. She got to the manor house shortly before six o'clock and was surprised to see Terry up and about so early. When she saw the look of excitement and lack of sleep on his face, she correctly deduced the cause.
"You've seen her, haven't you?" the housekeeper asked.
"Yes, I have."
"I guess you'll be wanting to go back to the States now?"
"No. I've always had more than a passing interest in the supernatural, although I didn't quite believe in it. Now that I've seen this woman with my own eyes, I want to learn all I can about her."
"Maybe it would be better if you just left well enough alone."
"Why, Mrs. Doherty? Do you think ghosts are dangerous?"
"Not necessarily. I assume ghosts are like living people: some are good; others aren't. Spirits probably carry over to the other side the same personalities they had in their lifetimes."
The elderly housekeeper was able to carry on the conversation while cooking breakfast. Then when she began fussing with the previous night's dinner dishes, Terry interrupted.
"Never mind the housework. Please sit down. I have so many questions I want to ask you."
Mrs. Doherty dried her hands on her apron and sat on the chair across from him.
"Who is the lady? When did she die and how?" he asked.
"There's been talk of a ghost at the manor for as long as I can remember, but nobody knows who she is or how long she's been here."
"She must be an ancestor of Lord Fitzgerald. Are there any family records here? Any old Bibles with births and deaths recorded in them?"
"There might be one in the library, but the Fitzgerald family has always spent most of its time in London. For centuries, Connaught Manor has been owned by a series of absentee landlords."
* * *
That night Terry returned to the library. As he thumbed through a volume of Gaelic poetry, the familiar tingling sensation crept up his spine. He turned quickly and saw the profile of the ghost sitting in the window seat overlooking the rocky cliffs below. Terry's heart beat rapidly with excitement. He expected her to vanish before his eyes, but she didn't. Instead, she turned her pallid, delicate face toward him. He was mesmerized by the searching look in her soft, pale eyes that hinted they were once a darker shade of blue.
Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Each was eyeing the other, curious yet cautious of the unknown. Finally, Terry broke the silence.
"Can you hear me or speak to me?"
"Aye," she replied. "I can hear you well enough. Although with your strange manner of speech, I cannot always understand you."
Her voice was sweet and feminine, with a strong lilt of an Irish brogue.
"I guess my Boston accent does take some getting used to," he laughed. "Just as it's a little disconcerting for me to have a conversation with a ... a ...."
He stumbled over his words. What was the politically correct way to refer to a person no longer living?
"A ghost. And if it makes you feel any better, I find it just as unsettling speaking to you."
Terry, who had unconsciously been clutching the volume of poetry until his knuckles turned white, relaxed somewhat, put down the book and sat on the stool opposite the lady.
"My name is Terrence O'Connell. I'm a musician from America—Boston, Massachusetts, to be precise. May I ask what your name is?"
"Bridget McBride," she replied and then fired a series of questions at the young tenant. "What are you doing here in Ireland? How long do you plan on staying? Do you have a family back in America?"
Terry answered each of her questions, although he was anxious to ask a few of his own.
They spent the entire night discussing his marriage to Gwen, the life of a rock 'n' roll superstar and the problems and benefits of living in the twenty-first century. Before either of them was aware of it, the morning sun dawned. Terry yawned and rubbed his tired, burning eyes. He then noticed that Bridget's form appeared less substantial. In fact, she seemed to be even dimmer and paler in color than she had the previous evening.
"I have to go now," she said quietly. "I'll come back tonight if you'd like."
"Yes, please do."
The ghost of Bridget McBride smiled and gradually faded from view.
* * *
Although he was exhausted, Terry slept for only brief, sporadic periods that day. He was eager for the night to arrive, to once again see the ghost of the lady of the manor. He was consumed by curiosity, not only of the supernatural but also of the very meaning of life and death. After a quick supper of corned beef and cabbage, he headed up the stairs to the library. He had been waiting for nearly an hour when the ghost materialized, her form once again distinct and well-defined.
"Hello, Bridget," Terry said, addressing her informally.
"Good evening, Terrence. I guess it's your turn to ask the questions and mine to provide the answers."
Now that the time of revelation had arrived, Terry found himself at an embarrassing loss for words.
"How did you ...," he started awkwardly.
"I died in 1842 of what you refer to these days as a heart attack, I believe."
"You seem awfully young to have died of a heart attack."
Her laughter was as pleasingly melodic as her Irish speech.
"The image you see of me now is not that of the woman I was when I died."
"You mean you didn't look like this when you were alive?"
"I did when I was younger, but I was old and gray and bent over with age when I died."
"Are you an ancestor of Lord Fitzgerald?"
"No, I was the daughter of a Dublin fisherman. I worked on the docks cleaning fish until I married my husband and became a wife and mother."
Terry was confused.
"Why are you haunting this place then?"
The ghost looked around the large library, at the elegant, expensive furniture and at the majestic view of the sea from the window seat.
"I came to the manor because I love it here. I spent my life living in poor, cramped hovels. Now that I'm dead and free to go where I wish, I choose to live here."
"I thought people's spirits were bound to the places in which they lived or died," Terry said.
"I bet you also thought that only those people who died violently or had unfinished business here on earth returned as ghosts."
"As a matter of fact, I did. Bridget," he asked excitedly, "what happens to people when they die? Is there a great white light at the end of a tunnel? Are all your family and friends waiting to greet you on the other side?"
"I can't tell you that because I don't know. There are no laws governing death and the hereafter. I can't say for certain if some people go on to a new form of existence or if some are reincarnated here on earth. I only know what happened to me when I died."
"And what was that?"
"I guess in order to understand my death, you would have to know a little something about my life. I was very poor, and all I knew of living was backbreaking labor, misery and hunger. Even though I was married for more than thirty years and gave birth to seven children, I never understood the meaning of love. There was no one I ever felt close to, not even my husband or children. So, when I died, there was no one I sought in the light."
Terry felt acute sadness for Bridget, yet at the same time, he realized her lonely life was not so different from his own. Except for his grandmother, who had raised him after the tragic and untimely death of his parents, Terry had neither loved nor been loved by another human being, not even Gwen. His marriage had been based on physical attraction and shared career goals, which was probably the reason it hadn't lasted.
"I am in death," Bridget continued, "as I was in life: a solitary soul, a loner. When my last breath exited my dying body, I looked at the light and turned away. Free of the cares and responsibilities of life and the pain, hunger and failings of my corporeal body, my soul preferred to live in peace, quiet and solitude. I guess my hermitic existence seems strange to a man like you."
"No, actually it doesn't. I've spent a good part of my life trying to avoid people. Not just the press and the fans, but most people. You know, one of my friends got divorced, and he spent the next three years partying and dating. I get divorced and I run off to a remote manor house in Ireland. What does that tell you about my sociability?"
"Don't you find it ironic that two recluses like us do not have any difficulty communicating with each other?" Bridget asked, echoing Terry's own thoughts.
"Maybe we prove the old adage that birds of a feather flock together, even though our flock is somewhat limited in size."
* * *
In the following weeks, Terry's life fell into a comfortable and pleasant routine. He slept in the mornings and early afternoons. He wrote music and continued to read his way through Lord Fitzgerald's collection of literature in the late afternoons and early evenings. Then he spent his nights in meaningful conversation with the ghost of Connaught Manor. He felt so much at home and at peace in Ireland that he put aside all thoughts of returning to the United States. However, the world was not ready to forget so talented and successful a performer as Terry O'Connell.
Unable to reach him by telephone, Terry's agent, Orson Phelps, sent several telegrams to the manor, all of which Terry ignored. With no word from his client, Orson flew to Ireland, intent on seeing the musician in person. He arrived in the Galway area early in the afternoon and found the musician just finishing his breakfast.
"What are you doing here in Ireland?" Terry asked with surprise when Mrs. Doherty led Orson into the kitchen.
"I came to kiss the Blarney Stone, what else?" the agent replied sarcastically. "I can understand why you picked a place without a phone, but why haven't you answered any of my telegrams? Life and business commitments go on even though your marriage didn't."
"I realize that, Orson. I've just been too busy to get back to you."
"Right. Only from what I hear, Terry, you haven't left this place since you got here."
"I've been busy working. I don't have to go anywhere to write music."
"Writing songs, huh?" Orson asked, his interest mixed with relief. "I was afraid you were sitting around drowning your troubles in Irish whiskey."
"You always did worry too much."
"So, let's hear it, then."
"Hear what?"
"Your new material. Hey, did you write any songs for Gwen?"
Orson was hoping that Gwen and Terry could work out their differences and that Nytemare would stay intact.
"No. Look, Orson, I've given the matter a lot of thought, and I really don't think it's such a good idea for me to stay with the band. It's time I went out on my own."
It was what Orson feared most.
"You've got to be kidding. Nytemare is one of the top groups in the country. You'd be a fool to walk away now."
"But it's over, man. The magic is gone."
"Stop talking like some starry-eyed virgin, for Christ's sake. There is no magic in this world! You fail or succeed based on hard work and talent, not magic. You and Gwen are both professionals. There's no reason why you can't work together even if you are divorced."
Terry and Orson had had similar discussions in Los Angeles and then again over the phone when Terry was in Boston. Now, Orson had flown all the way to Ireland to repeat the argument.
"I don't want to discuss it any further," Terry said stubbornly. "Do you want to hear the new material or not?"
"Of course, I do."
Terry picked up his guitar and began playing one of his new songs. He could tell from the look on his manager's face that Orson wasn't pleased, so he stopped playing.
"You don't like it."
"No. It's great. It's just not Nytemare material. Your fans can't relate to that kind of music. It would be like Marilyn Manson coming out on stage and singing 'Achy Breaky Heart.'"
"The Beatles didn't spend their entire career singing 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand' and 'She Loves You.' They experimented with different sounds; they grew as artists."
"With all respect, Terry, you're not John Lennon or Paul McCartney. What you should do is stick to the mainstream. When the music scene changes, then you change with it."
"But someone has to initiate the change. Why shouldn't it be me?"
"Because it's too much of a gamble. Just go with the flow; don't make waves."
Terry had nothing else to say. Orson wanted him to play it safe. Hell, if all Terry wanted was a steady paycheck, he would have taken a nine-to-five job.
"Excuse me, sir," said Mrs. Doherty, who appeared seemingly from out of nowhere. "But should I cook supper for two?"
In the short time that he had known her, Terry found Mrs. Doherty to be a good-natured woman with a heart of gold, but right now he wished she was less hospitable.
He turned to Orson and asked, "Do you want to stay for dinner, or do you have a plane to catch?"
"I have a flight out in the morning. I was hoping you'd let me stay here tonight."
"Yeah," Terry stammered uncertainly, "there's plenty of room."
Damn!
He didn't want Orson spending the night. He wanted to have a quiet dinner by himself and then meet Bridget in the library. It didn't occur to Terry that there might be something decidedly wrong with a man who preferred to spend his time with the ghost of a dead woman rather than with another living human being.
* * *
"It's after midnight already," Terry announced, hoping Orson would take the hint and retire for the night.
"Is it? I'm not in the least bit tired."
"Well, I'm exhausted," Terry said, faking a yawn. "I'm going to head up to bed."
"If it's all right with you, I think I'll see if I can find something to read. Your housekeeper said there's a library here."
Terry stopped short, and his face turned pale.
"Yes. Come on. I'll show you where it is."
"No, you go to bed. Just point me in the right direction, and I'll find it."
"It's no bother. Besides, I've read several of the books. I might be able to recommend one you'll like."
Terry walked into the library ahead of Orson, praying Bridget wasn't there. He looked around the room, especially at the window seat where she usually sat. There was no one there, but as Terry crossed the room, he felt a cold sensation on his arm, as if a frozen hand had reached out to touch him.
"Did you? Terry? Terry?"
"What? I'm sorry, I was deep in thought."
"I asked if you read this book," Orson repeated, holding up a volume of Keats.
"Yeah, it's pretty good," Terry replied distractedly, his eyes searching the room for any unnatural phenomena that would signal Bridget's appearance.
Behind him, Orson thumbed through the book he was holding.
"I think I'll get a glass of warm milk and read some poetry. Hopefully, I'll be able to fall asleep. Night, Terry. See you in the morning."
"Good night," the rock star replied.
He had to wait in the library another ten minutes for Bridget.
"I was hoping I'd see you tonight," he said when she finally appeared.
"I didn't want to materialize with your friend in the room. Unlike you, he might have been frightened."
"Who could be frightened by such a beautiful woman?" Terry asked without thinking.
When Bridget put her head down, embarrassed, he apologized.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
"Don't apologize. It's only that no one ever said I was beautiful before."
"You are, though. In fact, yours is the most beautiful face I've ever seen."
His words brought her happiness, but the look in his eyes caused her unbearable grief. It conveyed all the love he felt for her, a love so deep, so sincere and yet so impossible. Terry was still a young man and had his whole life ahead of him. His love should be given to one who could share that life with him.
Terry talked until morning, telling Bridget about his conversations with Orson.
"He doesn't care about me or my career. All he's interested in is collecting his percentage. He'd advise me to sign on as the sixth member of *NSYNC if he thought he could make a good buck on the deal."
Bridget didn't understand what he was saying and didn't know the Beatles, Bono or the Back Street Boys from Beethoven or Bach. She just sat quietly on the window seat, listening to Terry's voice, watching his movements, committing each phrase, each gesture to memory. Just before daylight, she said farewell.
The next night Terry waited in the library as usual, but he saw no sign of Bridget. He paced the floor impatiently, his nerves tense, keenly receptive to any sound, any movement in the air.
"Bridget, where are you?" he whispered into the darkness, but there was no response.
As the night wore on, he began to worry that something might have happened to her. But what? She was already dead. Finally, at dawn, he left the library.
Four days later Terry faced the awful truth: the ghostly lady of Connaught Manor was gone for good. He couldn't sleep very well, nor could he concentrate on his music. Like a ghost himself, he aimlessly wandered the halls and rooms of Connaught Manor. The pain he had felt when Gwen left him was nothing compared to the torture he felt at the loss of Bridget.
"Mr. O'Connell," Mrs. Doherty called to him, "I've made roast beef and homemade soda bread from my own recipe. Come and eat while it's still warm."
"No thank you, Mrs. Doherty," he said laconically, his eyes staring off at the horizon.
"But you haven't eaten in days, sir."
"I'll be fine, Mrs. Doherty."
"Your friend has sent you another telegram."
"He's not my friend; he's my agent. There's a big difference."
"Pardon me for asking, sir, but when will you be going back to America?"
"I haven't given it much thought. Why? Are you anxious to be rid of me?"
"Heavens no! You're no trouble at all, but you don't want to stay cooped up in this old manor house."
"Mrs. Doherty," he said, at last turning to face her. "What happens to ghosts when they cease to haunt?"
"I guess they go on to heaven, where they belong. And you, Mr. O'Connell—if you don't mind my saying so—belong with the living. You're too young a man to worry your head about ghosts and death. You'll have plenty of time for such morbid thoughts when you get to be old like me."
* * *
A week passed, and Terry slipped deeper into depression. He was thin and pale and had neither bathed nor shaved for days. He lay in bed with his eyes fixed sightlessly on the ceiling. Then a sound from outside his window brought his mind into focus. It was the sound of a car on the gravel driveway.
Who's that? he wondered with annoyance.
Then he heard a familiar voice ask, "How did he ever find this place?"
"My secretary got it through a rental agent," Orson replied. "Terry wanted a place off the beaten track."
"This certainly fits the bill," Gwen laughed. "I doubt this place is even on the map."
Terry pulled the covers over his head and prayed they would go away, but several minutes later there was a knock on the bedroom door. He didn't answer. The knock came again, followed by Orson's voice.
"Terry, are you awake?"
The door opened. Why hadn't he locked it?
"I brought someone to see you."
Terry removed the covers from his head. Orson and Gwen both gasped.
"My God, what happened to you?" his agent asked.
"Go away, Orson. I want to be alone. And take her with you."
Gwen reached into her pocket, took out her cell phone and called the hotel where she and Orson were staying.
"I need to find the number of the nearest doctor or hospital," she said.
Terry jumped up and knocked the phone out of her hand.
"I'm not going anywhere," he stubbornly declared.
Then a wave of dizziness overwhelmed him, and he had to grab the bedpost for support.
"You need help," Gwen insisted, retrieving her phone. "You look like death warmed over."
"Get out, both of you. What gives you the right to tell me ...?"
He stopped yelling when he saw Mrs. Doherty anxiously watching him from the hallway.
"You told them to come here, didn't you?"
"Don't blame her. She was afraid you were ill. When I got her telegram, I contacted Gwen."
"My own private angel of mercy?" he laughed sarcastically.
"Let's go, Terry."
Orson grabbed his client by the arm, trying to lead him outside, but Terry pulled away.
"I said I'm not leaving!"
"I was afraid you'd act this way," Orson said, nodding to Gwen.
Terry felt a sting in his upper arm. He turned quickly and saw the hypodermic needle in Gwen's hand.
"You need rest, sweetheart," she said with a smirk.
Terry panicked. Summoning his waning strength, he bolted for the door. With the element of surprise on his side, he was able to make it up the stairs and into the library ahead of his pursuers. He slammed the door shut, but there was no lock on it. He ran to the window, opened it and looked down at the rocks below.
The library door flew open, and Gwen and Orson burst into the room, followed shortly by Mrs. Doherty. Terry briefly stared helplessly at the three of them before he leaped to his death.
* * *
Gwen Nevins, the former lead singer of Nytemare, was the big winner at the following year's Grammy Award ceremony. Against the advice of her manager, Orson Phelps, she left her band to record the songs written in Ireland by her ex-husband, the late Terry O'Connell. The songs were praised by critics and fans alike, and Terry was lauded for his songwriting talent, albeit posthumously.
On the cover of Gwen's Grammy-winning CD was a photograph of Connaught Manor sitting majestically on the coast of Galway Bay. The CD's title, "The Ghosts of Connaught Manor," was inspired by Terry's haunting lyrics, particularly those of his tender love song, "Bridget," which went on to win the award for song of the year.
* * *
After the rock star's fatal plunge, Terry O'Connell's body was taken back to Boston and laid to rest next to those of his parents and grandmother. But Terry's spirit—his soul—that left his body at the moment of death, briefly lingered at Connaught Manor where it waited to be reunited with the love of his life: Bridget McBride. Afterward, Terry and Bridget together made the journey into the light.
Salem, I don't believe this particular Celtic knot really came from Ireland.
