The (Haunted?) House on the Hill

Of the many wonders of Ireland we've encountered so far, nothing quite compares to the charming old stone houses which speckle the countryside. While some have been restored with plaster and limestone, many lie vacant, disassembled beneath bulks of mossy overgrowth. These latter ones practically breathe secrets when you approach them; flashes of previous function are glimpsed in a fireplace alcove, a gate hinge, or a perfect view through a window. Ever a fan of ghost tales and eerie histories, my mind's been giddily exploding with imagined backstories for each decrepit foundation.

On closer examination, however, I've been disappointed to find most of these structures devoid of any tangible mystery. The ones Jay and I explored on our walks through the countryside were quaint as could be, but so long abandoned that all sign of life had decomposed beneath their grassy groundwork. Their histories were literally buried beyond retrieval.

But then we visited the house on the hill.

It's always on a hill, isn't it? And it's always surrounded by trees, in the middle of nowhere, on a stormy afternoon, up a long road. There's always a group of unsuspecting people who approach it with the best of intentions (and leave with the worst of nightmares.) And there's always a black pony staring you down at the gate.

Wait... what?

Maybe black cats are out of style in Ireland, but for whatever reason this house came with its own guard pony. And when I say "pony," I really mean horse, because he was big enough (and scary enough) that you'd definitely think twice about letting your kid ride him at the fair.

I use "him" because our guides on this tour-de-horreur fondly referred to him as "Billy." Along with the house, Billy had been abandoned by his original owner and "looked after" (fed) by the neighbors ever since. (The site was repossessed and subsequently vacated six years ago, but it's possible he'd been stray for even longer.) As the house fell into disrepair, Billy did the sensible thing and moved himself in. (Evidence of this fact was strewn across the floor of the kitchen & back entry....) When a young English couple came to survey the land for purchase, Billy promptly chased them off the property. This was his house, after all.

Flash forward and that same English couple is on the path before us, seducing Billy out of the way with an apple, and leading us up the mucky road toward their new house project. House restoration (especially with a self-sustaining, eco-friendly focus) seems to be the going trend in Ireland; Our hosts undertook a similar refurbishment of their own cottage, and the English couple had called upon them for advice. We were joined on the property tour by their Irish-German AirBNB hosts (friends of our hosts) and a French family who, like Jay and myself, were Work-Away-ers. It felt like a UN meeting.

We entered through the back door (with the encouraging graffiti greeting: "DEAD INSIDE"), then found ourselves in what appeared to be a kitchen -- it was hard to tell, as all the windows were boarded up. The first cue this place was shady (beyond Billy-the-black-guard-pony) was the side-tilting upright piano that nonsensically lurked in the middle of this room. Of course it was only capable of producing a few choice minor-key notes. The graffiti might as well have read: HERE LIVE GHOSTS; TURN AROUND, YOU FOOLS.

As we progressed, the vibe only got weirder. Some things were really quite normal, but became weird in their singularity -- i.e. the piano, as well as a half-dismantled iron stove and a looming armoire. Other things were clearly fodder for a Stephen King novel. In the second bedroom, for instance, we discovered a hand-painted, ocean-themed wall mural with "We love you, Liam - Mammy & Daddy" scrawled beneath a googly-eyed starfish. It didn't matter how loved Liam was, because he was obviously murdered here.

Behind the main house we found yet another neglected stone abode. Like the other structures we'd seen, it had lost most of its roof to decay, then fallen in upon itself in winsome disarray. It appeared to have been a barn. A leak over the doorway kept a steady stream of rainwater splashing over the side entrance. Having found nothing but pony presents in the front chamber, I figured I'd skip this one -- then I noticed the Frenchman peering at something beyond the threshold. The look on his face was so disquieted, my curiosity got the better of me. I approached the doorway.

Near the Frenchman's feet sat a lumpy mass of something black and wiry. My view of it was obstructed by the rainwater.

"Is that horsehair?"

The Frenchman jumped and began moving his hands about in the air before him -- that universal panic gesture when you can't find the word you're looking for at the speed you're wanting to.

"Uhmmmm... horns..."

"A sheep?"

"Eh...."

His hands continued to waive frantically.

"En Francais?" I offered.

"Chevre..." (Which I improperly heard as "cheveax.")

Yes, hair.

"Uhmm... goat?"

Ok, so goat hair.

"Head! Head!" the Frenchman shouted, finding his word.

But I'd already passed under the rainwater. On the other side of the threshold, beneath the mass that was indeed hair, lay two long-since-rotted goat carcasses -- or the bones of them, anyway. Their skulls tilted against the earthy floor as if they'd slept their way to death. As natural as it was, it felt macabre and indecent to look at. The smell was certainly indecent. But, for a moment, I was bewitched.

On the ride home, Jay and our host discussed the amount of work that lay ahead for the English couple. There was something very weird about that place, they agreed. While I saw their point -- yes, perhaps houses with guard ponies and goat bodies and ghostly pianos might be better left to their own devices -- another part of me envied the couple's fascinating find.

But -- like I said -- I've always been one for ghost stories.