Don't give up the ghost

WordSmith

Gerard Smith

Every family has a ghost story, somewhere. I’ve written about my family’s ghost in a past column; but in this one I want to tell you of mine.

He wasn’t always my ghost; he first belonged to my father. As a child, Dad would talk of a ghost he saw when he worked as a farmhand in his youth. I was fascinated by this spectre. Dad would weave wonderful tales about the two of them, my attention was always rapt.

That ghost and my childhood search for it gave me the narrative pull for my first memoir, Secrets And Styes. But this column is about how that ghost leapt out of my boyhood story and into my adult life, literally.

I was seven years' old when I began my spectral-quest. Determined I was, to discover the identity of a ghost who appeared to Dad – making him proud was a priority.

Immediately upon arrival in Ireland, I began the search by asking my uncle, “I’m looking for the farmyard ghost, have you seen him?” Uncle Micky inhaled his pipe, exhaled a great plume of smoke and said, “I haven’t, but I do often see his friend.”

He leaned in, “He has a big ould crow that looks out for him, if you ever see that bird on the gable of the byre, you’ll know the ghost is roaming.”

Crow became my friend, he was forever there. And when he wasn’t accompanying me on my ghost hunt, he would listen attentively to my woes. Like the day I confided in him, “My sister’s become possessed by the devil, I know she has cos she’s turned horrible.”

The reality was, Maria was lost in the wilderness of first love; no longer interested in her kid brother’s constant questions.

Midway through my quest and feeling frustrated by a lack of progress, Maria gave me a new insight, “You’re wasting your time looking for him during the day, ghosts only come out at night.”

That very night, while my family slept safely, I crept out of the house and into the blackness. I made my way to the farmyard armed with my brother’s torch. Once there: I stopped, looked, listened. The only sound was the beat of my heart in my undulating chest.

I saw something, a movement that confused me rather than scared me – it was my breath pluming upwards into the black sky; an unusual sight in the mild night. I shuddered – moved forward – halted when a shape shifted to my left; I primed for fright. A shadowy-light floated over the walls of the outbuildings to the left of the yard. I swung round to see what physical form cast this shadow – the torchlight revealed: no one, nobody, nothing.

I spun back to see the shadow leave the building and meld amongst the trees. Its shape changed from uniform, to spherical then undiscernible. It traversed the trees then reappeared around the gable of the byre. The spectral light never settled. I shot the torch to the byre, gable, “Crow, is the ghost here?” The light beam showed no avian sentinel.

But, I was not alone, For I felt a presence that was intangible yet present – another worldly feeling that disappointed me, profoundly. For feeling something is not the same as seeing it. I never saw the ghost Dad had seen.

On my return to Cavan I assumed the old yard was long gone, until I stumbled upon its remnants while rambling. The farmyard is now a forgotten place. A space wherein spray-can artists practice their craft. I regularly visit, finding solace there. Recently, I began noticing sprayed motifs; when I saw a crow I had a joyous jolt and became seven again, “Hello crow,” I said.

The painting of a crow was a happy coincidence, or was it?

Then one glorious sunny day as I walked through the overgrown farmyard, I was halted in my tracks by a haunting sight – a ghost. Looming large upon the wall of the old outhouse, a classic white-sheet Scooby Do style ghost looked down on me. The sight of him filled me with teary-eyed-joy.

I don’t know if the ghost is an homage to my story. Regardless, I will own him. What I know for sure is – I never gave up on seeing a ghost in that space.