The Dark Sacrament (18 page)

“Who are you, sweetheart?” she managed to whisper. “What do you want?”

Stephanie waited with a hand on her heart. There was no response, but still she sensed the presence nearby. Declan stirred in his sleep.

The atmosphere in the room was subtly changing. Stephanie, for reasons she could not understand, was drawn to the rattan chair beside the bed. Something was telling her that the “spirit child” was seated there.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” she asked again. “What's your name?”

This time, a response came.

“Sa–rah.” It was the voice of a little girl, a half-whisper of a voice that filled Stephanie with sadness and poignancy.

“I want to help you, Sarah,” she said, near tears. “What can I do?”

She waited and waited. But no answer was forthcoming.

Minutes later, Declan was awakened by his wife's loud sobbing. He understood none of it. Eventually, as he helped her down the stairs, he learned what it was that had upset her so much.

He unlocked the door to the kitchen.

“Coffee,” he said, since there was not much else he could say. “I'll make it.”

By this time, it was fully morning. When Declan pushed open the door, the sun was bathing the kitchen in bright light.

Stephanie said nothing. She remained in the doorway, staring with open mouth at the floor. Declan's plan had worked—perhaps too well. But there were no footprints in the salt he had scattered.

“God!” Stephanie had found her voice at last. “Oh, God.”

Scrawled in the salt, in a childish hand, was a single word.

SARAH

Declan experienced a terrible sense of dread. But anger quickly took its place. He had had enough.

“Who the hell
are
you?” he yelled. “Why are you doing this?”

The following day, the couple moved out of their home again and went to stay with in-laws.

When Canon Lendrum encounters a particularly difficult case, as the Rooney case was proving to be, he calls on the help of a close friend of many years' standing. Florence Miller possesses what is known as the “gift of discernment” and, being a deeply religious and devout lady, uses it freely to help others.

Florence accompanied the canon and his wife on their second visit to the Rooney home. As they journeyed there, the trio prayed for a successful outcome. Canon Lendrum was disappointed—and a touch surprised—that his first attempt had not borne fruit. It had seemed to be a fairly low-key haunting, the sort of paranormal scenario he frequently encounters. As Florence prayed, she began to receive a vision. She saw an old fireplace. She did not know what it meant, but knew the design was from another era, perhaps the late nineteenth century. She hoped that its significance would become clearer on their arrival at the house.

Canon Lendrum was dismayed to see how distressed the couple were. Stephanie appeared to have lost weight, and she and her husband looked tired and drawn. Present also at the house were Declan's parents. In fact, it was his mother who had persuaded him to engage the canon again; she, more than anybody else, was convinced that something unholy had entered her son's home.

The group settled down in the living room and, over tea, the visitors listened as Declan and Stephanie told of the catalog of manifestations that had plagued their home.

Florence is a quiet woman who prefers to take a back seat at such times. She tends to listen, awaiting signs and indications of extraphysical presences. She held her counsel as the Rooneys spoke of the new developments. She was waiting for what she terms a “signal.” She explains that the signal is a communication, whether auditory or visual, from the “other side.” It helps her to establish who—or what—is creating the disturbance. As yet, nothing had come to her. She allowed the couple to finish their account, then posed a single question: “Is there an old fireplace in this house?”

The Rooneys assured her that there was not. In fact, only one room had an open fire—the room they were seated in. The fireplace in the living room was—as one would expect—of contemporary design.

Canon William Lendrum, for his part, was most intrigued by the name traced in the salt.

“What do you think it means?” he asked the Rooneys.

Declan confessed bafflement. He knew nobody named Sarah, he said—not unless they could include a girl by that name he had dated when a teenager. The canon pressed him further. Declan trawled his memories.

Florence, in the meantime, was noticing a change coming over the room. It was a sensation she had experienced on numerous occasions; she describes it as a kind of “tightening apprehension,” akin to what one might feel when a thunderstorm is brewing. She could hear Declan's voice receding, as if someone was turning down the volume on a radio. She waited for what she calls “the happening.”

All at once it came. At another mention of the name Sarah, a pebble flew through the air and landed at their feet on the hearthrug. It had entered through the open doorway of the living room.

The pebble had obviously come from the driveway. But how, with the front door shut, had it managed to materialize inside the house, alone and unaided?

“Somebody's playing games,” Canon Lendrum announced.

It was the first time he had witnessed an incident of this nature in the Rooney home. Like everyone else, he was puzzled, but the occurrence reinforced his initial theory that a child was playacting, teasing the house's occupants. He prepared to celebrate a second Eucharist. Since the pebble had been thrown into the living room, he judged that it would be the appropriate focus for the sacrament.

As on the first occasion, the Eucharist progressed without incident. Nothing untoward occurred to disturb the liturgy; no more pebbles were flung. After the service the canon went from room to room, cleansing the house in the name of the Lord.

As a rule, Florence never discloses anything of her experiences to the victims directly, fearing that they may hear things that would undoubtedly cause further distress. Only afterward does she discuss her observations with the canon, and together they look for connections that may prove helpful.

On the return journey to Belfast, Florence shared what she had experienced. She had had two psychic encounters.

The first occurred as the canon's car approached the Rooney home. She had the distinct impression that the area—the entire estate—was filled with what she called “territorial spirits.” She claims that she could see them everywhere. Yet the interesting part of her vision concerned the Rooney house itself. Of all the homes in Cedar Close, it alone was being protected by a “ring of angels.” She saw them circling above the roof of the property.

Her second vision occurred while the Rooneys were speaking with the canon and the pebble landed on the hearthrug. Florence had looked, as everyone had, to the open doorway. But no one else could sense what she sensed. She had the compelling impression that they were in the presence of a spirit child—a little girl.

Canon Lendrum had suspected it in the first instance; now they felt certain that the “playful” activity was the work of the mysterious spirit child. He was glad, and for good reason. Florence's vision had helped in establishing that there was no evil at work in 8 Cedar Close. A full exorcism would not be necessary. The best course was to pray for the child, that her spirit might find rest.

He counseled the Rooneys to do likewise.

Declan could rule out Scottie Byrne or a mischievous neighbor. In the days to come, he was almost sorry he had entertained either possibility. When he thought about it, it appeared increasingly unlikely that human agents were behind the disturbances. Declan was of two minds about this. Like everyone who comes face-to-face with the inexplicable, his need to rationalize became paramount. If he was being asked to believe in ghosts—if there was a little girl named Sarah, who was somehow connected with an antique fireplace—he
wished to know
why
she was troubling his home. He wanted it all to make some kind of sense.

He started to make inquiries. For a long time, they appeared to lead nowhere. But on October 10, 2004, five months after Canon Lendrum's second visit and a full fourteen months after the Rooneys' problems began, Declan made a breakthrough. He had been hunting down facts that might have a bearing on the case and had examined countless documents in local and national archives. In the history department at Queen's University Belfast, he turned up something of great significance. In the nineteenth century, two children went missing close to what would become Cedar Close, in the area known as Ballylouth. The little girls, nine-year-old Mary Magee and Sarah Logan, age ten, were never found.

So there she was—Sarah, the mysterious child Florence had seen. Declan experienced a tremendous sense of relief on unearthing this information. The pieces of the puzzle that had haunted him and his wife for so long were finally coming together. He hurried home in high excitement and related the good news to Stephanie.

They knew the identity of their ghost. They could pray for her now.

Stephanie went to Father O'Malley and arranged for a Mass to be said for the little girls. She anticipated that the priest would have no objection, and this proved to be the case. She felt it was prudent, too, to say nothing about the intervention of a priest of another faith.

On Father O'Malley's recommendation, the Rooneys began a nightly recitation of the rosary for the repose of Sarah's soul. Nor did they ever neglect the prayer for the protection of Michael the Archangel. Since the onset of their troubles, it had become a routine part of their lives. They knew it by heart and no longer needed to refer to the written version. Nevertheless, Stephanie was reluctant to remove those copies of the prayer she had placed in every room.

Over the previous months their house, understandably, had become a repository of sacred objects. The Rooneys and their relatives
had come to the conviction that such objects were talismans against the unknown. The crucifix was now a permanent fixture on the living-room wall. A holy picture or novena hung in every room.

One thing remained to be investigated: Declan still had not satisfied his natural curiosity with regard to the fireplace that Florence had seen in her vision.

“It must mean something,” he said to Stephanie.

“I wish you'd leave it alone. What's the point in stirring it up again?”

“I think it's important that we know, Steph. Why would Florence Miller see a fireplace?”

Declan had a hunch that the answer lay on his property. He sought out the contractor who had built the development. But Mr. Heaney seemed reluctant to discuss the matter. Yes, there had been a block of old row houses. So what? No, he did not know who the “previous owners” were. Did Rooney think he was chairman of the archaeological society or what? He had bought the land to build houses on, not for the purpose of digging up the past.

Declan asked around. Somebody must know something, he reasoned. And somebody did. In exchange for a beer or two, Kevin McTeague, one of Heaney's former employees, divulged some interesting information. He claimed that the Cedar Close development was built on the site of a fairy fort.

This gave Declan more pause for thought. He knew a little about fairy forts. There are perhaps 40,000 all told in Ireland. Most are knolls or dunes, either naturally or artificially constructed. The fact that the provenance and purpose of these mounds were unclear to the country folk gave rise to the belief, in less enlightened times, that they were the homes of the “little people,” or fairies. The superstition persists that if anyone disturbs such a site, great misfortune will befall him.

“That area beside your house is where it was,” McTeague told him. “Heaney had it leveled, but made sure he didn't build on it. He wasn't taking any chances.”

“Oh, that's just great! Now I'm hearing this when it's too late. It would have been nice to know this before we bought the place.”

“Depends on whether you believe in all that fairy stuff,” said McTeague. “But I remember when we were working there, it took ages for us to get the bloody job finished. Everybody took sick, one after the other. Then deliveries would be delayed; calls that Heaney made went astray. He lost a lot of money on the project. We were happy to see the back of Cedar Close, I can tell you. When I heard about your troubles, I wasn't surprised at all.”

Declan was not in the least superstitious; he had never believed in ghosts. Yet events over the past year had caused him to look closely at his skepticism. If the spirit-child theory was correct, and it had the appearance of being so, then why not the fairy story?

But what to do with such information? They could hardly sell the house, not after barely two years. Besides, even if they did sell, it would probably fetch a much reduced price, given the talk in the neighborhood. McTeague had demonstrated to him that even casual acquaintances knew about the phenomena. No, Declan decided, selling was out of the question.

If Canon Lendrum was to be believed, then the problem of the spirit child could be solved through prayer and faith. But the fairy fort? Nothing could be done about it, short of having Heaney bulldoze the site—an unlikely, and absurd, scenario. Declan's only consolation lay in the fact that he had not been responsible for disturbing it in the first place. Perhaps McTeague's story was true, insofar as Heaney and his workforce were culpable.

Declan shared his concerns with Stephanie.

“Look,” she said, “so far, for a whole six months, we've had no trouble—fingers crossed. So long as we keep praying for that little Sarah, things will be okay. God knows what happened to the poor wee thing.”

“I know. But what if it all starts up again? All that spirit stuff.”

“It won't!” she snapped. “I wish you'd have a bit more faith, instead of listening to old pub talk. I don't believe that fairy fort nonsense.
Fairies are what alcoholics see when they've got the DTs, so I'm not surprised Kevin McTeague believes in them. He's never out of the bloody pub.”