31 October 2025
Story #1141
R. Linda:
Trick or treat
Smell my feet
Give me something good to eat
If you don't, I don't care
I'll pull down your underwear
Christopher Walken ~ SNL 2024
Okay, so I have, on rare occasions, seen ghosts of people, cats, dogs, and horses; why don't I see ghosts of dinosaurs? It seems strange, and I don't buy the excuse because they are extinct. When a person dies, they become extinct —no longer present. Though being chased through a dinosaur graveyard by an ectoplasmic Velociraptor would give me a heart attack. I wonder if it is because we don't think about them, you know, out of sight, out of mind. Perhaps their energy, or life force, is depleted, so they can't manifest as spiritual beings.
But wait!
What about Nessie sightings? People have claimed to have seen the great prehistoric amphibious lizard swimming in Loch Ness, and even have photos to prove it, much like some have ghostly images of people and animals. Nessie, for its part, has never been caught to examine what it is; we humans simply believe it is a prehistoric reptile. Could Nessie be a ghost? And only some have seen it? Otherwise, we know it isn't real; it can't still be alive from prehistoric times.
Then there be the question of Bigfoot. Is there such a creature? Where I live, there are road signs warning drivers to be on the lookout for Bigfoot crossing the road. This begs the question: One of them must have been hit, so the warning is to drivers. So why don't I see a ghost of Bigfoot crossing the road?
The question of whether I believe in ghosts comes up, and each time, I say a resounding YES because, as I said up there in paragraph one, I have seen them—in different forms even. I am told that it's the Irish in me, you know, superstitious lot the Irish. Well, maybe. Ireland is a very religious country, and superstition is built into the Christian religion, so it's no wonder.
When I was a wee laddie staying with me grandparents on their farm in the Republic, my sissy and I were told stories of the great Celtic dragon, Oillipheist (which means 'great worm'). This serpent-like dragon was said to have carved the River Shannon long ago as it fled Saint Patrick, who, as you know, banished the snakes from the old sod.
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| Oillipheist |
This magnificent creature of myth was said to swallow people and ships whole if it caught one. Me grandfather was no seafaring man, but a man of the soil. But he seemed to know a lot about this dragon monster. On many a misty morning, he'd take us out to the fields by the Shannon to start his farm work with us as helpers. While we walked the fields, he'd tell us that such mornings when the river was grey with swirling mist, he, a wee laddie, had come to the end of the property, where the Shannon flowed deep and swift with his father. The water was black that sunless hour, and it wasn't hard to imagine things dwelling in its depths. He often thought he saw something black under the water, but he was never sure.
He'd tell us to step back from the edge, for Olli might take us, as he referred to the sea monster. Oh, yes, Olli may have been banished to the Atlantic aeons ago, but it still existed in Irish minds, and every year it would covertly return in the dark, cold waters to ravage anything in its path. It was revenge, he said, that the serpent had for humankind, never forgetting the humiliation of St. Patrick's wrath.
There was a story, true or not, I never did find out, that a boy from the village was found one morning, drowned on the banks of the Shannon. It was thought the serpent had caught him and left him as a sign it had taken its pound of flesh for the year. You must know this was many years ago, before I was born, but I heard the story often enough as I grew up. Now we think the young boyo came too close to the raging river and fell in, but no one ever knew for sure. The children were told this story and knew to stay away from the water in October when it was at its quickest and deepest, as the serpent was thought to be back.
In the summer months, I'd often play in the fields down by the river where the land was flatter and less stony. I remember watching the sunbeams play on the lapping waves of the Shannon, making me wonder how pretty a scene could spawn such a horror in its waters. On those hot days, a few of us would dare step into the water to cool off, but not for long. Someone would yell to "Watch out! Dere be soomting black in da water noow. Doncha see it?" And of course, we did think we saw something, and off we'd scoot onto the shore looking hard for the thing in the water. Many times, I thought we had seen it.
As we got older, shouting the warning as the smaller kiddos waded in was a fun game to scare the bejesus out of them—but not so frightening as Callium McBridie, a man who had quite the story to tell.
I was about seven or eight when, on one Hallows Eve, me sister Sheila and I accompanied our grandparents and Mam to a harvest party on a farm. The farm was just beyond the bend in the river, and it was dusk when we started off. We two had our Jack of the Lanterns lit, one gourd for each of us, lighting our way to the party. We set off in front of the adults, our lanterns casting spooky images on the road as we went. We laughed and frolicked, all excited for the festivities. Two of Grandfather's farm workers had joined us, and with both telling spooky stories, this amped us up more.
One of the workers was Callium McBridie, a local man who was muscular but short in stature. He was all of twenty-seven, I surmise, and not a bad-looking bloke. He had a crush on the farmer's daughter whose home we were off to. When we came to the bend in the river, there was an awful fishy smell about the place. The other strange thing was the atmosphere: the water had turned a slate grey, and the air felt thick, as if a storm were coming, but none was. We all noticed it, as it was unusual. The heavy, thick odour made us increase our pace to get away from it. We had forgotten about it by the time we got to the harvest party.
We had a wonderful time —everything from the food to the games to the camaraderie! Once the excitement had run its course, the workers took it upon themselves to outdo each other with spooky stories. We were all gathered round the large fireplace in the main room, some sipping cider, others riveted on the storytellers. The one who told the best stories was Callium McBridie. We waited all night for Callium to come front and centre, but no one saw him. We thought he was somewhere pursuing the farmer's daughter, but she, too, was sitting among us, looking around in wonder.
The night wore on, and it came time to go home. Callium's name was mumbled about as coats were donned and leavetaking commenced. There was much shaking of heads as to why Callium didn't grace us with his fantastical stories, which we all looked forward to.
The next day, there was news from the other side of the river. Seems a disturbance was heard around the witching hour. Terrible screams came from the bend in the Shannon, and those who heard it were too petrified to go out to see what was happening. Some ventured down the next day to find a section of the shore disturbed. Embedded in the sandy mud were imprints of what looked like large scales, the kind you find on a very large serpent. Even the thorn bushes were uprooted and dispersed haphazardly. A lot of scratching of heads, but nothing was found except one thing in the weeds and brambles. A hat. A slouch hat, the kind that Callium wore the night we went to the harvest gathering. But no Callium was seen.
It was two days later that Callium McBridie was discovered missing. Had been since the harvest gathering. Could the hat have been his? Had he met up with "something" sinister at the river's bend? Was Olli back? All kinds of wild tales ensued for many months and then years as nothing of Callium OR Olli was found (except those scaly impressions, hum).
That was the last I ever heard of Callium McBridie or Olli, for that matter. We moved back to Newry shortly thereafter.
It wasn't until some thirty years later that I met my sissy in a pub near her home. She had suggested I stop for a cold one on me way to Mam's (I was visiting home for a week), as she wanted to talk to me privately about Christmas presents without our parents putting in their two pence. I arrived early at Flangan's local establishment, and as I was sitting there, I noticed this short fella limp in and sit at a table to my left. He looked familiar, but I couldn't place him. He saw me looking at him and gave me a smirk for me trouble, then took himself to contemplating his beer.
Shortly after, Sheila came in loaded down with presents she had shopped for, and once settled in, we were talking quietly when she looked around. Suddenly, her features took on a look of shock. She whispered to me, "Is thot . . . be thot . . . Callium McBridie frum da sout?" I looked at the same man who smirked at me and realised, why yes, it was. Had to be or was his twin, if he had one.
"Goo talk ta 'em," Sheila encouraged me. But I didn't know for sure, and told her no.
"Luke at 'em, 'es a roight mess, he be." She said. "Sumting hoppened ta 'em fur shure."
"Sheila, do ye really wont me ta goo oop ta himself an' say wot hoppened ta ye, ye look like hell?" I said offended.
But I didn't have to do any of that because he heard us and limped over, sitting himself down with a plop.
"I kow ye both. Yer wonderin' I see dat an' yes, I be Callium dat ye used to kow." We sat lost for words. "Well, let me tell ye me story." And he did. A wild story it was, too!
It went like this: After eating his fill and flirting with the lovely farmer's daughter, and getting nowhere, he took himself outside in the frosty air for a smoke, he did. While he was standing there, he heard something in the distance. He said it sounded like a violent splash of water coming from the bend in the Shannon. Curious, he stamped out his cigarette butt and went down to the bend. The splashing got louder the nearer he got, but he could see nothing. He stealthily made his way along the brambles and bushes until he reached an opening and crouched to the river's edge. All was silent, and that made his skin crawl. He stayed there, he didn't know how long, until he heard another sound. A sliding sound as if something large was being moved across the sandy mud. He saw nothing but noticed the fishy smell was strong and abhorrent.
Feeling unnerved, he decided to go back. As he sloshed his way back to the cut in the brambles, something slithered around his lower legs and tightened its grip. Looking down in the dark, murky night, he could see what looked like slimy tendrils shining with water starting to pull him down. Now thoroughly frightened, he shouted for help, but soon couldn't shout for his survival instincts had kicked in and he pulled his knife, slashing at the tendrils around his legs that were powerfully making their way up to his ribcage to crush the life out of him, he was sure.
He couldn't cut the tendrils; they were too thick, but it did loosen their hold and let them slide back down his legs. Something large had come close to his face, and he felt part of his ear ripped away. He turned the knife in that direction, but something slimy and sharp hit his eye, blinding him. He stabbed at the thing until he was starting to weaken. Just as he thought he was a goner, the moon came from behind the clouds, and rising up like a giant snake was Olli! He knew it was Olli. What else could the thing be? It had a long row of gnashing teeth, a mane like a horse down its neck, and was dragon-like, which best describes what he saw. No other creature looked like that, so it had to be the savage Ollipheist.
Callium fell backwards and kicked toward the brambles, stabbing the tendrils as he went. The thing pulled at him, and he said he could hear his bones cracking. The monster's mouth opened to consume him. Callium found one last surge of energy and got himself into the brambles, which pulled at his skin, but he was mindful only of the pursuing serpent. With strength he didn't know he had, he pulled a large bramble bush out of the ground and threw it into the mouth of the monster. The thorns cut the mouth as it gnashed to get the thing out. This gave Callium time to slip through the thorns himself, out the other side, and away down the road.
Torn, bleeding, and scared out of his mind, Callium ran, and ran, and ran until he found himself six towns away from the Shannon and its monster. Embarrassed, he kept running; he never did go back. Forget he had a story to tell for real (as he puts it), it was too much excitement for one life and man, and he swore to himself he'd never tell it or go back.
We listened silently to this, and looking at him, it was not too fantastic a story. No, it wasn't. He had lost the top part of an ear, and his one eye was nothing but a slit in his head. His face was lined like a man of ninety, his hair sparse on his head. His left shoulder was higher than the right, and he walked with a painful limp. With nothing being said, he smirked at us and held up a finger.
"Let me prove 'dis ta yas," he said, pulling out an old leather pouch. He unstrung it and placed it on the table in front of us. "Take a luke," he urged.
Sheila wouldn't touch it, but I picked it up and shook the contents. A reptilian finger with a claw was rolling to a stop on the tabletop. I'd never seen anything like it in me life. I picked it up, and the claw was sharp, the skin leathery, hard and old.
"Thot's wot I'm talkin' aboat," Callium said, pointing at it. "Me proof. I cut thot uff I did, in me flight."
He put the thing back in its pouch and, without a word, slugged back the rest of his beer. Getting up with that smirk on his face again, he tucked the pouch in his jacket and left our mouths gaping after him.
"Wot wuz dat?" Sheila croaked.
"I kind of believe him," I said. "The lizard finger . . . "
"Well, ok den dere Gabe, I guess I doo too."
I still remember that leathery thing. It was the size of a skinny foot, the claw a blackish hook, sharp and lethal. It looked like a large lizard's toe. There was nothing unreal about it. I often wonder what happened to Callium, who had faded into the night with his proof.
I've not been back to the farm, but my sissy has. She said the legend still holds and that the locals truly believe Callium met his demise in the jaws of Oillipheist. Poor Callium is a legend, something he would prefer to the truth, such as it is.
Gabe
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