Nightmare in an Irish Youth Hostel

Are you troubled by a past event, the memory of which causes the small hairs on the back of your neck to rise? Whenever it returns to haunt you, do you brush it aside as an elaborate hoax, a practical joke that was played on strangers or the unwary? There must be a logical explanation (for you, of course, are not superstitious), but it eludes you. I know this feeling well, for I am haunted by the memory of some strange events which occurred in the dormitory of an Irish youth hostel in the early hours of an Easter morning many years ago when I was fteen. Occasionally, I am tempted to believe that I witnessed a few brief moments when normal life was suspended and the supernatural intervened. Perhaps you would like to hear about it before you settle down for the night? Having a few days holiday, I cycled south from Dublin with the intention of reaching Tipperary. With luck, I would spend each night in a youth hostel in basic but cheap accommodation. After a glorious day in the Wicklow Mountains, my rst stop was in the Vale of Avoca. I remember a narrow and densely wooded valley and passing the entrance to what looked like a gold mine. At sunset, I found a lively hostel with a party of cheerful Americans showing everyone how to make French toast; something that was a complete mystery to two French visitors. In the morning, I continued my journey through roads untroubled by trafc and the second night was spent in a converted castle not far from Kilkenny. Another opportunity to meet new faces, huddle over maps, and compare the days events. The following morning, Easter Saturday, I set off for a hostel that was midway between Kilkenny and Tipperary, but I lost my way and didnt arrive until nightfall. The building, a large farmhouse, stood some distance from the road. I pushed my bike up a grassy track expecting, at any moment, to see lights winking through the trees. I anticipated laughter and sounds of activity from the kitchen perhaps even the smell of burnt French toast. The house was locked, dark and deserted; a notice on the door indicated that the keys could be obtained from a nearby farm. I collected them and opened the front door, only to be greeted by a musty dank smell. This, clearly, was not a popular hostel, but at least it had the usual equipment and facilities. I lit a turf re in the stove and explored the rooms. Two short ights of

stairs led to the men's dormitory - a large bleak room containing half a dozen metal beds and a box of blankets and pillows. After a meal, I sat alone in the dining room and studied the hostel rules displayed above the replace. I even toyed with the idea of seeing how many I might break. Then I tried reading a book, but it only increased my sense of isolation. Occasionally, I glanced outside, but no one else came up the path. Eventually, I took a nal look at the stars, closed the front door and went up to bed. The room was cold, but tucked up in a sheet sleeping bag under three blankets and a coat, I soon fell asleep. I am dreaming. I am cycling alone along an endless country road. It is a bog road bordered by elds of rushes and stunted trees. There are no turnings or junctions, farms or villages. Gradually, night falls but I must keep riding. In the darkness, a pair of eyes stares at me - they are lled with malice and could belong to a bird of prey, possibly an eagle. I get off the bike and hide. What happens next occurs suddenly and with some violence. A long thin hand, it might even be a claw, appears from nowhere and hovers above me. Then, without warning, it plunges down and grabs hold of my bedding. There is the sound of a gale howling as the bedclothes are torn from me. They y upwards and disappear, and then there is only silence. I awoke with a start and sat bolt upright with my heart beating like a drum. Then I gradually relaxed as I realised that this was a nightmare. The house was silent and the dormitory door was closed. As I settled down again, I discovered that my coat and blankets were missing and I assumed that they had slipped off the bed. I groped around but could feel only the cold oorboards. This was strange. Perhaps a latecomer to the hostel had taken them? A waning moon shone through the dormitory window and threw just enough light for me to see around the room. I studied each of the other ve beds in turn, but they were empty. I remembered the dream and became anxious and confused. The bedding couldnt have just disappeared through a brick wall or a closed door, but it was no longer in that room. Where could it have gone and who could have removed it so swiftly? I had never been so frightened in my life. I dont know how long I sat there shaking but, eventually, I summoned the courage to get out of bed and open the dormitory door. Is there anyone there? I called nervously, but my voice just echoed through the silent house. Then I noticed a dark shape lying on a landing halfway down the stairs; it was one of my blankets. I thought that perhaps a dog had entered the room and dragged the bedclothes down the stairs. At this point, I hadnt considered how an animal might open and close a door, but what I saw next dispelled this notion. Further down the staircase was my second blanket - lying on top of the banister rail. As I stood shivering in the hall, I became aware that the front door to the hostel was wide

open and there, in the entrance, lay my third blanket. I completed this rather disturbing treasure hunt with the discovery of my coat on a path that led directly to the nearby woods. The coat, like the blankets, looked as if it had been grasped tightly from the way that the material was gathered. I returned to the dormitory, barricaded the door with one of the beds, and spent a restless and worrying hour waiting for the dawn. In the morning, I inspected the hostel thoroughly but there were no signs of anything unusual having taken place. Upon returning the keys to their custodian, I asked him, very casually, if any visitors had ever reported strange activities at night. The man shot me an odd sort of look. It is not a place I care to visit after dark, was his blunt reply. I continued with my cycle tour and, that night, arrived at another deserted hostel - a former shooting lodge deep inside a wood on the side of a mountain. A different key to collect but the same musty smell. A plaque on the wall stated that the building had been bequeathed by the late owner and close by was a picture of an elderly lady. I stood in the doorway of the mens dormitory and peered in. Perhaps this had been her favourite room? Perhaps it still was? I didnt hang around long enough to nd out and ed down the mountain to Cahir where I spent a less-eventful if rather uncomfortable night on a bench in the railway station. And there my story ends. Did I disturb a malevolent spirit in the dormitory that night? Surely, there must be a more logical explanation? Perhaps a large bird was trapped in the room? An agile thief? Did I sleepwalk? And why, after all these years, am I afraid of... but I shouldnt be troubling you with these thoughts. You may have dark memories of your own to explore. If so, go gently lest your search becomes an obsession, for therein lies madness. Goodnight.

Tony Crowley (c) 1996