CC 50: Mitchell On Chapel

We left a pub that was hopping like the Tigger reborn and enjoying romps you might have found in the children’s literature of fiends.  The two foreigners (they turned out to be Polish after all) got stuck into our mahogany cave, and we had shots, which doesn’t usually happen in Murphy’s, and that’s the reason why I can’t remember who the barman was that day to record it in this epistle.  When the crosswords had all been solved, there was nothing more to do but rejoice in the refreshment of a stale community, get the drinks in, and forget where we were, and who we’d all been once in our lives.  Noely Farron left soon after, sneaking out with a grunt, and bringing his bigotry home to snark at the wife with.  When the drinks had grown tired of meeting our mouths, and sought to induce nausea to avenge the attack we’d made on the bar, McDaid and I were spewed out to a damp and listless night.  The rain had died off and all the birds were gone as an eerie mist crept over the buildings, sucking all the life from our town. 

‘I’ll get myself home then,’ slurred he.

‘Oh, you will, will ya?’ slurred I.

‘Yep.’

‘Best of luck.’

I watched McDaid disappear into the heaving black fog, his life-force evaporating in the evening dust like a last will of the wisp, and I swung onto Yorke Street with the intention of grabbing some edibles.  The curry house I was after no longer opened its doors for the night or daycrawlers.  Shit, businesses were closing down and their properties locked up faster than gossip could plant its seed, without so much as a footprint there to be scrubbed from the floors. 

Down the street, on the corner of Chapel Street, I spotted Brian Staunton.  He’d left the pub a few hours before McDaid and I (as far as I could remember).  He must have went for a walk with the wolfhound before home, and it seemed now that the great tufty beast was the reason they’d come to a halt on the street.  Santana was staring up at a second floor window of one of the houses and barking loudly.  It occurred to me that I had never heard the wolfhound bark before.  They were passive animals; their enormous size belied their calm.  Santana’s was a peculiar bark, starting gruff and ending in a shrill yap, like a heavy duty blast cracking to reveal something thinner, tinnier and more vulnerable.  Something told me his bite would be worse than his bark if he was ever inclined to do some biting. 

‘What’s up?’ I asked Staunton.

‘Ah, it’s nothing, he always does this.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’ 

‘He always stops to go to the toilet here, and he usually has a wee bark up at the Mitchell House.’

Sure enough, there was a big pile of wolfhound shite next to the pair of them.  Staunton aided and abetted his wolfhound’s toilet habits, and provided time and space for the frequent deposits, whether on the floor of Murphy’s, on the pavements outside, or in specially chosen patches in various parks around the town.  Never once did he pick the excrement up.  Those upset by the sanitary nuisance eventually gave up howling about it and learned to be cautious and light on their feet when in key locations. 

‘What’s he barking at?’

‘Ghosts,  probably,’ replied Staunton.  ‘You never know with that place.’

Mitchell House was a standard two-storey terraced house but with a purple brick front that distinguished it from the others on Chapel Street with their whites, reds, and greys.  Like many houses on that street, it was built as far back as the 1800’s, so it had certainly seen its fair share of residents.  Chapel Street itself was regular territory of my childhood.  The old library was situated there, a magical place for me growing up.  There was a great palatial fantasy about how it looked outside  which sadly diminished with time; adulthood blinded me to many old dreams and saw to it that enchanted buildings were stripped of all fantastic auras.  Chapel Street always seemed like a special place.  Running behind the busier shopping area that was Clanbrassil Street, I’d always viewed it as a kind of alternative ground in the town, existing side by side with reality.  It was most always hushed and at peace with whatever was going on in the history of things.  The leaves in Autumn were as carefree in their play as the kids kicking a football about and the birds came here to chat in private away from the raucous whistling of the trees.  Over the row of houses to your right was Clanbrassil Street, a world of shopping bags, prams, and profanity.  Walking along Chapel Street, you could take a breath away from all the madness on the other side.  Even the parked cars were more polite here than the ones on Clanbrassil Street; you felt like they were saying Hello to you as you strolled past them.  They wouldn’t have thought you were a lunatic if you’d been caught saying Hello to one of the parked cars.  Everybody on Chapel Street was on the same page, breathing the same air.  They knew what you were talking about.

It was always believed that Mitchell House was used as a meeting point for the Order of the Last Serpent during the 1980’s, though only those who were members of that group could have told you exactly what happened during the meetings.  However, this being a town in thrall to rumour, the people didn’t need eyewitnesses to provide a thoroughly detailed account of activities.

‘So the place is haunted?’

‘Haunted?’ said Staunton.  ‘That’s just the beginning of it with that place.  Fuckin’ madhouse.  That’s why I let Santana here give it some abuse whenever he stops.  Scare the Jesus out of them ghosts.  This animal here's the finest exorcist in the land.’ 

‘Ah, I didn’t know.’

‘Well, you should have asked.  I know what the story is around here.  Been living here all my life.  You were in there talking to that gobshite, McDaid, or Noely.  Sure, they’re a half-arsed pack of jokers.  Don’t believe a word comes out of their traps.  Load of bollix.  You should have been talking to me if you want to get the truth of this town, boy.’ 

‘Right.  Sorry.  So what’s the story then?  With the house?  Tell me.’

‘I’ll tell ya, but it’s not for the faint of heart.’ 

‘Come on, Mr. Staunton,’ I said.  ‘Look at me, I’ve heard them all in my time.’

‘Yeah, you haven’t heard this, boyo.  The truth is stranger than the facts, you know.’ 

‘You mean, the fiction?’

‘Ah?’ 

‘Truth is stranger than fiction?’

‘That be it.  Anyway, what do you want to know?’ 

‘Mitchell House.  What’s the story with it?  Is it haunted?’

He took a deep breath, and the wolfhound dropped another pile on the pavement. 

‘Satan-worshippers,’ continued Staunton.  ‘That’s where they had their rituals.  Sure, some of them would come into Murphy’s for the poker on Sunday nights back in the day and then after they’d lost their money to me, they’d head up there for the rituals to ask Satan to put a curse on me and get the money back.  I haven’t told anyone this before, boyo.  But believe you me, I’ve fought the demons in my time.  I fought the demons.  I fought the big man himself and won.’