A Haunting at Hawthorn and other ghostly tales Book 3 of the Gallagher Girls Mystery series

2025 Young Or Golden Writer
Book Cover Image
Logline or Premise
Moira, Deirdre and Nuala Gallagher, the three-sisters team of Gallagher Investigations, experience more encounters with troubled spirits needing their assistance before they can move on in the Afterlife.
First 10 Pages - 3K Words Only

Chapter 1

Is maith an scáthán súil charad A friend’s eye is a good mirror.

—Irish Proverb

Kildare, Spring 2012

“There’s a locked door on the second floor that’s stuck. None of the keys you gave me

seem to work.”

Nuala turned from the starters she was prepping to address Siobhán, her newly hired, part-time house cleaner.

“Locked or stuck?”

“The doorknob turns but I can’t pull it open.”

“Okay, give me a minute to search for Sean’s keyring — I don’t think he took it with him to the auction — wait, you know what? Don’t worry about it. I’ll figure it out before your next visit. Just skip that room for now.”

“Sounds good. I’ll be another thirty minutes or so then.”

“Thanks, Siobhán. I couldn’t begin to do all the cleaning in this place on my own.”

With Seán gone overnight to the horse auction, it wasn’t until later that evening when Nuala returned from the catering gig that she remembered the locked room. Still fuelled by adrenaline after the success of the party, she couldn’t settle into sleep and determined to look at the locked door.

She located Seán’s ring of keys in his top right desk drawer and armed with those, plus her own household set of keys, she bounded up the stairs to the second floor. With the master suite on the main floor, she rarely came up here, as she and Seán had a hard enough time finding uses for all the rooms below. This upper area had been mainly used as guest rooms and servants’ quarters, something they had no use for.

It didn’t take her long to ascertain which room Siobhán had referred to, as she had left all the other doors open, and the windows cracked to let in the fresh spring air and dispel the cloying smell of dust and disuse. Several keys on Seán’s ring fitted the lock but wouldn’t turn. She finally found one that turned slightly, but then stopped short of disengaging the lock.

Nuala removed the key and got down on her knees to peer into the lock. She brushed a wayward strand of

A Haunting at Hawthorn

her chestnut pageboy away from her eyes and shown the torch into the opening. There was something white — a piece of paper? — wedged into the hole. Running down to her bedroom, she grabbed her tweezers from the bath and made her way back to the locked room.

It took some time to finesse the paper free, but when it finally came loose, she saw that it had been folded several times into a tiny square. She carefully unfolded it, but the paper was blank.

Hmm. What is that all about?

Nuala tucked the tiny wad into her pocket then tried the key again. The faint click told her it was disengaged. She turned the handle and pushed. The room was sparsely furnished as a bedchamber with a twin-sized iron-frame bedstead, devoid of mattress. Next to the bed was a wooden cradle. As Nuala entered the room, a tingle shot up her spine and her heart began to beat faster. Something about that cradle was drawing her in.

Peering into the small space, she couldn’t explain the dread she felt. What did she expect to find, a tiny skeleton? Her imagination was running away from her. The cradle was empty. She breathed out heavily, but the dread remained. Why had the room been locked? Why was the lock jammed? Who had stayed here?

The euphoria from the successful catering event had dissipated and she suddenly felt drained and exhausted. For some reason unknown to even herself, she locked the door once again behind her. But as she removed the key and dropped it into her pocket, she felt a breeze blow through the hall, and in the breeze, the whispered words find my baby wafted softly into her mind.

Sean wouldn’t be home until late the next evening, but Nuala had to talk to someone. Who else but her sister, Moira, who had been hearing ghostly whispers since she was a wean. It was going on half-eleven — too late to call? Nuala texted first:

—You awake?

A few minutes later, the response:

—What’s up?

—Want to talk?

—Please!

Her mobile buzzed: Moira. With no preamble or greeting, Nuala blurted: “I think I just heard my first

Visitor from Beyond.”

chapter 2

‘Tis baois a bheith críonna san áit a bhfuil an t-aineolas bliss.

‘Tis a folly to be wise where ignorance is bliss.

—Irish Proverb

After recounting the tale to her sister, Nuala asked, “What can it mean?”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Moira replied. “Remember when we searched the whole place last year looking for what turned out to be Patrick Mahoney’s ghost? We went through all the rooms on that upper floor and there was nothing unusual at that time.”

“I know, I know. And before we were married and moved in, Seán had the whole place deep cleaned. I don’t even remember seeing the cradle up there, let alone the stuck door.”

“Someone is messing with you.”

“How can that be? And why?”

“I can’t answer that. Will you be okay there on your own for the night?”

“I’ll be grand. It’s late. Try to get some sleep.”

“Call me in the morning?”

“I will,” Nuala promised. “Oíche mhaith leat.” “Spaṫaí go leor,” Moira replied.

Nuala laughed, “Thanks, I’ll need it — ‘space’ from haunting spirits, that is!”

After tossing and turning for some time, Nuala was finally able to sleep, but dreams continued to disturb her rest. In one dream, she was exploring the house and entered the attic where there remained items from the previous owners — paintings, old furniture, boxes of who-knowswhat. In one box she pulled out a quilt. It was quite old, moth-eaten and fragile, but she could make out the pattern of blocks that made up the quilt. It looked like a hawthorn tree that was embroidered with family names. Branches led off in aberrant directions. Horses lined the perimeter, prancing around the edgework. Along one of the side branches was a hole eaten through by mice (she could see their droppings on the floor around the box). She was

filled with a feeling of anxiety to know whose name had been obliterated by the mice’s handiwork. As she looked around, she saw tufts of cloth, scraps of the fabric from the quilt. She frantically tried to gather up the pieces and fit them together to discover if they were part of the missing section. Then she woke up.

She checked the time: five o’clock. She needed to get up anyway and feed the horses. Connor, their stud manager, didn’t arrive until nine o’clock each morning and the horses couldn’t wait that long for their oats.

As Nuala dished out their breakfast and refilled the water buckets, she talked softly to each one. They each nuzzled her in return. She loved the feel of their velvety soft, warm muzzles on her skin. With only six horses in their stud operations, she still felt like she knew each one individually and loved them all. This was her dream — or a big part of it — to be around these noble, graceful, and majestic beings.

After finishing up in the stables, Nuala returned to the kitchen and prepared her own breakfast. It was close to half-eight when her mobile chirped: Moira.

“Howya?”

“It’s me. What’s the craic? Any more visitors during the night?”

“I had a dream, if that counts,” Nuala reported.

“With you it does,” Moira replied. “Tell me.”

After recounting the attic visit and the quilt, Nuala added, “I felt compelled to check when it was light and there is no quilt in a box, or any other indicators of my dream in the actual attic.”

“Well, sure and I wouldn’t expect there to be. But it seems like a clue that the quilt indicated family history information. Certainly not your own, as you have no ties to the house prior to your marriage to Seán. It’s more likely that it belongs to your mystery visitor.”

“That’s what I was thinking. Not sure how I’d go about learning more concerning the prior inhabitants, though, apart from who’s in the family cemetery and what I already unearthed in the records about the line of inheritance for the estate.”

“That’s your and Ma’s area of expertise; sorry I can’t help you there.”

“But you do know about inviting Others to visit. I’d love to hear more from the Whisperer of last night.”

“Do you want me to come by and check it out?” Moira asked, a hint of hope in her voice.

“Maybe. If you’re free this weekend, you and Deirdre could come by for Sunday brunch. I’m dying to try out a few recipe ideas and you would make perfect guinea pigs. Seán will be home this evening. I want to talk to him about it and see if he is aware of any peculiarities in the McGuire family that he hasn’t told me about yet. Since they have been the sole owners of the property prior to Seán, it’s got to be another one of their doings. As you know, it wouldn’t be the first time they’ve been the catalyst for unsettling spirits.”

“Right. Okay then, I’ll catch you later. Bye-bye!”

“Byebyebye. Bye —, hey, wait! You could do one thing for me.”

“Sure, and I will. What is it?”

“Hawthorn trees. I’d swear the image on the quilt was a hawthorn. Ask Deirdre what the symbolism and mythology of the hawthorn is. I know about it being tied to and protected by the fairies and all, but maybe there’s

more I should know.”

“It came up a bit in Celtic Civ at uni. I’ll pull out my notes as well.”

“Okay, love you, bye-bye; bye-bye!”

“Love you, bye-bye!”

After hanging up, Nuala took a walk through the estate grounds. She loved this time of early morning when the air was crisp and clean, the birdsong loud and boisterous as the feathered community welcomed a new day. She found herself at the family cemetery and wandered among the stones. She and Seán, with the help of family and friends,

had cleaned up the site, weeding and planting perennials among the markers. They had carefully removed the lichen and moss from the engravings so that they were almost all decipherable. She hadn’t scrutinized them before, but now she searched the memorials for clues as to who might have visited her last night.

Patrick Mahoney’s stone stood out, as it was newly installed last year at the conclusion of one of their Gallagher Investigations cases. She could put him in the ‘case closed’ file. The oldest tombstone was that of Philip McGuire, born 1800, died 1868. He was the first owner of the land and the one who had built the house in 1844. Next to him was his wife, Doireann.

Doireann was a potential candidate for a haunting, as Patrick’s spirit had informed Moira that he had personally known of occasions when Philip had locked his own wife and sons at various times in the tower room as punishment. That would certainly warrant being an ‘unsettled spirit,’ Nuala mused. But Doireann’s children were laid to rest right next to her in the cemetery: Marcus, who had inherited the estate from his father in 1868, and his younger brother, Broderick, who had befriended Patrick, or Paddy, as he was referred to.

Marcus, now … Nuala knew, also from Paddy, that Marcus was a bad one. Like his abusive father, he tormented Paddy and was party to his murder. What was his sad domestic tale? ‘Hannah, wife of Marcus’ was buried near her two children who died in infancy: Caroline in 1857 and Liam in 1859. Hannah, it would seem, died in childbirth shortly after her infant son. She had given birth to a son, Hugh, in 1855, and it was Hugh who inherited the estate in 1905. It must have been a lonely childhood for Hugh, growing up as an only surviving child without a mother, and on top of that, to have had Marcus for his father. Did bad blood run in the family?

Nuala continued to inspect each stone, stopping to ponder, hoping for inspiration. It would appear from the stones that Hugh had only one child, William, born in 1900 and died in 1985. That was a long life! But was it a good one? She found markers — no headstones — for one … two … three wives of William McGuire. The first died in 1946. Inscribed on her marker was also the words, ‘and stillborn daughter, 1946.’ Wife number two, also receiving only a marker flush with the earth, died in 1956. Nuala couldn’t see any markers indicating children for her.

Wife number three, Oona Tully, born 1926, died 1977. Hmm. That would put her a full 26 years younger than her husband, William.

From her previous research into the family during the investigation to establish Seán’s claim to his mother’s inheritance, Nuala knew that Oona’s son was John McGuire, the man who had married Seán’s mother. She would have to investigate civil and parish records further to try to unscramble what it all meant. She decided to come back here with Moira and Deirdre on Sunday. Maybe they could add some insights.

Somewhat reluctantly, she left the cemetery and continued her walk. She reached the paddocks just as Connor was releasing the last stallion for grazing. The horses needed no encouragement to enter the enclosure where the new spring growth of ryegrass and clover awaited them.

Nuala whistled and her favourite, a dark bay she named ‘Nutmeg,’ trotted over. Of course, Nutmeg wasn’t his actual name. They were all registered with long, fancy names that to Nuala, were ridiculous. She preferred the pet names she had come up with based on their colouring and her penchant for all things culinary: Nutmeg, Ginger, Cinnamon, Pepper, Coffee, and Cocoa. Nutmeg let her stroke his long, graceful neck, then turned and trotted back to his mates.

Nuala sighed, chatted briefly with Connor, then walked back to the house. She had some things to do before Seán returned that evening, one of which was to bake his favourite dessert, Irish apple cake with custard sauce.

Thanks to Siobhán’s help, there wasn’t much in the way of cleaning she needed to do, but there were some calls to make for her business, From Starters to Afters. She would check in with her partner, Molly Ronan, who was based in Schull at Dymphna Gallagher’s bed and breakfast inn. There were also a couple calls to clients with upcoming events she needed to firm up.

Seán told her she didn’t need to work; the stud farm was building up a nice clientele of its own and his inheritance from his mother more than took care of any extras they may want. She told him that yes, she certainly did need to work. It fed her soul, and her catering business was a passion she intended to follow. Seán understood. He’d had to come to understand a lot of things outside his comfort zone when he entwined his life with hers, not least of which was the partnership she had with her sisters, Moira and Deirdre, to assist departed spirits with the unfinished business that was tying them to this world and keeping them from moving on to the Otherside.

chapter 3

Is milis béal ciúin a chloisteáil.

A silent mouth is sweet to hear.

—Irish Proverb

“Acushla! This was amazing! Being on the road, in hotels for the last two days, I’ve sorely missed your wonderful cooking. And dessert —” Seán groaned as he patted his full stomach. He pulled her to him, and she sat on his knee. “I shouldn’t need to eat for the rest of the evening, but after I digest this, I may have to come back for a second piece of that apple custard cake.”

Nuala gave him a quick peck on his cheek and smiled. Then she stood to clear the table.

“Here, let me help you with that,” Seán said, picking up plates. Working together they got the dishes washed, dried and put in the press.

“Come here to me; I’ve got some things to tell you,” Nuala said, taking his hand and leading him to the front room.

“Uh oh, this sounds serious,” Seán said, sitting next to her on the settee and continuing to hold her hand.

“I wanted to wait until you’d had a chance to eat and unwind after your trip. It’s nothing awful, but something you yourself have hinted at before. I’ve had an encounter with a spirit.”

“Good or bad? Are you okay? Why didn’t you say something right away?” Seán’s agitation was evident in his voice as it rose in volume. He looked around as if to spy out the responsible party. From his own experience, he knew spirits could cause harm.

“I’m grand. Everything’s grand. It was just a whisper — a woman asking for her baby. I was hoping you would know something about the former inhabitants that could explain such an occurrence.”

Seán had jumped up and was pacing in front of her.

“Where did this happen?”

“Upstairs. Shall I show you?”

They walked up the stairs and Nuala pointed out the door, still shut. Standing in front of it, Seán tried the doorknob.

“It’s locked,” he said, stating the obvious.

“I relocked it afterwards. Silly, I know, but …” Nuala took the key from her pocket and handed it to him. He unlocked it and they went inside. The bedstead and cradle were still there as she had left them.

“Do you remember these being here before?” Nuala asked.

“Not really, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t here. Not everything was sold in the estate sale. We hadn’t gotten to all the rooms up here to renovate yet, so it’s possible they’ve been here from before we moved in. If you’ll remember, all these rooms were chock full of junk. The McGuires were the epitome of hoarders.” Seán was always choosing the most plausible explanation.

“Do you hear anything now?” Seán asked expectantly.

“I don’t think it works like that. Not that I’m an expert; that’s why I’ve asked Moira to come here for Sunday brunch. I’m hoping she can make contact with this spirit. It must have just been the timing. I was in the right frame of mind; the house was so quiet … that was the first time I had ever been able to hear someone from the Otherside before.”

“I heard a spirit in this very house, remember? Scared the wits out of me!”

“Right, that was Paddy. He’d been trying for ages to reach someone. You were here alone and were about to sell the place. I imagine Paddy tried his mightiest to reach you as a last-ditch effort.”

“He certainly succeeded! And you’re right. My next move was to contact your sister to intervene.”

“All seems quiet at the moment. Let’s leave it be for now and wait to see what Moira says,” Nuala suggested.

They returned to the front room where Seán started a fire in the massive stone fireplace. “Winter may be over but this house still retains the chill in the evenings,” he said, stoking the flames with kindling. “Now tell me more about what you’ve been doing while I’ve been gone.”

“The farewell party at Rafferty’s went well. Everyone raved over the spread, and I picked up another job from it — a cousin of Sionainn Rafferty is planning a bachelorette party and wants my services.”

“Bang on! I’m so proud of you!”

“Thanks, I really appreciate your support. What about you? Tell me more about the new stallion that will be arriving shortly.”

“He’s a beauty! A thoroughbred named Bonnie Mahogany, King of the Curragh, but I’m sure you’ll soon come up with something more suitable to your tastes,” he teased.

“Hmm … I don’t mind the name ‘Mahogany;’ he must be a dark bay,” Nuala guessed.

“He is. He’s also a bit feisty, but then, he’s not for pleasure riding, so I’m not too worried about that,” Seán said. “He arrives next week, so we have some time to get ready for him. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m about ready for seconds on that dessert!”

Ready for judging
My Submission is ready for judging