The Haunting of Brigid McGhee: A Ghostly Irish Legend

In the mid-1800s, Brigid McGhee’s Pub and Inn stood as the vibrant heart of Clonglash, a quaint town nestled on the edge of Ireland’s Brehon Forest in County Donegal. Farmers, merchants, sailors, and wanderers from across the region would gather around its smoky hearth, seeking solace and camaraderie over a frothy pint. However, its allure extended beyond mere indulgence; it served as a refuge, a bustling crossroads, and, as some whispered, a sanctuary of dark magic.

The townsfolk often whispered rumors about Brigid herself. Some claimed she practiced witchcraft, weaving spells into her daily routines. These whispers lingered in her family history, as her great-grandmother had been executed for sorcery decades earlier. Brigid never directly addressed the accusations, but she didn’t entirely discourage them either. Locals seeking remedies for ailments, amulets for good fortune, or incantations for revenge would often slip her secret requests over the bar.

In 1862, Melvyn Frazier, a dashing Scottish whisky merchant, became a frequent visitor to the inn while traveling between Letterkenny and beyond. With his captivating crystal-blue eyes, wavy gray hair, and vibrant tartan kilt, Melvyn charmed almost everyone, including Brigid. Despite her usual aloofness towards men’s advances, she found herself irresistibly drawn to him. Their undeniable chemistry was evident, but their intimate encounters remained discreetly hidden from prying eyes and gossiping tongues.

Love turned sour. By late September, Brigid confided in her closest friend, Ann Donnelly, that Melvyn’s affection felt like a ruse. He had been pressuring her to stock his Frazier Scotch whisky at the pub. When she hesitated, he became increasingly irritable and demanding. Their final argument erupted in the early hours of a foggy morning. In a fit of rage, Melvyn slapped Brigid, threatening to burn her inn to the ground if she didn’t comply. Clutching a dagger, Brigid drove him away.

On a particularly blustery October night, the pub was filled with locals when Melvyn made a dramatic return, arm-in-arm with a woman adorned in gaudy finery and perfumed. As he approached a table, he made a loud announcement, ordering, “Two Frazier Scotch whiskies! One for me and one for the lady!”

Brigid scowled. “We don’t stock Frazier Scotch whisky,” she snapped, “and judging by the looks of it, there’s no lady here either.”

The room erupted in laughter, but Melvyn remained unfazed. “I hope you’ve freshened the sheets,” he said smugly. “We’ll be staying at the inn tonight.”

“Like hell you will!” Brigid spat. “There are plenty of barns for the likes of you.”

Melvyn smirked, tipped his hat, and sauntered out with his companion. At the door, he turned back. “Happy Samhain to you, Miss McGhee. Enjoy the Scotch whisky.”

Hours later, long after the last patron had departed, Brigid awoke to frantic cries of alarm: “Fire! Fire at the inn!”

Rushing outside, she witnessed her cherished inn engulfed in flames. The roaring inferno illuminated the night sky, consuming the timber walls. Tragically, the guests inside were trapped, their screams soon silenced. As Brigid gaped in horror, someone shouted, “The pub!” Flames danced around its edges, spreading rapidly. By dawn, both buildings lay reduced to smoldering ashes. Seven souls had perished in the inn.

The following day, near the forest’s edge, Brigid stumbled upon a whisky cask bearing the unmistakable Frazier name. The parting words of Melvyn echoed in her mind: “Enjoy the Scotch whisky.”

For weeks, the villagers buzzed with tales of Brigid’s wrath. Some swore they witnessed her soaring across the night sky on a broomstick, vowing vengeance. Others claimed she transformed into a bat, darting between the ruins. Regardless of the accounts, one thing was certain: Brigid McGhee herself had vanished from Clonglash.

Melvyn Frazier returned to the village only once more. On Halloween night, Ann Donnelly stumbled upon his mutilated body in a forest glen near the ruins. His limbs were neatly stacked and wrapped in his tartan kilt, while his torso dangled from a tree by a crude noose tied to his manhood.

Life continued in Clonglash. A year after the devastating fire, Ann and her husband, Mac, embarked on the arduous task of rebuilding the pub. Despite its revival, Ann remained resolute in her decision to refuse serving Scotch whisky, driven by the lingering presence of Brigid. Mac, tempted by the potential financial gain, attempted to persuade her, but Ann stood firm in her conviction.

Five years later, a bartender named Connor Quinn defied the ban and secretly sold Scotch whisky to patrons. One night, as revelers raised their glasses, an unusual fog seeped into the pub. It swirled around Connor’s head, choking him until he collapsed. The whisky barrel beneath the bar burst open, its contents igniting in an unexpected blaze. The fire consumed Connor and every patron holding a Scotch whisky.

As the flames crackled, Brigid’s voice rang out, “I warned ye! Scotch whisky has no place in Clonglash!”

From that fateful day onward, no one in Clonglash dared touch Scotch whisky. Brigid’s curse became legendary, told in pubs and by firesides far beyond Donegal. However, across the globe, there are always the audacious, the skeptical, and the reckless who raise their glasses of Scotch in defiance of her warning.

A century later, on a stormy Halloween night, a pub in Belfast hosted a boisterous celebration. The air was filled with laughter, and glasses of Scotch whisky clinked as revelers toasted their good fortune. Among them was a young man, bold and brash, who heard the tale of Brigid McGhee and scoffed at it.

“Ghosts and curses! What a load of rubbish!” he declared, raising his glass. “To Brigid McGhee! May she haunt someone else tonight!”

The pub patrons erupted in laughter, but as the whisky touched his lips, the lights flickered ominously. The laughter abruptly ceased, replaced by a sudden chill that swept through the room. The fire in the hearth extinguished itself, plunging the pub into an unsettling darkness and silence.

From the darkness emerged a voice, low and venomous: “You dared to toast me with that poison?”

The young man’s glass shattered in his hand, the shards drawing blood. He gasped, clutching his throat, as if unseen fingers were squeezing the life from him. Around the room, glasses of Scotch whisky shattered, their contents spilling onto the floor. The air was filled with the acrid smell of brimstone and smoke.

“Get out!” someone screamed, and the patrons fled into the blustery night. Behind them, the pub erupted in flames, the fire dancing unnaturally, taking the shape of a woman’s face—Brigid McGhee’s face. The young man was never found, and the pub was reduced to ashy ruins.

Legend has it that Brigid McGhee’s wrath intensifies with each defiance. Those who drink Scotch whisky on Halloween are said to hear her voice, feel her icy breath, or glimpse her shadow amidst the flames. Some claim she appears in the mirror behind the bar, her eyes watching, waiting.

So, the next time you raise a glass of Scotch whisky in defiance, think twice. For Brigid McGhee’s curse transcends borders, time, and mercy. And if you hear a faint whisper in the wind or feel the glass grow icy in your hand, know it’s already too late.

(COPYRIGHT NOTICE – This story is under the full copyright of the author who gives permission for royalty-free performance/readings of the story for non commercial purposes. This story must not be changed or altered in any way without permission of the author. Any performance of this story must credit the author, Rick Baldwin. This story may not be reprinted without permission of the author.)