This is it. The secret of Kilphaun has been revealed. Did Elizabeth's letter get there in time? Who will get out alive? Season finale!
If you like THWDY, tell people about us! It will help us grow!
This is it. The secret of Kilphaun has been revealed. Did Elizabeth's letter get there in time? Who will get out alive? Season finale!
If you like THWDY, tell people about us! It will help us grow!
THIS HOUSE WILL DEVOUR YOU Season One
A Podcast concerning love, madness, mystery, murder and dead gods in 1920's Ireland and England
THWDY Episode 1.12
'This House Will Devour You'
The Wrenville Hotel
Waterford
21st December 1925
Dear Elizabeth,
Your poor Mother has been in touch with me beseeching me that I put pen to paper and give you a description of that most dreadful night at Kilphaun Hall. She hopes that a detailed accounting of those tragic events, which have left the house in ruins, will get you to settle down and focus on your own recovery. This place and its supposed secrets will wait. I know you would have come here yourself, had you not taken cold so terribly after being out on the hills and been confined once again to the sickroom. What on earth were you hoping to do, you silly girl? It has been such a fraught time for your Mother and I hope I may satisfy some of your more persistent queries by writing this letter.
You are probably wondering what your old aunt Edith has made of it all in what I suspect will be a rather long missive. I will admit to having a tumbler of something strong beside me on my writing desk, to give me the strength for this endeavour. There is much misinformed and sensational speculation about what happened the night of the 10th of December at Kilphaun Hall and I have taken it upon myself to gather together what threads I could while they are still fresh, to weave a better picture for you.
I had hoped, in gently interviewing the survivors, to cut through the lurid fantastical elements and arrive at a more mundane truth, but I find I have two narratives: what I believe happened and what others insist really happened, no matter how far fetched.
From what your mother tells me, but also from those conversations overheard here in the last month (I being quite able to sit silently and invisibly, and just listen), I fear you are in thrall to the version that involves dead gods, human sacrifice and murder. In that sense you are your father’s daughter. He always preferred the idea of a hidden older world to the modern steel and concrete one he found himself in. I have tried to keep an open mind: the young have the firmness and conviction of inexperience while the old have too much experience, from which only uncertainty comes.
Prior to the evening party at Clonlaw House there had been some semblance of normality, but in the days that followed, I witnessed increasingly erratic behaviour especially by poor George and Mr Harrison but also your Jon. Some sort of delusion seems to have infected them all and I would come across George or Mr Harrison at odd moments, just staring wildly as if listening for something. Jon meanwhile became increasingly haggard looking and complained of not sleeping. Although her uncle Charles kept her away from the place much of the time, I do believe Miss King, Lily, was also suffering from this mad foreboding that something terrible was coming. George thankfully snapped out of it just before those awful goings-on up at that wretched dig. He and Jon had then driven off to Clonlaw House in the middle of the night, to have some sort of reckoning with Charles.
Men! The world would be a quieter place without their dramatics.
Well you know what happened then. Charles and his driver, a young local man, were killed when the excavations of that mound collapsed during the great storm. What on earth they were doing up there in the middle of the night and in such weather I do not know. I first became aware of something being wrong when I was awoken in the middle of the night by shouting and the insistent ringing of the servants’ bell. Not wanting to miss any excitement, I put my dressing gown on and hurried out to the first floor landing to see what the fuss was.
What a scene I looked down on! George and Jon were in the hall, covered head to toe in mud and reeling as if drunk or exhausted. There were a bunch of other men, not quite so muddy but dripping water everywhere from their oilskins. I realised then that Lily was there too, but out of sight in the lounge. Then Mr Murphy came out with her in his arms, trailed by Mrs Moore and they took the poor thing up to one of the guest rooms.
It was Mr Murphy that later got me safely out of the house when it was ablaze and I was choking on the foul smoke. He is a lovely man, though very serious and with the saddest eyes. Mrs Moore tells me that his wife died of the influenza and he has not been the same since.
Well of course I wanted to know what had happened and got a lunatic story of how they had rescued Lily from the clutches of her uncle who was going to sacrifice her to an old god. Really! If I wanted such diversions, I would read penny dreadfuls. Everyone stuck to the story until the police arrived and then it seemed that George and Jon had cooked up a more plausible story of late night excavations gone wrong. The truth is, it would not surprise me that Charles was up there at midnight doing some silly old ritual and I know him to be ruthless, but murder his own niece? I mean, honestly!
The rest of the day was a funny old Thursday. Lily was confined to bed with a fever and the doctor came and went, pronouncing rest as a cure for nervous exhaustion. The men after cleaning themselves up were rather listless and lounged around the house with no purpose once it was clear the authorities were gone for the day. Mrs Moore had to bully them into eating and a miserable set of dining companions they made. I thoroughly regretted sitting down at the table with them except that it allowed me to glean what they thought had happened up at the excavations, unbelievable as it was.
Later in the evening I was sat catching up with my correspondence and wishing that Jon would leave the fire alone, rather than incessantly attacking it with a poker and sending great drifts of sparks up the chimney. I was normally in bed by then but my mind was racing with the sudden and strange death of Charles. George had been snoring gently opposite Jon, oblivious to the racket the man was making, when he suddenly woke up with a snort and declared he would go check in on Lily. I thought no more on it until he came back in a state and said the girl was missing from her room.
Such an instantaneous transformation from sleepy evening to frantic shouting! The servants were roused and a search made of the house. I don’t think anyone searched the north wing, as I saw Mr Murphy check that the door into it was still locked and be satisfied with that. George and Jon decided that she may have made her way back up to the excavations, for reasons I did not follow. They quickly saddled horses and galloped off into the dark night. Thankfully it was for once not raining and the sky was clear. The new moon had set but the stars shone brightly.
Mrs Moore told everyone else to go back to bed. She and Mr Murphy retreated to the kitchen after bringing me tea and biscuits in the lounge. I probably was not good company as I get grumpy when I am up late, but there was no chance of me sleeping while this carry-on was happening. I had just got comfortable and had lit a cigarette, when over the crackling of the fire I heard a clinking sound, like someone hitting stone. It seemed to be coming from outside. I was not going to put up with whatever new nonsense this was and I put aside my cup and took a poker from by the fire. The clinking or hammering would sound a few times and then pause before starting up closer again.
I was just getting settled back down when a pale face appeared at the window staring in. Well I let rip such language as I am not supposed to know and advanced to the window. The face was still there, distorted by the old glass. I could see my face reflected in it also, the cigarette dangling from my mouth most unbecomingly. I think I looked very determined if I may say so. It was only when I was inches from the window pane that I realised it was Mr Harrison. We stared at each other. He looked dishevelled and his hair was wild.
“Get in here you silly man, before you catch your death of cold,” I snapped, the last words I would ever speak to that doomed young man. He seemed to finally see me and then turned and disappeared into the darkness. I had sighed, thinking that when the boys got back with Lily they would have another patient in this asylum to run down.
A short while later, they did return but without the girl. They had seen no sign of her on the way up or back. Mr Murphy took the steaming horses away while the men came in by the fire. George poured them both a shot of whiskey which they knocked back and then poured them a second slower one. When he offered me a glass I did not refuse. I felt chilled despite the warmth of the room.
The two men went on and on about how they’d thought the crazy situation had been over and done with last night, but now this Crom chap was back with a vengeance. I paid scant heed, but let them know about Mr Harrison and George went out to check. He came back a few minutes later to report no sign of him but that someone had been busy defacing the triskelions on the window sills with a chisel. He handed Jon a letter saying it was by the front door and must have arrived today and been forgotten in the chaos of the day that was.
Jon had ripped the letter open and read it very fast, then returned to the start again and read more carefully.
“It’s from Elizabeth,” he said, looking suddenly older and more exhausted, “She says we have had it backwards all this time. The markings on Kilphaun Hall are not to keep something out. They are to keep Crom in. This house is a prison.”
George said, “And are we trapped in here with him? With Lily?”
Jon said, “While Alex is busy destroying those very markings.”
Both men had looked around, as if expecting this Crom fellow to appear from behind the furniture. I must admit I was getting worried for their mental state and concerned also that you, Elizabeth, clearly also bought into this madness. I had thought Jon a much more sensible fellow than this.
George then said, “If Lily and Alex are under Crom’s thrall again, then there’s a way to find her quickly.”
He reached in under his shirt and fished out a medallion and with a jerk broke the leather thong holding it around his neck. He threw the medallion to Jon and said, “Let the madness guide me to her, then save us both.”
I was unsure what was taking place but my alarm increased no end when George’s face went slack and he left the room without another word. Jon uttered an expletive, remembered I was there and apologised, and then after entreating me to remain where I was, followed after your brother. I had no intention of wandering after those two and whatever mischief this now was. Mindful of the crazed Mr Harrison, I settled in by the fire with a whiskey beside me, a cigarette in one hand and the poker in the other.
So now we come to the crux of it where two versions of this night can be recorded. Let me tell you first what I was told and how I imagine it all might have happened, being mindful that I don’t believe a word of it but am aware that you will, poor Elizabeth.
Jon had followed George into the great hall, the latter oblivious to his presence. George had fished out of his jacket a bunch of keys and opened the door to the north wing. From the blackness beyond came the faint snickering of blades. George stepped into it. After a moment’s hesitation, Jon had followed.
George moved through the darkness and building hazards like a blind man following a memorised route. Jon had picked his way more carefully, negotiating by the feel of his toe and the feeble light creeping in the windows. They went past the open veranda doors, cold air sliding in. But then there were more rooms than was possible, an endless procession, and the sliding of blades across each other got slowly louder and louder. George moved further and further ahead and Jon felt a terrible dread rising inside. Then Jon found himself at a door he recognised, the one to the great reception room. His hand once again ached, throbbing in time to the house’s heartbeat. He entered.
The room seemed to occupy two times, rippling lazily between a dark half refurbished room scattered with workmen’s tools and a finished room where a blazing fire and a candle chandelier overhead all lit the heavy old fashioned furnishings in a flickering light. A painting of a family, the clothes of a style two hundred years ago, hung over the fireplace.
But what stopped Jon in his tracks was the crooked old man, tall despite the hunch, who stood on the hearthstone in front of the fire and over George and Lily. These two were in a trance, a knife to each of their throats and offering no resistance. Jon finally at that moment despaired, knowing what was coming and unable to do anything to stop it.
An arm snaked then round his neck and he felt the prick of a sharp blade against his belly. He made to break the hold but the arm twisted tighter and the knife bit deeper. In his ear, Mr Harrison whispered in a hoarse voice, “Too late, too late, except to be cattle on the altar.”
He pushed Jon forward towards Crom. The stench of death in other circumstances would have made him gag but he locked eyes with this devil god, intending to do right by himself, right up to the bitter end. What would happen next he wondered, once they were dead. Had Mr Harrison loosed the chains on Crom’s prison and their sacrifice would break them entirely, setting this dead god free to wreak widespread havoc again?
Mr Harrison shoved Jon to his knees beside Lily and withdrew to the side. Jon still clutched the medallion in his hand but was otherwise unarmed. Crom was muttering a rhythmic chant to himself in what Jon assumed was old Gaelic. The dead god leaned in over George looking him in the face - one round and chubby, the other skeletal and cadaverous. Crom smiled and caressed George’s neck with his rusty blade drawing a thin line of blood. Mr Harrison danced in glee. Crom raised his knife for the killing blow. Desperately, Jon reached for Lily’s hand and closed it around the medallion. Crom immediately switched his attention to her, raising his blade for a vicious slash. Jon had leapt to his feet even as Lily scuttled backwards screaming at the horror she had woken up to. Mr Harrison had lunged at him and the two struggled before Jon threw him off – and straight into the fire.
The room was still undulating between past and present. Jon seized a heavy hammer and dodging the god’s swinging blade, brought it smashing down on the hearthstone. He had finally understood what it was and what was sustaining Crom here. In the mound, the chamber had had a broken altar but no altar stone. This was it, here in front of the fire. Had the original builder intended not merely to imprison Crom but contain and control him, because why otherwise preserve this stone?
Jon smashed and smashed in a frenzy now, only stopping when Lily put a hand on his shoulder. Crom was gone at last. The room was once more the present only. Mr Harrison though was on fire and screeching horribly. The flames had already taken hold in the room. Burning like a torch, the historian had run from the room trailing fire as he went. Jon had wrapped an old blue scarf from his pocket around a stab wound through the palm of his hand and then had gone to help George.
I rather think I have let my imagination get the better of me, my dear. I apologise but I do not intend rewriting this again. Mr Harrison did a very good job of spreading the flames everywhere before he finally succumbed. I must have dozed off because I woke to choking black fumes and a terrible heat. Then Mr Murphy was there to bundle me out through a side door. We gathered on the lawn and watched as the house was devoured by the fire. That strange skylight shone with light as the hall below it burned. The flames reached extraordinarily high into the heavens and then with a great crash the whole building collapsed in on itself.
We got the ambulance to George, Jon and Lily. The cut to George’s throat was not serious but nevertheless he was unconscious as he still remains to this day. The doctors do not know why. The staff all escaped but we think Mr. Simmons died in his room. A terrible thing, the man had a young wife and two children.
Now, I think a better version of the tale is that your poor brother invited a man he did not know into his house, the historian Mr Harrison, and this man was not a so und man. At first he caused mischief that fooled the credulous people in the house and in the end he burned it all down, himself included.
Jon is recovering well but still had a bad fever, a cough and some minor burns. He is made of strong stuff and has been forged once before in the Great War. I picked up much of the last part of my tale from his bedside ramblings. I do hope he will put all this nonsense behind him. Lily is traumatised and withdrawn and I do not know if we will ever see again the carefree girl who first rode up to Kilphaun Hall.
Elizabeth, let this terrible story be a cautionary tale. Indulging fantasies of the occult did your father no good and now has only brought more harm to the family. I hope you will walk away from all this esoteric rubbish and focus instead on a happy normal life with Jon, who is a good man.
I would end on a happier note if I could, but what is there that can be said?
Happy Christmas to you and your Mother.
All my love,
Edith.
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'Postcard'
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PostCard
Southampton Docks. 26 December 1925
Dear Jon,
Cautionary tales be damned! We must save George. I have got out of that wretched sanatorium at last. Sailing Egypt for talisman that Rookfield says will cure George of evil animus. RMS Nereid sails on tomorrow’s high tide and will call at Cork. Can you escape your sick bed and Aunt Edith and embark from there?
Happy St Stephens Day.
Love Elizabeth