The Rising Son (And Father)
An unnerving Irish tale
I painted something many years ago for my sister, and looking back at it one day, the image suddenly reminded me of this Irish tale from childhood. I’ve rewritten it from memory as best I could, with some additions of my own.
One day, a young priest, Fr. Brennan, returned to his birthplace and stayed with his mother in a small cottage at the village edge. A pathway beyond snaked up through the local mountains.
No one knew why Brennan had returned home, and he did little to socialize with the other villagers; some whispering that they had seen him walking around after dark, his gaze fixed solely on whatever path he took.
One day, it was announced that the young priest had suddenly died. His mother was helped to her son’s funeral in a lonely mountain churchyard, not far beyond the cottage. The old lady collapsed from grief at one point, and was escorted back home — to be left alone while the funeral continued.
When the service finally ended, the villagers all made their way back down the mountain path as the sun slipped from sight. Looks of puzzlement crossed everyone’s face as a lone, yet strangely familiar figure made its way up towards them. The villagers’ puzzlement soon turned to terror as they recognized the man they had just buried; Brennan’s face, now dead white, with a faint glow in his unblinking eyes as he passed them without a word.
A few villagers broke away and rushed down towards the cottage, where after repeated knocking had failed, one man peered through a window and gasped. The front door was quickly forced in, and everyone found Brennan’s mother unconscious on the floor. A sip of brandy quickly brought back her to life, and the old lady was lifted into a chair — where she then slowly told everyone what had happened.
Having been left alone in the cottage, she had made tea, and then heard a knock at the door. Being alone, and knowing most of the village was up at the churchyard, the old lady hesitated at first, but then peered out a window. A brief moment of joy was quickly replaced by horror as she recognized a figure crouched on all fours outside the door — as if preparing to spring forward. Her dead son’s teeth were sharp and bared like those of an angry wolf, while his eyes burned with an unholy, inner light. The old lady had then fainted before her rescuers arrived.
And although the undead priest was never seen again, everyone avoided the lonely churchyard after that, unless it was for a very hurried funeral, and only ever before sunset.
Above is the original painting, by me and for my sister, that made me recall this unnerving story. There is a vampire tradition in Irish folklore, though it’s usually overshadowed by leprechauns, banshees, etc. Thanks for reading.
