The Reqiuem - Chapter 2

James Alderson, 35, was found dead last night in the basin of Tra Na Rossan in County Donegal, close to what many believe to be an old castle, named Brimrose. The body was found lacerated in multiple areas and was bloated. The skin was bruised, and he was unrecognisable, had it not been for a local person, who said they saw Mr James Alderson enter the heathlands, but never saw him leave.

More on this story to follow.

A simple news article, a couple hours old at this point as I returned home, threw on some Pj’s and began reading more into it.
The trouble was, there was not much to go on. No stories about his life, no reason why he was in the region, no real concern among the nearby village. The article itself had zero views, apart from my own, and to what I could see, it was posted almost four hours ago. Strange it only came up recently.
I dug my teeth straight into it, trying to find anything that could help me get a firm basis on this case. Now I’m no magnum P.I nor any Taggart, but I certainly gave myself a pat on the back for what I uncovered, mainly from dodgy or conspiracy sites. The kind of sites that made my built-in virus protection have a fit.
Brimrose Castle, built in 1345 as a foothold into Native Irish lands on then Ui Neill, after the quick decline of Norman force in the country, was a stronghold for soldiers until abandoned at the end of the 16th century. It was then inhabited by Lord Richard Carmichael, a subsidiary to Queen Mary the First of England, to whom later married Lady Jayne Murphy, a lady in waiting to a local English Duchess. They lived in Brimrose for twenty years, until their sudden deaths in 1627.
Since then, it was believed that Brimrose was used as a home for stockpile, a confinement for rats and the lands surrounding had been nothing more but dead flowers and other types of vegetation. Though I found that bizarre, for the photo they used was clearly taken in the Tower of London during the war.
I found a report that suggests the local council affiliated with Carn wanted to tear it down in the late forties, but the residents voted against it, stating its inhabitants would not be pleased.
Since then, no one has occupied the castle, and no tourist are allowed near it, but strangely, James Alderson was not the first death to occur there.
In 1962, a sixteen-year-old boy vanished from the area after visiting with his family from Derry. Three days later, he turned up dead near the Tra Na Rossasan, bloated, beaten and mutilated. The authorities around Carn did nothing to aid the boy’s parents and were quickly removed from the area back to their home. No other sources claim any disturbances with the body.
Another event happened in 1963, when two girls, one eight, the other fourteen, went missing around the region. Nothing was ever seen of them again. A newspaper article explains how their parents sent out search warrants but received nothing in return.
I found no reports on this Oath nor did I find any reports made by the local coast guard on any expeditions to investigate the potential drownings that were occurring. Which I found odd considering the strange way the bodies were found.
One year later, Sergeant William Meath, sent to the northern perimeter of Donegal for inspection, would go missing too, after investigating reports of strange sights in the Castle windows. Sergeant Meath was later found dead in the woodland around the premises, in the same condition as those who went before him.
From then to the present-day James Alderson, a reported total of six other people went missing and died there, their bodies less cared for than a pile of rubbish on the side of the road. The people of Downings and the close settlements have issued warnings against those who would enter the Rosguill region and refuse to let any journalist enter the property. Such warnings were also issued for any tourist.
Well shit, I thought, here I was, thinking this story would be easy as pie.
I know that sound convoluted but most murder stories are often figured out in the first month if the police force have any bother in challenging such matters, but this, this was something else.
There had been no more disturbances around the area since the late sixties. It had been concluded that such names like Brimrose and Carn secured no physical evidence within the region, so people simply refused to believe it even existed. Its acknowledgement is now mere lore, made up by fanatics online. I was starting to believe this wasn’t entirely the truth.
The internet can make up the worst for people, but something about this seems fishy.
What made this even worse, was that there was no exact location for the castle itself. No photographs appeared online in the form of stock usage, and no recordings of the village. The only way to see what this place could have looked like was an artist’s drawing from the early 15th century. Many people online believed it to be demolished sometime at the turn of the millennium, but the article suggested otherwise.
County Donegal was a couple of hours drive from Belfast. A direct bus would secure me there within the day, but, then what. There were no hotels in Carn, plus no way to even gain contact with the village and the nearest one was either a holiday park a couple of minutes away or a town called Downings.
Downings looked well enough. A little seaside village situated just south of the Rosguill. Two hotels that looked very nice, one that piqued my fancy. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to see what this Castle Brimrose had to offer. Maybe, just maybe, the rumours of the belligerent Carn were all just online gossip.
You wanted adventure Amanda. Well, you found it.
There, I booked my stay and requested the following week off, to which Brian sent me a report on why slackers are equal to nazi.
I wasn’t quite sure whether to take the insult to heart or if this was his way of joking with me. He had a queer sense of humour, one that was treading on a fine line between japes and harassment.
Just breath Mandie, you’ll get through this.
I booked my hotel for the Monday, which left me only Saturday and Sunday to get ready, which wasn’t too bad, except I was assaulted by incessant phone calls from Jane, updating me on the weekly gossip.
“And then, Jeremy, you know Jeremy, use to live three doors down from you and four doors up from me. Tall bloke didn’t really speak that much. Well, get this, and you’re not gonna believe this. Oh my god, your just not, I can’t believe he would….” It continued like this until she got to the point.
Five. Minutes. Later.
“….Anyways, he’s dead”.
“Ah, got there in the end. How sad”.
“What?” she asked, and I now realised I said my thought out loud, shit.
“I said he was there in the end, sad really. Death”, I knew I put my foot in it this time.
“Oh I know, it’s just like when Miranda from two streets away took that weird rottweiler for a walk and….”, you get the gist.
Miranda didn’t die or anything, just almost got ran over. Always a bundle of joy is that Jane.
As I was pretending to listen and catch her with random intervals of oh, and oh wow, I had packed two suitcases. Small ones mind you, I needed to pack light given I didn’t really know how long I would be staying in the hotel for.
Carn was supposedly, according to thetruthwillsetyoufree69, a half an hour walk from Downings. You had to trek through a majority of wildlife and some country roads before you came to the first sightings of a village. I did my research. Some said to look out for the rickety signpost that has Carn spelt Caerne, an old Irish way apparently, though I shouldn’t have looked under the post because there were about four misfits screaming bloody murder about abandoning the area should you see this sign.
It certainly was not painting a pretty picture for me, but I got what I asked for, didn’t I?
It’s my job, the aspiration I dreamt of. To see the unseen, to write the unwritten, and Brimrose Castle was the just the start.
The weekend flew by, and my excitement and trepidation built up. I wore a snug little puffer jacket that was a fluorescent pink, and a pair of black leggings with little fur trimmed ankle boots. It was cold around this time of year, especially up north of Ireland, looking out into the Atlantic. My two suitcases at my side like two little red pups, and my heart was now formally in my mouth.
I’m actually doing it. I’m actually going to change my life, my job, hopefully everything that held me back. It was finally time.
The bus was a typical coach that took almost four hours to arrive in the county. I didn’t take the full route, just until Letterkenny, where I would receive another coach which would take me up to Downings.
Half an hour later, I had arrived at the seaside town. It was quaint, winding, with country roads lined with little cottages or caravans, depending on whichever direction you were looking. North to the hills of Rosguill, surrounded by nineteen townlands lay little rows of terrace housing, alongside singular bungalows, raising higher over the sandy bay that Downings was situated upon.
Closer to the shoreline was the caravans. Long rectangular buildings hoisted up by squared cinder blocks or wooden foundations.
The town itself was merely a road, lined with shops and other assortments. Two hotels lay on the same side of the road, along with a club dedicated to Gaelic athletics. I was dropped off just outside it and made my way up the seaside walk, where I passed old gentlemen in tweed hats and ivy parkas. I even noted their welling-boots, and I couldn’t miss the scowls they had on their countenances that was then met by a gratuitous nod of the head.
A majority of the population here spoke native Irish. I was unaccustomed myself but knew the odd phrase or so. Not much to go by for a conversation but enough to say please and thank you.
I have to say, though I have only been here for such a short matter of time, Donegal sure is beautiful. I hadn’t seen so much heathland. Long ranges of fields roaming beyond my vision. Deep moorlands ringed by ruins from antiquity. Being a city girl, I had never the notion to sit back and take in my surroundings. Downings became somewhat of a paradise during my short dander to the Downings Hotel.
Though, in the back of my mind, the words of the foilheads online sprang back into thought.
Run when you see the ruined sign.
I still had to figure out the exact location of Carn. I knew the bearings indicated a lake, and a possible woodland, but judging from my surroundings, I saw no congregation of trees near at hand.
Maybe I could ask someone. Someone must know where it is.
The hotel looked Edwardian, with hints of Grecian architecture thrown in, almost like it was crafted to resemble a manor house, but it had no great gardens or porch as I would normally accustom such an abode to contain. Instead, the front door led straight onto the main road, and it was side addled by a two-story bar. The building was alabaster and stretched six windows abreast, one directly before the main door.
Once inside, I was embraced by lavished marbles and polished oak wood panelling. A diaphanous gleam given by the black chandelier lit my path to reception, where I was greeted by a kind man with a red face.
I mean really red.
He’s Irish, what did I expect. One bit of sun and we burn like bacon.
“Morning Mrs”, he said, “may I have your name?”
“It should be under Monroe. Amanda Monroe”.
A quick type and I was ready for my lodgings, but before I left, a burning question still lingered.
“Hey, I just wanted to know if you know where Carn is?”
He stopped and looked at me like he’d seen a ghost.
“No ma’am, never known such a place”.
I noted his bizarre confusion, “Are you alright?”
“I am fine ma’am, just we’ve had questions like that before. Never knew the root of it. Aisling here will help you to your room”.
A woman appeared out of the blue and escorted me to my room, down carpeted hallways until we halted at a white door, which opened to a beam of beige and white.
It was certainly plentiful, and the bed was delightful, crisp, and poufy, if that makes sense.
I had my own little communal area in front of me, with a tv and sofa, along with a coffee table, where rested was the latest tabloids of Ireland. And there, right before my very bloody eyes, was The Daily Speech, with the front page saying, Octopus, Spiders of the Sea?
I hid it amongst the stack of magazines and set my stuff down. Unpacking was rather therapeutic. It was only a short trip I planned in Downings and with not much sightseeing on the agenda, my time would be spent researching, before I ultimately made the climb to Carn.
That man at reception, he looked a mixture of fed up and confused. I seemed to have rattled him. Is Carn really that bad, is what the rumours say true, or has the folklore bundled the hype up into a tiny ball only to be burnt out by the slightest fan of a flame?
That sounds very poetic, I know, but I still can’t get a grasp on why Carn holds such mystery behind it. Castle Brimrose seemed a death sentence to any who travelled there, so it would be best to not happen upon the boardwalk during a leisurely stroll. Perhaps some people around Downings would know more, or even those from Carn itself. It wasn’t too far from the seaside village, there was bound to be people that came from wherever it was.
There I sat with my laptop on my knee, facing the veins of the Atlantic that made Sheephaven bay, as I began to type.
Carn, Carn, where are you exactly?
Close to Downings, got that checked.
Near the Sea, then it was bound to be in the Rosguill region.
Surrounding woodland.
This part of Donegal was mainly heathland and there were no castles situated around the bays. Melmore was the northern most part of Donegal, but there was no sighting of Carn in the surrounding area.
Woodland, woodland. Come on Amanda think, where are the woodlands?
Google maps was no help. Nothing came up on the overview, it was like Carn was invisible, reticent, submerged in such secrecy that even the world’s biggest conglomerates didn’t even know its precise location.
And besides, there was no woodlands.
William Meath was found in the surrounding woodlands, there must be one here, unless it was cut down. But people don’t go near the village anyway, so how would they know?
None of this was tying up. Nothing was working together. Nothing made sense.
Look for the rickety sign.
A sign, maybe there was a sign pointing to the village on a traveller’s route. The Rosguill had extensive country paths that led to little homesteads, but as I looked, I noted something odd.
The perimeter of the Rosguill had homes and visible lands, churches and bars, B&B’s and hotels, yet the centre lay completely blank. Like no one had occupied it, like nothing could get close to it.
That was blatantly obvious Amanda. Stash the village in the centre so no one goes near it.
But again, nothing added up. There was no woodland, no lanes where a rickety old sign could hang from and certainly no gap of the Atlantic that suddenly swooped into form the basis of Castle Brimrose’s protection.
It doesn’t make sense.
But I had somewhat of a bearing, and something of motivation to traverse the moorlands, even though God knows where it would take me. I had to at least try, I couldn’t give up this journey, and Mr Alderson’s deserved retribution.
I had to get his story told, and with luck, find out what made Carn so immortalised.