The Dark Somnium - I was a British intelligence officer in Ireland during the 1970s. We unleashed something terrible.

Episode Date: December 27, 2020

An officer in the British army encounters something otherworldly during the early 70's in Ireland.--- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/darksomnium/message Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

From a young age, I always knew I would become a soldier. I was born into an upper-class family with a proud military tradition. My grandfather was wounded at the Somme, and my father served under Montgomery in North Africa. It was always expected that I would follow in their footsteps, becoming an officer and a gentleman, and so it came to pass. As a young lad, I read military-themed comics such as Victor and Boys' Own. The story's glorified war, portraying heroic soldiers executing daring raids behind enemy lines. By the time I eventually graduated from Sandhurst and received my first commission, I realized

my military career would be nothing like these boyish adventures. The nature of warfare had changed significantly since my father's and grandfather's days. The British Empire was in steep decline, and the armed forces found themselves bogged down in numerous low-intensity conflicts across the globe, Malaya, Kenya, Cyprus, and Aden, to name a few. The military were no longer fighting national armies, and there was no clear front line. Our tactics had to adapt to this new environment. Psychological operations became a significant part of our counter-insurgency strategy.

Most people will have heard of hearts and minds, which is the goal of winning over the local population and denying support to the insurgents. This was partly achieved through acts of kindness, providing better housing and medical care, etc. But there was also a darker side. Fear is a great motivator. And so we used black propaganda, mass coercion, and other subtler tactics which played on the human psyche, exploiting the population's primal fears, inspiring terror to break the enemy's morale and their will to resist. You won't read about this sort of thing in the history books, but it did happen, and I was a part of it.

We were so committed to defeating our enemies that we sometimes went too far. We opened doors to dark, hidden places, doors which should have stayed closed, and what we unleashed into our world was far more dangerous than any terrorist gunman or bomber. Northern Ireland was my first deployment after Sandhurst. I got posted there during the summer of 1969, taking command of an infantry platoon on the streets of Belfast. I knew very little about the place back then, shameful, really, as the province was located only a few miles across the Irish Sea.

There were serious riots during the summer, with hundreds driven from their homes and entire streets burned to the ground. The Catholics had gotten the worst of it during the violence. Back then, the Protestants controlled the government and police and held most of the decent jobs. We had some sympathy for the Catholic minority at first, and they saw us as their protectors. Girls went out with the soldiers, and housewives made us cups of tea and sandwiches. This was the honeymoon period. But it didn't last.

My next tour in Ulster was during 1971. I'd been promoted to captain by then, taking a post with the Intelligence Corp. My second tour was divided between Belfast, Derry, and the new prison camp established at Longcash. The environment had changed dramatically in the two years since my last visit. The Catholic population had grown to hate the army, and patrols were attacked with rocks, bottles, and petrol bombs every time they left the barracks. We also faced a dangerous new enemy, the Provisional Irish Republican Army, or IRA.

The provos, as they became known, were a well-armed, highly motivated, and utterly ruthless terrorist group, committed to violently ending British rule in Northern Ireland. Our soldiers were subjected to sniper attacks, and the town centers were blitzed by terrorist bombs. Meanwhile, Protestant paramilitaries retaliated by killing Catholic civilians. Inevitably, the casualties quickly mounted. The government brought in internment without trial that August, arresting hundreds of suspects in mass military operations.

It wasn't a success. Our intelligence was poor, so we picked up a lot of the wrong people and let the main players slip through our fingers. Internment greatly angered the Catholic community, as did Bloody Sunday. The IRA had no shortage of new recruits, and the violence escalated. It was around this time when I first met Stanley Black. Stanley was an enigmatic, larger-than-life character. He didn't wear a uniform and apparently wasn't a soldier.

I never found out exactly who he worked for. I assumed MI5 or MI6, one of the intelligence agencies, but was never certain. In fact, no one seemed to know which organization employed him, but he enjoyed free reign and access to all the barracks and police stations across Ulster, and the senior officers all listened to him. Stanley was in his late 30s or early 40s at the time, well-groomed with dark hair and expressive, piercing eyes. He was fiercely intelligent, an expert in counterinsurgency tactics, and a master of just

about any task he set his mind to. I respected the man, but also feared him. I saw a darkness in Stanley, a fanatism. and total single-mindedness. There was nothing he wouldn't do, and few lines he would not cross to achieve his goals. I regularly met with Stanley back in 1972, drinking with him into the early hours at the barracks. These were the worst times for the army in Ulster, with 100 soldiers killed that year alone. We were making some inroads against the IRA, but not quickly enough.

I felt angry and frustrated and was prepared to listen to the war. whatever Stanley had to say. He spoke of bringing the war to the enemy, of terrorizing the terrorists. I knew he ran a number of operations at that time, surveillance, informers, undercover units, and pseudo-gangs. There were also rumors of more unorthodox and bizarre tactics. The intelligence services had long held a fascination with the occult, with primal fears and the power of mythology. Stanley had been in Kenya and used the Mao Mao's tribal superstitions against them. He wanted to do the same in Ireland, explaining the rationale to me one night after a heavy drinking

session in the officer's mess. You're dealing with a Roman Catholic mentality, one of virgin births, miracles, etc., but also evil, of demons that walk the earth. He wanted the population to fear the unknown, to believe that the political violence on the streets and the back fields would unleash something truly evil and beyond human understanding. The operation started out small, with pentagrams scrawled on bus shelters and rumors of satanic rituals dropped to the local press. After a while, the actions took on a more sinister tone, with skin cats dumped outside churches and graveyards desecrated with goat's blood. But, according to Stanley, this was only the beginning.

Back then, I had no idea what he had planned, and frankly, I did not want to know. In any event, my second tour ended in late 72. I returned to England and tried to forget about Ulster and its troubles. But the violence didn't end, and I got sent back in 1974. On my third tour, I operated along the border, South Armour, otherwise known as Bandit Country. This was a PIRA stronghold, and, at the time, the most dangerous posting in the world for a British soldier. The IRA declared a short-lived ceasefire as they negotiated with the government, but the bloodshed continued, as did sectarian tit for tat killings. I worked with the infamous Captain Robert Nerick around this time.

This was a couple years before Narik got kidnapped and tortured and murdered along the border. His body fed into a meat grinder. The violence was relentless, and I became disillusioned and despondent. There seemed to be no way out, no path to victory or peace. I drank heavily and became relentless about my personal security. The way I was going, it would only be a matter of time before I ended up dead. But when I was at my lowest ebb, with almost my last shred of hope gone, Stanley Black came back into my life.

I hadn't seen Stanley for over two years at this point and didn't know what he'd been doing all that time. I'd asked around, of course, making discreet inquiries amongst my colleagues in the intelligence community. Almost everyone had heard of the infamous Stanley Black, and most had met him on at least one occasion. However, few would admit to having worked with him, and no one seemed to know what Stanley was up to now.

There were rumors, of course, those whispered in the mess halls and barracks. Stanley had achieved a near-legendary status among the security forces, with strong. stories of pseudo-gangs, extrajudicial executions, and illegal cross-border raids. And then there were other stories, darker ones, the occult, black magic, and the paranormal. I didn't really believe it. I suspected Stanley had created these myths himself, probably as part of a bigger plan. His call came entirely out of the blue. I'd just finished a long shift out in the field and had returned to the heavily fortified barracks

at Bestbrook Mill, preparing to drink myself into a stupor and to forget. I was surprised to hear his voice over the telephone. Stanley sounded different somehow, his voice deeper and raspy. A conversation was brief, but nevertheless unsettling. Stanley seemed disconnected from the words he spoke, as if he were reading out instructions from a manual. Stanley said he was now based in Derry City, operating out of Eberington Barrack. He claimed to be working on something big, an operation with the potential to transform the

entire conflict. I can't go into the details over the phone. He explained. But I need you up here. I need people I can trust, men like you, with an open mind and prepared to do whatever it takes to achieve victory. Stanley wanted to recruit me for his classified operation and promised he would take care of all the red tape with my commanding officer.

It wasn't an order, and so I had the right. right to refuse, but I accepted his offer with gratitude. It probably sounds crazy. After all, who would sign up for a mystery operation run by a man with few, if any, moral scruples and a very flexible view of the law? But at the time, I was on a downward spiral with few prospects. I imagined I would either drink myself into an early grave or be killed by a terrorist bomb or bullet along the border.

I had no idea what Stanley had planned and doubted his operation would hasten the end of the conflict. Nevertheless, I felt it could restore some purpose to my otherwise pointless existence, and so I accepted Stanley Black's offer. It turned out to be the worst decision of my life. The transfer was quickly arranged, and five days later I drove up to Derry in an unmarked civilian car. I didn't wear a uniform, but did carry my military ID, which allowed me quick access through the Security Force roadblocks.

Derry, or London Derry, as it is still known to its Protestant inhabitants, was a bleak and dangerous place back then, a small, mainly Catholic city with high unemployment and disputed history. The town center had been blitzed by IRA bombs, and the housing estates were daily battlegrounds between the army and young Catholic rioters. My instructions were to report to Ebrington Barracks, the main British military base in the city, located on the east bank of the river Foyle. I'd spent some time in Eberington during my previous tour, and the base hadn't changed much in the two years since.

Originally a Victorian era barracks, Ebrington had been reactivated in 1969, and subsequently expanded, with tall and strong perimeter walls constructed. designed to withstand everything from high-velocity bullets, blast bombs, and mortars. I gained access through the security gate and reported to the duty officer. To my surprise, the officer informed me that Mr. Black was not present in the barracks, and his base of operations was actually located five miles further north along the shoreline. Stanley had, however, organized a motorboat to transport me to his location. I was rather perplexed and irritated to hear this news, as Stanley hadn't mentioned anything

about his secondary location during our admittedly brief telephone conversation. Nevertheless, I'd come this far and had little choice but to follow instructions. We set off shortly after dusk in a small dinghy. The boat's pilot was a young corporal from Birmingham. He explained how it was safer to travel on the water at night, as there was less risk of a sniper attack from the shore. It was a cold and crisp autumn night, with a new moon clearly visible in the otherwise dark sky above. There was virtually no wind, however, and the lock looked as still as a duck pond. The corporal assured me that the forecast was good, and so there would be no weather

troubles on the lock that night. As it turned out, he was dead wrong. I glanced across at the west bank as we went, noting the darkened silhouette of the cathedral's spire and the old city walls. Beyond the walls and out of sight lay the sprawling and impoverished bogside area, seen of the bloody Sunday massacre in early 72, and now an IRA stronghold. I could hear the all too familiar sounds of conflict carried in the still night's air, youth shouting angrily, the heavy clump of soldiers' boots, and the harsh crack of rifle fire. The nightly ritual of violence had begun once again. But nevertheless, our small boat sped onward, down the river's mouth and out into the

lock, which was actually an inlet opening out into the cold waters of the North Atlantic. As it transpired, I was misinformed about the location. Stanley's base of operation wasn't next to the lock, it was on it. Somehow Mr. Black had commandeered a boat. HMS Ramsgate, a former Royal Navy Depot ship, which had most recently been used to transport troops into the province. Ramsgate had been earmarked for use as a prison ship, but the inmates were since moved down to Longcash. The boat was due to be decommissioned until it was acquired by Stanley for one final and

very unorthodox mission. I met Stanley on the ship's bridge, which I noted was fitted with state-of-the-art equipment, including close circuit television monitors and speakers and recording devices. There was a small team on board, two army technicians called Frasier and Page, and two military policemen, Ball and Macintosh, both armed with browning high-power pistols. Stanley was evidently in command, but his appearance shocked me. Gone was his formerly immaculate tailored suit, replaced by a soiled shirt with an open collar. His jawline was covered by a rough stubble, and his hair appeared greasy and unkempt.

Stanley also smelt pretty bad, and I suspected he hadn't washed in several days. But what really struck me were his eyes, once filled with a predatory intelligence, now appearing wild and half crazed, like those of a man who'd stared into the abyss for too long and lost his sanity. But, in spite of his disheveled appearance, Stanley greeted me. as an old friend, and implied that I'd done him a massive favor by agreeing to come. HMS Ramsgate had been designed to accommodate several hundred people, but now the old ship was virtually derelict and abandoned, moored on the locks calm waters off a lonely stretch

of shoreline. The boat was a rust bucket, but its long and darkened corridors and empty cabins gave off an eerie feeling, one of decay and foreboding. Other than Stanley himself and the four-man team, there was only one other person on board, a young woman with whom I was already acquainted. Orla was a girl in her early twenties, an attractive young woman of slight build, with long, flowing dark hair, skin as pale as milk and deep green eyes. She'd grown up in the Falls District of West Belfast, a working-class Catholic area which

had become an IRA stronghold during the early 70s. Orla had the misfortune to come of age during the early years of the troubles, and like so many other young people at the time, she'd been drawn into the conflict occurring on the streets around her. However, unlike other young girls in her community, Orla made the mistake of falling in love with a British soldier. The boy was a 19-year-old private serving with the light infantry. Try as I might, I cannot recall his name.

name, but he was a handsome young chap, the type with gifts of gab who knew how to chat up girls. I believe Orla met him at a community disco, arranged by the army during the so-called honeymoon period, when relations between the military and local community were still relatively cordial. Orla started seeing the young soldier, but they had to keep their relationship a secret as the situation soured and the locals turned against the army. I don't know exactly what happened between them, but the upshot was the Orla's family and neighbors found out about her illicit love affair, and this caused her no end of trouble.

One would have hoped the soldier would do the decent thing, but his tour ended, and he returned to England and promptly broke off his relationship with the young Belfast girl. I believe he had a girlfriend back home the whole time. In any event, Orla was left to face the backlash alone, and even her family, who held pro-IRA sympathies turned against her. Soon she was subjected to a brutal and humiliating punishment, being tied to a lamp post and tarred and feathered. This was how the IRA's female wing handled so-called collaborators, such as Orla,

women who went with British soldiers. Once Ola recovered from her injuries, she remained ostracized in her community, alone without friends or family or any prospects. It was around this time that she first came to my attention. Orla got arrested for some minor offense, shoplifting or something like that. She got passed through the system and my superior officer wanted to use her as an intelligence asset. I was appointed as Orla's handler.

The truth was she never provided us with much information, snippets here and there, mostly of little use. But after hearing her story, I took sympathy on the poor girl. her up with a flat in a neutral area, and keeping her on the active roster, so she continued to receive a small stipend from the government. I lost contact with Orla after they transferred me to the border, and was astonished and concerned to discover her involved with Stanley Black's mysterious operation. I stood on the ship's bridge, watching the young woman through the cameras as she sat alone

in a cabin below deck. I noted the old-fashioned floral dress she wore, with a leather jacket, trape over her shoulders, presumably to keep her warm. Her head was cast downward, and her dark hair covered most of her face as she smoked a cigarette, taking long drags as she pondered her grim situation. I reacted angrily at first, turning on Stanley and confronting him. What the hell is she doing here? This young woman is no terrorist?

You have no right to hold her. Stanley shrugged his shoulders dismissively before replying. She was facing six months when I found her. larceny and drunken disorderly. I offered her money and a new start away from Ireland. She came here voluntarily. I felt a twinge of guilt which lessened my anger. Clearly Orla's life had gone from bad to worse after I left her in Belfast.

What do you intend to do with her? I asked sheepishly. Stanley didn't answer my question, at least not directly. Instead, he took a firm grasp of my arm and forced me to look into his wild, intense eyes. I need her. I need you to persuade her, to make sure she does as I say. This will go a lot more smoothly if the girl willingly cooperates. Suddenly it all became clear.

This is why Stanley had brought me up here. He needed me to get to Orla, to trick her into compliance so he could conduct whatever twisted experiments on her. I didn't know exactly what he planned at this stage. I suspected it was some sort of new interrogation tactic. During internment, we'd used five techniques to break the will of our prisoners. Later, this would be condemned as torture by the European Court of Human Rights. Officially, the British government no longer tortures prisoners, but in reality, our techniques

have simply grown more sophisticated over the years, with men like Stanley Black pioneering new and unorthodox tactics. I should have refused, but to my eternal shame, I agreed to do what he did. to do what he asked. I went down to the cabin, held the frightened girl's hand, and told her everything was going to be fine, that all she needed to do was get through tonight, and that she'd be free to start a new life, forever leaving behind the war-torn streets of Northern Ireland. She trusted me, and I fed her a pack of lies.

I'll never forgive myself for what I did to Orla, nor should anyone else. I returned to the control room on the bridge, where the tension was built. as Stanley's behavior became increasingly erratic. Shortly before the experiment began, he pulled me to one side, whispering in my ear to prevent the MPs and technicians from overhearing. I don't expect you to understand, my old friend. Not at first, anyway. I didn't believe it myself initially.

I thought it was all a superstitious nonsense, a means of tricking and frightening, thick Irish peasants, but the deeper I dug the more I saw. I've witnessed things which can not. not be explained by science. There are other realities beyond what we can see and comprehend and entities which are not alive in the true sense of the word. They don't belong in our world, but they want to cross over into our reality to latch on to the living.

Their powers are immense, frightening to some, but if we are able to control these entities and then them to our will, then the possibilities are limitless. I was literally left speechless. Stanley playing a sick joke on me? Nothing in his demeanor suggested so. The man looked deadly serious. He must have picked up on my discomfort, judging by his next question. You think I'm mad, don't you?

I don't blame you. But you will see soon enough, my old friend. You shall witness the power of what comes from beyond. He patted me on the back, smiling faintly, before making his way back to the control station and barking orders at his technicians. Meanwhile, I just stood there, dumbstruck in a state of shock. Stanley was right about one thing. I did think he was mad.

I believed that the extreme stresses of the job had broken him. Stanley had clearly suffered some sort of mental breakdown and come to believe in the paranoid fantasies his unbalanced mind had created. I realized that I should never have come to this place, but now I was here, and I needed to to take action to shut this crazy operation down, to get Orla to safety and detain Stanley, by force if necessary, the two military policemen may be able to help if I could get them on side. I was still formulating a plan in my head when Stanley began his experiment, and my last

opportunity to stop him was lost. As Stanley gave his orders, the technicians flickered switches on the control panels, confirming that the various electronic functions were operational. Lights, check, cameras check, door locks, check. The last announcement worried me the most. They locked Orla in, but why? I had no function in these proceedings, and so could only observe with trepidation. I noted the two MPs standing back, watching developments closely, looks of serious concentration

etched on their faces, their hands firmly placed on their gun holsters, like they were prepared for a violent occurrence at any moment, but my attention was focused on the central monitor, the grainy black and white image of young Orla sitting on the hard chair in her bare cabin, looking increasingly agitated like she sensed something sinister was beginning. I looked away in shame instead of glancing at the small monitors on either side. I looked away in shame, instead glancing at the small monitors on either side, which showed views of the various cameras on the ship's exterior. I didn't know why they set up cameras looking out to sea, but assumed they were for security

purposes. An IRA assault by boat was unlikely, but not unheard of. What I did notice was how the previously calm waters were now becoming rather choppy as the nighttime winds picked up. This struck me as odd, since the forecast was for good weather throughout the night. I didn't think too much about it, however. With the preparations complete, Stanley lifted a microphone, which I soon discovered was linked to speakers hooked up in Orla's cabin, which at this stage was more of a prison cell. There was a sense of dreadful foreboding in the control room as we waited for Stanley to speak. I honestly had no idea what to expect. We were all astonished when Stanley began to sing. All these years later,

I don't recall the exact words of the ballad. I believe he sang in Gaelic Irish or some ancient variation of that language. How Stanley had learnt such a bizarre incantation I'll never know. What I do remember is how the sorrowful ballad shook me to my very soul. The others in the room clearly shared my trepidation. One of the technicians, Frazier, I think, let out a nervous laugh, before his co-worker Paige shot him an angry look. and the cool and tough demeanor of the MPs began to crack as fear crept across Ball's face,

and McIntosh began perspiring heavily. But Stanley appeared immune to everything else occurring. As his heart-wrenching song reached a terrifying crescendo, I stared into the main monitor, watching young Orla closely as she listened through the speakers in her cabin. She looked up at the camera in confusion, mouthing something that we cannot hear. But before long, her look of bewilderment turned into fear, her eyes widening as she cowered in her chair. I looked away, unable to bear the shame.

When I glanced across at the external cameras, I was astonished at the height and ferocity of the waves, as clearly a storm had taken hold, seemingly coming out of nowhere. The boat was swaying heavily from side to side now, and before long we all struggled to stand, all except for Stanley, who inexplicably appeared unaffected. It became clear to me that there was a connection between the terrible incantation and the increasingly violent storm, even though it seemed impossible, and there was something else, something deeper. I felt it inside me, a severe dread unlike anything I'd ever experienced before. I knew what it was to fear for my life, but this was different. What I felt in that moment was,

moment was primal, a terror I could not explain. I didn't understand what was happening, but I knew I had to put an end to it. I needed to stop Stanley before it was too late. I stepped forward with determination, heading straight for him, but I struggled to walk, my body being thrown from side to side as the boat swayed in the heavy seas. I labored on regardless, determined to bring this to an end, reaching out. My hands were almost upon him, but in that very very same. moment, the lights went out and the deck was plunged into darkness. Losing control of my senses,

I stumbled, hitting the floor heavily. Dear God! I heard someone exclaim. The dark was all encompassing. It continued for what seemed like an age, but in reality was only a few short seconds. I couldn't see a thing, but my other senses were heightened. I quickly established two things. Firstly, Stanley's terrible ballad had ended.

And secondly, the ship was no longer swaying. It made no sense, but this is what happened. A moment passed, and mercifully, the emergency lights kicked in, dimly illuminating the control room. I slowly lifted my head and saw the face of Stanley Black staring down at me. His eyes were emotionless, showing no sign of either fear or concern. He spoke to me in a calm and composed voice, saying, And now it begins.

The monitors were still out, so we couldn't see Oola inside her cabin cell. I dreaded to think what state she was in. Stanley ordered the two MPs to descend to the lower decks and check on her. The two men obeyed their orders with some evident reluctance. They no longer looked like tough and experienced soldiers, but more like scared young boys being sent off to war, drawing their pistols. Ball and Macintosh left the control. control room and began their slow descent.

Stanley, myself, and the two effectively redundant technicians were left waiting in the dimly lit control room, staring at black monitors and still badly shaken by the inexplicable events we'd just witnessed. Stanley began to speak, rambling at length about destiny and immortality. I no longer listened. I felt sick to my stomach, somehow sensing that something terrible was about to avoid. occur. It seemed like an eternity passed as we waited and suffered through an unbearable tension, and then we heard it. A shrill, high-pitched, inhuman scream which echoed through the dark

steel corridors of the old ship. It was unlike anything I'd ever heard before, an otherworldly shriek which chilled me to my very bones. A moment later, a man cried out in terror and then came the gunshots. Three or four loud bangs and quicks. succession. We listened in terror to the mad scramblings, the shouts, the gunfire, men running, their heavy boots stomping against the metal gangways. And always the unnatural screams growing louder and louder, so piercing and chilling. Even Stanley appeared uneasy now, his eyes widening with fear. Evidently this wasn't part of the plan. His experiment was now out of control. The ominous sounds grew louder until the running battle was right on the other side

of the control room door. One of the technicians, Frazier, I believe, lost his nerve, breaking and running towards the back door. His colleague cried after him, calling Frasier a coward. I didn't blame the man for running, but somehow I knew he wouldn't get far. Suddenly there was a heavy banging on the door, and then the handle began to turn. My fear was all-encompassing at this point. to breathe and my legs could hardly carry my weight. I was unarmed and had no means of defending myself. Not that I believed a gun could stop what was coming. The door swung open and a figure ran into the control room, slamming it closed behind him.

It was McIntosh, one of the MPs. His face was a ghostly shade of pale. His uniform ripped and bloodied and his eyes filled with pure terror. She's coming! Running, fools! She'll kill us all! We didn't get a chance to respond. At that moment, the hellish screeching began once again.

This time it was so loud, it forced us all down to our knees, covering our ears in a near futile attempt to drown out the awful din. Just then, the steel shutter door burst open with such power that it knocked McIntosh off his feet. What stood on the far side of the doorway was not of this world, at least no longer. I could just about recognize the physical body of Orla, but whatever could just about recognize the physical body of Orla, but whatever creature had overtaken her, clearly, it wasn't human. Her skin was paler than the palest white, and yet her body was illuminated by an unnatural

light, appearing like some kind of walking lantern. She didn't so much walk as she did glide, as if the natural laws of gravity and physics did not apply to her. But what really struck me, what chilled me to my very core, was her— Or its eyes. Gone were the sweet and innocent eyes of Orla, replaced by something dark, black, and demonic, shark-like and predatory in their nature. I was terrified but remained glued to the spot, unable to run or avert my gaze from

this truly horrifying creature. I saw movement in the corner of my eye, glancing over and seeing Stanley walking forward Towards the beast, his attention entirely focused on this monstrosity he'd helped create. He seemed transfixed, unaware of anything or anyone else around him, as he was drawn towards the demonic siren. I tried to shout out to get his attention to warm him of the imminent danger, but found I could not speak. Stanley kept on walking until he stood a mere two or three feet away from the horror he'd

brought into creation. I watched him stare into those black, lifeless eyes, and he showed no fear. She opened her mouth, a gaping dark hole which looked like a portal into hell. Suddenly, Stanley awoke from whatever spell had held him entranced, as his face filled with fear and he surely realized the extreme danger he was in, but it was already too late. The entity screamed once again, except this time it was worse than ever. The high-pitched den was unbearable. There was no end to it, no relief.

I saw Stanley crawling along the ground, blood pouring from his ears as he cried out in agony, but his screams were entirely drowned out. I rolled up into a ball, burying my head between my legs, but I couldn't block out that hellish noise. I felt the pressure building inside my chest. An explosion occurred inside my brain, and then I felt myself drifting away before the darkness took me. three days later, inside the military wing of Musgrave Park Hospital in Belfast. Frankly, I was astonished to be alive, but suffered two perforated eardrums and head trauma. But was otherwise okay, physically at least. Four other survivors had been recovered from the

Ramsgate, all with similar injuries but still alive. Stanley Black wasn't so lucky. Officially, his cause of death was recorded as heart failure. The fact that he'd been a healthy man in his early forties with no previous history of heart disease was not commented upon. While I was recuperating in the hospital, I was visited by several senior government officials and was debriefed in depth, asked to repeat time and time again my account of the events of that fateful night. I was told in no uncertain terms that I must never reveal what happened on board the HMS

Ramsgate. There was talk of the official secrets act of a lengthy prison sentence if I spilled the beans. In truth, though, I had no intention of telling my story at that time. Who would believe me anyway? I imagine the other survivors received similar treatment and were subjected to the same threats. Meanwhile, Stanley Black's body was spirited away and buried in secret. And what about Orla, you might ask?

Her body was never recovered. Officially, she's never been on board the Ramsgate, and so the Ministry of Defense held no record of her disappearance. The entire incident was written off as a communication operation which had gone wrong due to an equipment malfunction caused by the storm. The ship was decommissioned after the incident. The old boat was towed to Liverpool, where it was scheduled to be broken up for scrap. I recall reading a newspaper article a couple of months later, stating how shipworkers had refused

to work on the Ramsgate after claiming to hear ghostly voices emanating from the ship's walls and corridors. The incident was widely ridiculed as a hoax, or an excuse for the local union to call strike action. But, given all I'd seen and heard, I wasn't so sure. They allowed me to return to active duty after my recovery, but I got a new posting in England and never did return to Ireland. For the less, I found it impossible to forget what happened that night.

Images of the demonic entity haunted my dreams, as did its terrible wail of death, which I simply couldn't get out of my mind. And then, over the next twelve months, the oddest thing happened. All four of my fellow survivors from the Ramsgate died, all in separate incidents and locations. The two MPs were returned to front-line duty with their regiments. Macintosh was shot in the head by a sniper whilst on patrol in West Belfast, and Ball was blown up by a booby-trap bomb in South Armagh. Later, another one of the technicians was electrocuted after an equipment failure in Alder

shot barracks, and Frazier died in a car crash in West Germany. A conspiracy theorist might have assumed that a shadowy government agency was eliminating witnesses to the botched operation on the Ramsgate. I didn't believe this. In the months after the incident, I read up on Irish mythology and learnt of the Banshee, an infamous supernatural entity in Irish legend, whose scream was believed to be an omen of death. The physical description matched what I saw that night, and I became certain that Stanley had summoned such an entity from the other side, using Orla as a vessel to capture this wicked spirit.

I realized that all the men on board the Ramsgate had been marked for death, and my own turn would surely follow. But evidently, I did not die. The Banshee didn't come for me, and I have lived into old age. Why did this happen? I'll probably never know for sure. I used to believe I had been spared. The Orla, or whatever she'd turn into, still held some residual memory from her former life,

and remembered the kindness I had shown her. Now, all these years later, I realized I was only half right. I was spared, but only because a quick death would have been too merciful. My life has been one of misery, failure, and pain. I suffered a psychological breakdown a couple of years after the incident and was dishonorably discharged from the military. I never held down a solid job again. I was briefly married, but soon disappointed my young wife, who left me for another man.

I couldn't really blame her. There was a child, a son who I was no kind of father to. We became estranged, and I haven't seen him in 20 years. Eventually, I became addicted to alcohol and prescription drugs, and my health deteriorated. I've fought cancer on three different occasions, and now I'm an old man at death's door, slowly rotting away alone in a miserable nursing home. I realize now the oral addiction. this to me. She wanted me to suffer because I betrayed her. This awful life has been my punishment.

But it's nearly over now. I can feel the cold hand of death creeping ever closer. When I sleep, I see her in my dreams. I can hear the banshee's wail at night, growing ever louder. So why have I decided to tell my story now after all these years? You may think this is meant as an expose of the British dirty war in Ireland, or a warning to others to ensure they don't interfere with forces beyond our comprehension. In fact, neither is true. This is a confession. The war in Ireland is officially over now.

The victims laid to rest and differences largely settled. But for poor Orla, it will never end. Because of what we, what I did to her. Orla will never be free, never have peace. I cannot excuse what I did to that poor girl, and I can never take it back. I can hear her now, the banshees sorrowful ballad ringing through the walls of my room. She's coming for me, coming to set me free. I'm so sorry, Orla.

And if there is a God, may he have mercy on my sinful soul.