The best places to visit for a spooky Halloween stroll through Cork city

Barrack Street in Cork city is a bustling hub of activity, with people often heading off to work of college or into the city centre.

There is a myriad of laneways adjacent to it, and rows of homes left and right under the watchful eye of St Fin Barre’s Cathedral.

This is a great place to start your Halloween stroll one evening this week as dusk falls.

The width of the roads and lanes are a clear indication that the street was constructed long before the car or truck. Every laneway tells a tale, every old building holds a plethora of memories from times long gone; the history of our city permeates the walls as you begin your walk from the bottom of the street.

On your left is the beautifully quant Coach House, built in 1702, its small door an indication of the average height of a person 300 years ago. Horses were stabled here, perhaps for those visiting the city from out of town for the day. Maybe the steeds of military men were rested and watered here overnight.

Perhaps, even now, the echo of the clip-clop of hooves can still be heard, or the sound of cartwheels creaking over uneven ground breaks the silence in the dead of night...

Across the road from the Coach House is Elizabeth Fort. Originally made of timber and built by the President of Munster in 1601, it was destroyed by Corkonians in response to James I taking the throne and later rebuilt of stone.

The history of this stunning fortification is varied and troubled. It was at one stage a fever hospital, also a female prison, it became a target during the wars a century ago, and when the British forces left, it became a barracks for the newly formed Irish police.

Some 400 years worth of trauma and drama live in these walls. A chill may run through your body as you contemplate this.

Outside the fort is the oldest pub in Cork, The Gateway Bar. Established in 1698, it may even have been a watering hole a century before that.

This area also boasts three historic homes, Reeds Cottage, built in 1699, The Gateway Lodge, built in 1704, and Keyser’s Hill Loft, built in 1698.

Further up Barrack Street, and you get to Nancy Spain’s, where we once drank and danced on Saturday nights. This became the focus of great attention in 2022 when skeletal remains were unearthed during the demolition of the building.

Archaeologists revealed that four of the six bodies found here had met a grisly end. These young men of between 18 and 25 years of age had their hands tied behind their backs and were laid out head to toe with one another.

Cork City Council announced that the bodies were carbon dated to between 1447 and 1636, a time span covering several rebellions and war.

The citizens of Cork in 1603 rose up against British rule, which had led to the burning of Elizabeth Fort, so perhaps these young men were murdered for their rebellious actions? The original Rebels?!

Across from the eerily-named Gallows Pub, up the hill and to the right of Gould Street, are two plaques on the wall. Small and inconspicuous, you could easily miss them when walking past. But they signify another gruesome event in Cork’s history.

Under the leadership of the mighty Theobald Wolfe Tone, a band of brothers known as the United Irishmen, whose aim was to rid us of the English Crown and their exorbitant rents and rules, met their end on wooden gallows in this area known as Gallows Green - 17 men were hanged here in 1798 and 1799.

The rebellion lasted only four and a half months, but the effects on the city were far- reaching and the punishments inflicted on the United Irishmen cruel.

So, we have the weeping of those watching the hangings. The pleadings of those buried under Nancy Spains, the sounds of horse’s hooves on the cobbles, the smell of fire from the burning fort, and the aroma of gunfire in the air from many battles.

Surely these isn’t a more haunted street in our city for a stroll this Halloween week?

I wonder, in many, many years to come, will the smell of home-cut chips and curry sauce be noted by some er-by as they stroll up Barrack Street - and a local will say ‘there once was a chipper here, the best in the world they say, long gone now though!

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The Haunted House of Cork: A Ghost Story by Adrienne Acton

Most ghost stories begin with a location, normally a building, where pain and death have stalked, and this story, dear reader, is no different.

It is about a young Cork couple who bought a house in 2007. Old and built of stone, it had leaks and crooked walls but it had character, the woman said.

Her husband wasn’t too sure, but they bought it and left it sit for a few years until the time was right for them to move in.

It was the time of year, like now, when the world is grey and dark, when the leaves have abandoned the trees and the ground is in deep slumber, when this couple eventually made this house their home.

One day, as she was painting the kitchen wall, a knock came to the door. There before her stood a priest.

“Good morning,” he smiled, “I was born in this house and I’m so pleased that someone is living here again.”

“Won’t you come in?” the woman offered, holding the door ajar.

The priest introduced himself as Fr Patrick and said he couldn’t come in, he had somewhere he needed to be, but that he wished the couple all the luck in the world with the house and reassured her that they would be happy there.

How lovely it would have been if they could have lived happily ever after, but the house had other plans...

This building, once a happy home, had borne witness to ungodly deaths and behaviours that permeated the walls and filled the air.

The cries of injured men and the wails of heartbroken women began to seep into the consciousness of the husband. He refused to stay in the house on his own. He couldn’t stand the eyes watching him from hidden angles. He couldn’t stand the constant accompaniment of those that make no form, but created a life sapping energy around his very being.

The doors closing and opening, the sounds of heavy boots pacing on the upper floor tormented his mind. The marriage ended, and she and her son were left to face the demons alone.

Her son, a small child, began to talk of the man that would visit him at night. “He’s not a scary man,” the innocent reassured his mother, “he’s a nice man, he’s a teacher and he tells me things about this house. It used to be his house but he doesn’t live here anymore, he just likes to visit. He likes to visit me.”

The boy added: “He tells me about the soldiers that lived here and died for Ireland. What does that mean, mam, died for Ireland?”

The woman reassured the child that all was well, but the story made her quiver.

She placed a recording device in the child’s room and placed the child in her bed. The next morning, the blood chilled in her veins as she listened to shrieks made by those not of human form. She heard the clicking of a gun. She heard sounds that can only be made by a demonic force, and then the calm and quiet voice of a gentle soul calling to his friend for reassurance.

The local priest told her it was her child’s imagination. The neighbour said she shouldn’t be living alone in an old house as she would become an old maid before her time. The child continued his friendship with the teacher. The isolation began to tell.

Was this a hellish fiend with evil intent, or a soul needing to find the path to eternal peace?

The spirit walked the stairs at night at 12.45 before crossing the master bedroom. Every night, the woman waited for the sound of the heavy boots to shatter her peace. Her child would tell her that the teacher in the long coat was the schoolmaster in the abandoned wreck a little ways down the road.

“What was that building?” she asked in as casual a manner as she could muster.

“Oh, that was the old school, your house was the house of the schoolmaster. Before that family, the men that lived there were part of the ambush that killed two Black and Tans. When the fight was over, they and their comrades came back to your house for their tea. They were pursued by the English for many years after.”

The woman continued to record at night. The spirits continued to speak. The child had no recollection of his nightly friend as he grew older, and the house fell quiet again.

Several years later, the woman came across a picture of the priest that had called to her house all those years before to wish her well. The priest that couldn’t come in. The priest with the gentle smile. It was a remembrance note of his death... two years before he had called to her house.

Peace now reigns in this house on the west side of Cork, but on occasion, during the winter, always when the world is at slumber, when the air changes, when the room grows cold and you can almost feel the stillness, the woman knows they are there and she greets them back into their home.

She is but a custodian, and perhaps it is her destiny to visit the next owners when the spirit blesses those within, by knocking on the door, to reassure them, that all will be well.