The 1983 Dublin train whistle still echoes in
Siobhán’s dreams, but she steps off the 5:47
from Heuston into Clonmel station with no
luggage but a worn leather satchel and the
weight of silence. The platform is empty save
for a single signal light blinking red like a
dying eye. No one comes to meet her. Not even
the postman, who once handed out letters with a
wink and a grin.
The village has not changed — or perhaps it has
changed too much. The old GAA pitch is overgrown
with brambles. The pub’s sign hangs crooked, the
painted name halfscraped away. Her mother’s
cottage sits at the edge of the fields,
windowpanes cracked, door ajar as if someone
left in a hurry. She finds the key beneath the
stone step, same as always. Inside, the air
smells of damp wool and dried herbs. On the
mantel, a photograph of her father — not in
uniform, not in work clothes, but standing
stiffly beside a man in a grey coat, both men
staring straight ahead, eyes hollow.
She digs through his desk drawer. A folded map
of the Clonmel branch line, marked Discontinued
– 1920. But the lines are wrong. They don’t end
where they should. They loop back toward the
hill behind the church. And beneath the ink,
faint pencil marks trace a tunnel, deep under
the bog.
That night, the wind howls through the eaves.
The lights flicker. The radio crackles to life —
not a station, but a voice speaking in a
language she doesn’t know, then cuts to static.
She wakes to find the front door open, the
ground outside churned like it’s been dug up
recently. In the mud, three footprints: hers,
one smaller, and one boot print wider than any
local would wear.
She goes to the church. The priest is gone. The
ledger is missing. But the baptismal register
remains — her own name written in black ink,
followed by a second entry, crossed out with
such force the paper tears. Máire Ní Fhlannagáin.
Born 1921. Died 1922. Buried without rites.
She remembers now: her grandmother’s warning,
whispered when she was seven. "Don’t go near the
ridge on the east side. The land listens."
On the third day, she walks the ridge. The turf
gives way. Below, a rusted iron gate. Beyond it,
a tunnel choked with roots and old coal dust.
Inside, a wall of names carved into stone —
dozens of them. Among them: her father’s. And
beneath it, a single word in Irish, freshly
scratched: Táimnigh.
She touches the stone. The ground trembles. A
low hum rises from the earth. The tunnel fills
with cold air, thick with the scent of wet clay
and something older — like old blood and burnt
hair.
She turns back. The gate slams shut behind her.
The lights from above vanish.
But she hears footsteps. Not hers.
And then, from the dark, a whisper not meant for
ears: You were supposed to stay gone.
She stands in the silence. The tunnel does not
breathe. The stones do not blink.
She pulls a match from her pocket. Lights it.
The flame flickers. Then holds.
The names on the wall glow faintly, just long
enough to read the next name — Siobhán Ní
Fhlannagáin. Born 1963. Missing since 1983.
The match burns down.
She does not move.
The tunnel stays quiet.
The world outside continues.
But in Clonmel, the train never arrives.
