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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/ttomnook on 2024-11-26 18:41:03+00:00.

Hello readers. I hope theres readers. Someone needs to hear this that isn’t me or the others

All names here will not be real to cover my ass.

My name is Eimear (pronounced ee-mur for those outside the country) and I live in Ireland. I dont want to say what town or what county so I will just say the west. Consider this space my confession booth. I think I need somewhere to get this trouble off my chest or it will eat me alive. Ireland is in a pretty damn bad housing crisis. People are in debt of hundreds of thousands just to get a mortgage on a fast built home that collapses in six months. Most older homes are rented at an average of €2500 a month per person. Not per home, per person living in that home. I have accepted my fate in my mid twenties that I will probably have to wait until mum and dad kick the bucket to share the house with my brothers. Thats just life though, isnt it? Economy inflates and deflates, minimum wage rises and drops, people live and die. But I couldn’t accept what happened to Leanne Murphy.

The Murphys had a little shop in town that sold a small number of groceries, drinks and batteries. The old-style Irish shop. They had rented the space for years from William Davies, an English landlord who owned all properties in my town. When he passed, his son Edmond took over his properties and prices soared. No one could afford the roof over their heads. Many moved but in the housing crisis, there are few to no homes around the area to be bought or rented. So the only other option was to stay.

But Mr. Murphy couldn’t afford his home and his shop, his only source of income was now putting him in the negatives. I heard that he appeared at the Davies manor one night on his actual knees begging for another way to pay. And Edmond provided. He wanted full custody of Murphy’s eleven year old daughter Leanne. That, or Murphy pays in full within the week. He tried to go to the Garda (cops) but they said it wasn’t a crime to request custody.

He had no choice.

The contract was signed two days later and Leanne was gone.

At Sunday’s service a month later, I actually saw Leanne at Edmond’s side. Her skin looked grey, she looked tired. Her hair was slicked with greasy and tied into a messy ponytail that sat crookedly on top of her head. Edmond listened to the sermon, a small pleasant smile I thought looked kind of smug and his hand on Leanne’s elbow. Two more months passed. And she was buried in the churchyard. The funeral was private, only Edmond and Father Paul attended. It was only after her burial that Mr. Murphy told anyone who would listen what had happened. I heard from a cousin of a friend of a clerk who worked in Murphy’s shop. I remember he came into the cafe and asked me for a tea. He looked like Leanne when I saw her at church. I told him I was sorry for what had happened. I had 3000 in savings, I would have happily given it to him but before I could offer, he leaned in towards me on the counter. His breath smelled like Hennessy and Pall Mall. He told me to come to the parish centre at half nine that night for the prayer meeting. I wouldn’t say I practiced my faith. I went to church to keep my mum satisfied. But my brother Thomas went to the meeting often so I could join him. Plus, its the least I could do for a man like Murphy. He used to give me an extra scoop of pear drops when I visited the shop as a child. So I promised him I would be there. He squeezed my hand and left. Poor man.

Half nine in November is as safe as walking around at 4am in the west. I was glad Thomas and I were going together. But he was proper fucking giddy for a prayer meeting. He said he was excited to have me on board and that no matter what, we were in this together. I assumed he took the rosary extremely seriously. The parish centre was busier now than I had ever seen it. When I walked behind Thomas through the double doors, the reception area was bustling with people. Four people were in Garda uniforms, some were in nurse scrubs, two I recognised as teachers from the pre-school, many parishioners. When I saw my Hindu manager, I was more confused. Thomas dragged me to his construction site buddies and introduced me as the sister he was talking about. I received a warm welcome from mud-covered men and was ushered along through the crowds to the main hall. All the seats were taken and many were standing in the back. But Thomas used me as a human barricade to push through them, past the hundreds of plastic chairs to the very front row where my name was laminated on paper and taped to one of the chairs. Thomas sat down beside it so I took my seat. “What is this?” I asked, louder than usual to compensate for the loud crowd murmur. Thomas was smug as shit when he said “You’ll see”. Pretentious prick. One philosophy degree and he thinks hes the mysterious thinking man.

The crowd hushed as a guitar plucked what I think was ‘Famine’ by Sinead O’ Connor. A lady in a sage pencil skirt and blazer walked up to the front and turned to the crowd. I knew her face. From local elections. She was an adamant nationalist, wanted the six counties back from the UK. She believed Ireland was the promised land of God, I had heard someone say once at the cafe.

“Thank you all for coming again this week. And welcome new members:” she looked at a yellow sticky note in her hand “Eileen, Sean, Eimear, Harry, Father Paul and the Mclean family” a round of applause sounded with Thomas clapping in my ear to piss me off. “Now let us bow our heads and pray to any idols we believe, or meditate, or call on spirits to guide us.” Now, I’m not a theologian, not by a long shot. But I thought a prayer meeting in the parish centre would be a little Catholic. I suppose its progressive. Good for them.

I lifted my head after saying the ol reliable hail mary. The spokeswoman and I made eye contact and she winked at me fondly.

As another murmur of chatter started, she clasped her hands together to conclude the moment of prayer. “I am Elaine Doyle, newcomers dont mistake me as any founder or organiser. I just host the meetings and bring the carrot cake.” A giggle among the crowd. She didn’t look like the type to bake. But she did look like the founder.

“To recap on last week’s meeting, Mickey Gleason’s Construction will start reconstruction of Leahy House. Thanks again for volunteering fellas. And Margaret Quinn will provide lunches as well as training for advanced nurses. Sophia Quinn will train beginners.”

I was now completely lost. Leahy House was a rundown Workhouse from the famine that had rotted to rubble. And the doctor’s clinic in town was well overstaffed.

A hand was raised. Daniel Connell’s plump palm was in the air. The Connell’s are a family belonging to the traveler community in Ireland. Daniel’s daughter and Granddaughter were sweet. She often breastfed the young girl in the cafe both head to toe in Gucci.

“Mr. Connell?” Elaine smiled. He stood up, his slicked hair was mystically shiny in this light. “When will this actually kick off, so?” He had asked.

“When its ready” Doyle responded politely. I had never seen such a bug man submit so quickly. He sat down and the meeting continued.

Training for beginners would happen at nine am on Saturdays, Deborah Quinn’s golden retriever had just given birth if anyone was willing to adopt a pup, Mr. Murphy made a speech thanking everyone for getting involved and putting things right. He looked brighter than he had earlier that day. The next meeting would be at Elaine’s house, here’s a donation QR code, don’t forget the 5k Christmas run. Finally, our names were called again: us newcomers. I stood up with the others and was turned towards the projector. A garda on each side of us appeared. We were instructed to put our right hand over our hearts and make the vow on the screen. Something about vowing on irish soil to remain discreet and loyal to the nation.

A round of applause followed. I was tired now. I wanted to go home. I went back to my seat, Elaine gave her parting words and we sang the Irish National Anthem. When I turned to look at the masses of people behind me, they sang with such passion, some with tears in their eyes, some hugging each other. It was rather beautiful to see a country so old be so loved.

But my questions remained and as everyone broke into conversation and mingling, I looked at Thomas and asked what was going on at Leahy house.

“A revolution” One of the construction boys near me answered. Elaine squeezed between the crowds and smiled at me. Her veneers looked new. “Thomas tells me you have a degree in Irish History” she said softly. I nodded. She linked her arm with mine and we walked. “Can you believe that Davies fellow? Poor Leanne. I have nightmares you know. About her. She comes to me crying begging for no more.” I asked no more of what. She ignored it. “I spoke to Mr. Murphy and to some teachers that live in the neighbouring towns and the Williamson man and that plump Ennison one are just as slimy as Davies. Landlords are exploiting us again. Just like the famine. How long until they rebuild Leahy house and shove us in there to perish? Oh if Davies got his hands on you, Eimear, oh I cant bear to think!” Shelley was dramatic. But the fear in me was real. If these landlords were a growing problem how do you contain them? “Mr. Murphy had the idea. Avenge little Leanne. Make Ireland safe and reclaim our power. Put them in the workhouse. Recreate the workho...

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