The Curse of Brigid McGhee

[Content Warning: Alcohol use, supernatural phenomenon, death]

In the mid-1800s, Brigid McGhee’s Pub and Inn was the heart of the little town of Clonglash, nestled on the edge of Ireland’s Brehon Forest in County Donegal. Farmers, merchants, sailors, and wanderers from all over the region flocked to its smoky hearth for a frothy pint. But it was more than a place of drink; it was a refuge, a crossroads, and, as some whispered, a haven of dark magic.

The townsfolk often muttered rumors about Brigid herself. Some claimed she dabbled in witchcraft, weaving spells throghout her daily activities. These whispers clung to her family history—her great-grandmother had been executed for sorcery decades earlier. Brigid never addressed the accusations but didn’t entirely discourage them. Locals seeking cures for ailments, amulets for luck, or incantations for vengeance often slipped her secret requests over the bar.

In 1862, a dashing Scottish whisky merchant named Melvyn Frazier became a regular visitor to the inn while traveling between Letterkenny and beyond. With his crystal-blue eyes, wavy gray hair, and vibrant tartan kilt, Melvyn charmed nearly everyone—Brigid included. Despite her usual aloofness toward men’s advances, she found herself drawn to Melvyn. Their chemistry was undeniable, though their trysts remained behind closed doors, away from prying eyes and wagging tongues.

But love turned sour. By late September, Brigid confided to her closest friend, Ann Donnelly, that Melvyn’s affection felt like a ruse. He had been pressuring her to stock his Frazier Scotch whisky at the pub. When she hesitated, he grew more and more irritable and demanding. Their final argument erupted in the early hours one foggy morning. Melvyn slapped Brigid in a fit of rage, threatening to burn her inn to the ground if she didn’t comply. Brigid, clutching a dagger, drove him away.

On one particular blustery October night, the pub was crowded with locals when Melvyn made a dramatic return, arm-in-arm with a painted and perfumed woman dressed in gaudy finery. As he moved to a table, he loudly ordered, “Two Frazier Scotch whiskies—for me and the lady!”

Brigid scowled. “We don’t carry Frazier Scotch whisky,” she snapped, “and from the looks of it, there’s no lady here, either.”

The room erupted in laughter, but Melvyn didn’t flinch. “I hope you’ve freshened the sheets,” he said smugly. “We’ll be staying at the inn tonight.”

“Like hell, you will,” Brigid spat. “There’s plenty of barns for the likes of you.”

Melvyn smirked, tipped his hat, and sauntered out with his companion. At the door, he turned back. “Happy Samhain to you, Miss McGhee. Enjoy the Scotch whisky.”

Hours later, long after the last patron stumbled home, Brigid awoke to frantic shouts: “Fire! Fire at the inn!”

She raced outside to see her beloved inn engulfed in flames. The roaring inferno lit up the night sky, devouring the timber walls. Worse still, the guests inside were trapped, their screams soon silenced. As Brigid stared in horror, someone shouted, “The pub!” Flames burned around its edges, spreading fast. By dawn, both buildings were reduced to smoldering ashes. Seven souls had perished in the inn.

Near the forest’s edge, Brigid found a whisky cask branded with the unmistakable Frazier name. Melvyn’s parting words echoed in her mind: “Enjoy the Scotch whisky.”

For weeks, the villagers talked of Brigid’s wrath. Some swore they saw her flying across the night sky on a broomstick, swearing revenge. Others claimed she transformed into a bat, flitting between the ruins. What was certain, however, was that Brigid McGhee herself vanished from Clonglash.

Melvyn Frazier returned to the village just once more. On Halloween night, Ann Donnelly discovered his mutilated body in a forest glen near the ruins. His limbs were severed, neatly stacked and wrapped in his tartan kilt. His torso dangled from a tree by a crude noose tied to his manhood.

Life moved on in Clonglash. A year after the fire, Ann and her husband, Mac, rebuilt the pub. It thrived again, but Ann refused to serve Scotch whisky, fearing Brigid’s haunting presence. Mac protested, tempted by the profit it could bring, but Ann stood firm.

Five years later, a bartender named Connor Quinn dared to defy the ban, secretly selling Scotch whisky to patrons. One night, as revelers raised their glasses, an unusual fog seeped into the pub. It swirled around Connor’s head, choking him until he collapsed. The whisky barrel under the bar burst open, its contents igniting in an spontaneous blaze. The fire consumed Connor and every patron holding a Scotch whisky.

As the flames crackled, Brigid’s voice rang out: “I warned ye—Scotch whisky has no place in Clonglash!”

From that day forward, no one in Clonglash dared touch Scotch whisky. Brigid’s curse became legend, whispered in pubs and by firesides far beyond Donegal. Yet, across the world, there are always the bold, the skeptical, and the reckless who raise their glasses of Scotch in defiance of her warning.

On a stormy Halloween night a century later, a pub in Belfast hosted a raucous celebration. The air was thick with laughter, and glasses of Scotch whisky clinked as revelers toasted their good fortune. A young man, bold and brash, heard the tale of Brigid McGhee and scoffed.

“Ghosts, curses—what a load of shite!” he declared, raising his glass. “To Brigid McGhee! May she haunt someone else tonight!”

The pub patrons laughed in agreement, but the moment the whisky touched his lips, the lights flickered. The laughter died as a sudden chill swept through the room. The fire in the hearth extinguished itself, plunging the pub into a palatable silence.

From the darkness came a voice, low and venomous: “You dared toast me with that poison?”

The young man’s glass shattered in his hand, the shards drawing blood. He gasped, clutching his throat, as if unseen fingers were squeezing the life from him. Around the room, glasses of Scotch whisky burst, their contents spilling onto the floor. The smell of smoke filled the air.

“Get out!” someone screamed, and the patrons fled into the stormy night. Behind them, the pub erupted in flames, the fire dancing unnaturally, taking the shape of a woman’s face—Brigid McGhee’s face. The young man was never found and the pub was transformed into ashy ruins.

They say Brigid McGhee’s wrath grows stronger with each defiance. Those who drink Scotch whisky on Halloween are said to hear her voice, feel her cold breath, or glimpse her shadow in the flames. Some claim she appears in the mirror behind the bar, her eyes watching, waiting.

So, the next time you raise a glass of Scotch whisky, think twice. For Brigid McGhee’s curse knows no borders, no time, and no mercy. And if you hear a faint whisper in the wind or feel the glass grow icy in your hand, it’s already too late.

(COPYRIGHT NOTICE – This story is under the full copyright of the author who gives permission for royalty-free performance/readings of the story for non commercial purposes. This story must not be changed or altered in any way without permission of the author. Any performance of this story must credit the author, Rick Baldwin. This story may not be reprinted without permission of the author.)