The Fenian Avenger - Table of Contents

The Fenian Avenger

by

Daune O'Shaunnessey

Author’s Note:

This story is set in a fictional dystopian Ireland mired in poverty and depression among the people, and corruption in politics and in the Garda Síochána na hÉireann, or the Irish police. Within this story, certain powerful elements within Ireland control the politics and law enforcement to the benefit of their interests and not the populace. Because tourism has become the chief economic industry, the Irish residents play the part of happy people who sing, dance, and talk with lilting accents while they welcome tourists in search of their Irish heritage.

This story in no way reflects the real country of Ireland or the Garda.

Table of Contents

Part One

Chapter 1
Chapter 2 - a
Chapter 2 -b
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5a
Chapter 5b
Chapter 6
Chapter 7

The Fenian Avenger - Chapter 1

Table of Contents

Excerpts from James Beardsley’s interview segment from his upcoming book The Profile of the Fenian Avenger.

At the time, I cannot say I chose to become the Fenian Avenger for noble or heroic motives.

I wish I wove a more dramatic or inspired tale.

My truth is the story of a seventeen-year-old sheltered kid whose world disintegrated and left him hurt and angry. I placed a chip on my shoulder the size of Russia. The fact that I had the ability to battle whomever I felt wronged me is the scary part. I did not know who I was, or even what I was. The trauma in my life made me question my family. My father felt like an enigma. To me, my father was supportive and loving. However, a doubt lingered in my mind because of his profession as a Garda detective. Everything I heard brought into doubt the Garda’s integrity. The logically, if the Garda was crooked then so was my father. My emotional analysis told me he was an honest man, possibly compromised because he needed to protect his family. I was the only student in a facility known as The Foundation. Under the guise of educating a child, The Foundation in reality trained a killer, and I became something my family did not approve.

I made a promise to my father that I not take lightly or abuse the abilities God bestowed and my training at The Foundation. My father spent his career in battle against criminals and in constant frustration from the bureaucrats. The thought that I could become like the people he fought frightened him. In contrast, The Foundation desired to mold into that exact person my father detested.

A number of events came together, and the affect on me was profound. These occurrences led me to understand my powers on an elevated level. The proceedings were merely bricks in the road, but together led me to what I am. The irony of this story is though my powers and skills came from The Foundation, their actions inadvertently led to the genesis of The Fenian Avenger, which became the enemy of The Foundation. The fact I existed was their fault. The Foundation visualized a different outcome to their experiment.

What am I? I posed that question often. I was an angry teenager with the power to fight everyone. My reasons were not noble in the slightest. My methods, though, were quite effective. I convinced myself the Irish people needed me.

Revenge locked my mind with a firm grip. However, the Irish people saw something different from the reality of an angry youth. The people saw a hero.

Contrary to the story circulated by the Fenian Frithbheart, I did not become the Fenian Avenger out of inspiration to help my fellow Irishmen, or their twisted cause. And I would save them if it coincided with my pursuit to beat on corrupt authority figures. In Dublin, we never experienced a shortage of people in authority who abused their positions. The heat increased at a rapid pace. With the majority of the Garda on the take, I saw evidence everywhere of their corruption and greed. I mean, how bloody daft or arrogant are you to shake people down in the middle of Grafton Street, in full view of everyone.

In the end, I was stupid to attack the Garda. They were the law and many in number. My anger raged on so many levels and it fueled on my power. Unable to see the disadvantage of my situation, I continued to bait my foes. Despite the fact that they more resembled criminals, they still represented the law and no court of law would side with me, because I became the outlaw who defied authority. Battery on a Garda officer elevated us to the level of a cop killer. They would not rest until they caught us, beat us, and brought us to justice, and perhaps not in that order. A few rouge officers helped us anonymously, though no one willingly defied the establishment. When the heat was on, we could neither depend nor ask for their help. The rest of Ireland could go to the dogs as far as the Garda was concerned. Nothing else mattered to them until they brought the Fenian Avenger down in chains. The point of fact we never hurt an honest Irish citizen was moot.

We used my powers, the technology available to us, and the resources in our bank account. The excitement of the event enveloped us and overshadowed common sense. We always stayed one-step ahead of the Garda, and frustrated them in the process.

Once I donned the armor, I felt untouchable and invincible. At least, at the time, this was the delusion two young men convinced themselves. Lucky best describes us. I reflect upon our stupid actions and decisions. One wrong step either direction could have resulted in my or my associate’s funeral. I could avoid the big bully in school only for so long. The inevitable conclusion is the eventuality that you would have to fight the bully.

We made many mistakes, but luck was always on our side. I survived knife wounds from criminals and gunshots from the Garda, but they were not able to touch me, not for a long time.

The people of Dublin called me a hero. Before long, I started to believe it and revel in the glory. That is when I became more dangerous than helpful. When the people yelled my name in the street, when my mask topped the Halloween sales in Ireland, when the girls flashed me in the street, this fed my ego. The anger went away. The fame went to our head. Before long, I forgot the reasons I became the Fenian Avenger.

I was addicted to the uniform. I never abused drugs, but from my studies, I know that my high when I wore the green steel mesh was the same when a heroin addict shot up. The steel mesh electrified me and in my mind, I was indestructible. The mask made me safe. The visor and communication to my partner at the control center let me know I was not in this alone. Moreover, the emotion when I bested evil intoxicated me.

First, I was angry and I thirsted for revenge. Motivation for my early days centered on my parents, and I vowed to find the man responsible for their deaths. Well, the statement that I needed to find the man is an incorrect phrase. I knew the identity of my enemies. When you pursue the richest and most powerful man in Ireland, you will find obstacles at every turn.

Later I became the young buck ready to challenge the alpha male for supremacy. Like a swashbuckler, I broke into his stronghold and I dared him to take action against me. Even my best friend and partner in crime thought me a fool.

When my enemies stepped up to my challenge, I appreciated too late the folly in my plan.

The lofty costs of my mistakes still astonish me.

Go to Chapter 2 - a

Table of Contents

The Franklin Castle - Chapter 4

Table of Contents
Floor Plan 

The group of people milled about the formal hall. The uncomfortable feeling in the eerie room amplified, fueled by the uncomfortable event with Yvette. Little sunlight from the windows touched the interior of the house. Several spots in the main room the wood appeared stained black as if at least one fire touched these walls. Wood beams crossed the ceiling at intervals. Across from the entry, a staircase too large for the size of the main hall wound to the upper floors.

To the right a Tiffany stained glass door led to a parlor. The glass stood out as the only new and pristine object on the first floor, beautiful with etched designs looped in circles and shapes colored in light blue and beige. Above the doors, a semi-circular similar stained glass window caught what little light offered by the entry.

The sense of sadness radiated throughout the dark house. The darkness and oppression damped the mood and became a presence in the room. To the left of the front door, a fire roared in the large stone fireplace large enough to fit Ashley. The crackled of the fire amplified through the room and offset the cool early autumn breeze. A chilly draft blew from the fireplace hit Ashley and sent a shudder through her body.

The dingy theme of the house continued with the furniture, each piece dark, dreary, and thread worn. In a corner, workers stacked ladders and scaffolds. The ceilings contained impressive frescoes sadly faded with age. Dramatically brighter, a single spot on the mural stood out more vivid than the rest. Ashley marveled at the restored section of the mural and wondered what this room must have looked like in its prime.

Ashley squirmed as she experienced the substantial oppressive sensation inside the house. Her breath quickened as she stepped away from the large group. She longed to go outside.

Ashley stood alone in front of the fire and placed her hands on the wooden mantle. She looked up at the portrait painted in oil. The crackled surface appeared dark and faded, however the stern face in the portrait unsettled her. The man in the painting appeared angry, and glared through blue eyes from the aged canvas. The vivid eyes troubled her, and caused her to look away like a schoolchild scolded by a headmaster.

“Did that thing with Yvette bother you as much as me?” Keith said from behind her. She flinched and jerked her head to look at him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“That’s all right,” Ashley said. She looked back to the painting’s blue eyes. “Yeah, it really bothered me, too.”

“This creepy painting doesn’t help,” Keith said.

“Did you see the look on her face?” Ashley whispered. “She was terrified.”

“I know,” Keith said.

Ashley’s father and Dr. Lyman walked up to the painting with Dr. Fran. Ashley led Keith deeper into the main hall, past the stairway, away from the others.

She leaned towards Keith and spoke in a low voice. “Have you ever known a time when Yvette was wrong about anything with her psychic powers?”

“I don’t know,” Keith said. He rubbed the back of his head.

“I do know,” Ashley said. “And I can’t remember when she hasn’t been spot on. She may not flaunt her abilities like the others, but I can’t remember when she’s been wrong.”

“Okay?” Keith said.

“She’s a very neat person. She used to read my palm to tell my fortune. She was not like a fortune-teller at the fair that relies on observational tricks. She was specific about my future. She predicted my Dad would accept a job in Atlanta and we moved from Chicago. We did. She predicted I would go to a prestigious prep school, and I start at one in a couple of weeks.”

“She also predicted you would meet a Hollywood movie star and sweep you off your feet,” Keith said. “That hasn’t happened.”

“Yet,” Ashley added, her face broke into a momentary smile. “I have hope for that one.”

“My point is,” Ashley said. “If Yvette was frightened by this house, then I am scared as well.” 

Dr. Fran walked past Ashley and Keith and led the rest of the group in that direction. He approached a diagonal wall at the end of the main hall. He tugged on two ornate wooden doors that contained frosted glass with several cracks webbed through the design. After several attempts, the doors flung open and revealed a dining room.

Dr. Fran motioned everyone inside the room with a flourish.

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The Franklin Castle - Chapter 3

Table of Contents
Floor Plan 

Ashley looked out the window as the car turned into the long driveway.

Keith leaned towards Ashley and spoke in a soft voice in her ear. “This is the haunted house we’re staying in this weekend?”

“Not too bad, I guess,” Ashley said.

The neighborhood appeared old to Ashley, very old. Many of the buildings were over a hundred years old. The district contained numerous beautiful homes. Evident was the owners pride to restore their homesteads to their original glory. Other homes appeared in terrible disrepair, some on the threshold of condemnation. This house fell somewhere between luxury and dumpiness and seemed to Ashley to lean towards the decrepit end of the spectrum.

“With the right owner and some cheery landscaping, this has potential to be nice,” Ashley said. “At one time, this must have been a stunning mansion.”

The mansion, made of brown stones, towered three stories over a basement. Windows peeked from the ground below the first floor porch like watchful eyes following their every move. The house, narrow at the front, stretched long towards the back of the property.

“I read last year in school that taxation for a house built in the eighteenth century depended on how much frontage on the house,” Ashley said to Keith. “They built their homes with narrow fronts that stretched back to become massive places. In the Georgetown section of Washington DC, only the frontage of the homes appraised for taxation. There were many homes just wide enough in the front for the door and nothing else.”

The driveway ran along the right side of the house, flush against a two-story blue home in the adjacent lot. A vacant lot to the left of the house appeared just bulldozed with rubble strewn about the high weeds.

The right front corner of the house nearest the driveway rounded to a turret on the third floor. A circular balcony on the second floor wrapped around the windows. The stone gargoyles, which flanked both sides of the balcony, completed the home’s gothic theme. The stone guardians glared at anyone brave enough to look up. The left side of the house squared with a jutting with a balcony on each floor that ended in a sharp gable on the top floor. A widow’s walk connected the turret and the gable. Twenty feet back from the front porch, the house extended to the left for twice the width of the frontage, which looked like an addition to the original house but still a hundred years old. Stained glass windows adorned the newer addition.

“The house is so dark and evil looking,” Keith said.

“Architecturally, it looks spooky,” Ashley said. “Despite any legends of hauntings, it looks like something terrible could have happened here. I can imagine a restless ghost still living here today.”

“I can’t imagine why anyone would want to live here,” Keith said.

“And we have to live here the next couple of days,” Ashley said, and smiled at Keith.

Ashley’s body shivered when the car stopped in the driveway. A sense of dread spread through the pit of her stomach.

The car Ashley rode in made up the rear of the caravan. Passengers from the other vehicles exited before Ashley’s car stopped. The iron gate closed behind their car.

Ashley looked out the rear window and saw a lanky man, with incredible bright red hair. He struggled with all his weight to close the gate. In a neighborhood full of muted colors, he stood out with an orange T-shirt, blue jeans, and purple tennis shoes with orange shoestrings.

“He’s from California,” Ashley said.

“How do you know that?” Keith asked. “You’ve never been to California.”

“At least I think he looks how I expect a California person to look.”

The cars parked in the back of the property where the driveway ended at a large building separated from the main house, hidden by neglected overgrown shrubbery. A sign posted on the door read Carriage House, a two-story rectangular residence perpendicular to the main building. The garage dominated the first floor, with pull-down doors bays for three cars.

The passengers exited the cars and stretched their legs after the long drive from Hopkins International Airport. Ashley recognized all of the people except one. The group greeted each other as they walked up the driveway and around to the front of the house.

Ashley felt a chill and looked down at her arm to see goose bumps.

“Nervous about going into this haunted house?” The stranger said to Ashley, as he looked down at her arm. “I’m not quite certain what I’ll find in here either.”

Ashley’s Dad spoke from behind them. “You don’t really think this house is haunted, do you?”

“We haven’t even gone in yet and here you have an opinion?” The stranger said. “Not very scientifically objective, are we now?” His face broke into a mischievous smile, his brown hair blowing in the slight breeze.

“Oh, please,” Dr. Lyman said. “You’re talking yourself into it. Someone suggests it is haunted and you immediately believe it. People are so gullible.”

“And you are arrogant enough to suggest that I am one of those gullible people now, do you?” The stranger said.

Dr. Lyman stammered, unable to come up with a response. Ashley smiled as she attempted to conceal her pleasure. She never saw someone bite back at Dr. Lyman’s bitter comments, as she intimidated too many people. Ashley decided she liked this stranger and the way he carried himself.

The bright red-haired man shouldered his way through the group as they stopped in front of the porch. He gave Dr. Fran hearty handshake that seemed to jostle his entire lean frame. A huge smile adorned his narrow face and seemed truly glad to see the professor.

The sight of exotic red headed man next to the stodgy old-fashioned appearance of Dr. Fran Rogers amused Ashley. Between the bright color display of his client and Dr. Fran’s substantial paunch on his mid-section, the two could not have been less similar. Dr. Fran told anyone who with pride about his lemonade diet, which enabled him lose twenty pounds over the last few months. Ashley wrote in her blog that Dr. Fran owned the largest collection of drab brown ties in the world. Also noted in the blog, his lack of ability to wear his ties any further than halfway down his torso. Plaid pants completed the ensemble along with a beige shirt and tweed jacket. Dr. Fran called the color of his uncombed hair silver, which she noted he cultivated the mad scientist look with Einstein hair. His eyes appeared unnatural and large through the Coke-bottle glasses. An affable gentleman to a fault, it was a rare occasion when Dr. Fran’s voice raised in anger. Ashley remembered only a single instance of irritation from Dr. Fran. As a child, Keith and Ashley told each other ghost stories during a case to pass the time. Dr. Fran overheard them yelled at them in front of the entire team. He explained he feared they would spoil the scientific environment with such trash as ghost stories. As usual, neither her father nor Keith’s mother offered any defense.

Ashley had a theory as to why Dr. Fran never found a ghost: Because he was not looking for ghosts.

The red-haired man stepped up to the formal porch, which appeared as comfortable as a parking lot. Everything on the porch, including the benches, was made of stone.

“Nothing about this house looks happy,” Ashley said. She looked up and saw a large marble portico with stone gargoyles atop each column. Ashley stared at the hideous rock creatures and they looked back at her with malevolence.

At the top of the five stone steps were two massive red doors. A brass plaque set to the right of the door and it read Franklin Castle.

“It looks haunted,” Ashley said

“I wonder if that’s what started the whole legend,” the stranger said. “I wonder if most haunted houses have that reputation simply because of their appearance. I mean, have you ever heard of a haunted ultra-modern house?”

The front door emitted a tortured groan as the red-haired man opened it. He motioned everyone inside before he fiddled with the second set of doors. The group stood shoulder to shoulder in the dusty, small foyer. A rusted radiator to the right hissed hot steam into the humid August heat.

“Sorry, I promise the rest of the house is not blasting with heat,” the red-haired man said. “In fact, the house is always quite cool.” With a flourish, he opened the second set of doors to the main room. The doors slammed hard against the stoppers. People streamed into the dark wood trimmed main hall and peered around.

Everyone meandered into the main hall except Yvette.

Yvette Gonzales Richter, a long tenured psychic on Dr. Fran’s team, stood a slight five feet three inches tall with long dark hair. Dr. Fran referred to her as “The Anomaly” because she tested so high on his tests. She differed from the other two psychics in that she was unable to control her abilities. Experiences happened to her and images flashed in her mind. She could neither start nor stop her abilities, a victim of her power. When Yvette experienced a psychic episode, it was not pleasant.

Yvette stood in the steamy foyer and shook her head.

The man with bright-red hair stepped towards her. “What is it?” he asked, lines on his forehead creased.

She shook her head again with greater force. She grunted a few times before she mumbled. “I’m not going in.”

“What’s wrong?” Dr. Fran said as he passed through the door towards Yvette.

“I can’t go in, I just can’t,” she said. “There’s something here, something evil.”

“That’s why we need you,” Dr. Fran said.

Yvette sighed. “Okay, I’ll try.”

Dr. Fran hooked his arm under hers. As she stepped under the second doorway, she stumbled.

Tears rolled down her cheeks and she shivered. “I can’t do it. It feels like something doesn’t want me here.” She said, humming through the pause, before continuing quietly. “Or it wants me too much.”

“I need you to help us find an explanation,” Dr. Fran said.

“This is different,” she said. “This is real. This is dangerous.”

She turned and ran out of the house. When she reached the walkway outside, she turned to Dr. Fran, her eyes streaming tears and her face contorted as if in pain. “I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

She ran down the footpath to the driveway. Several moments later, a car pulled out of the driveway taking her back to the airport. The red-haired man opened the gate for her, struggling again as much as before.

Within a minute, her car sped down Franklin Boulevard.

Go to Chapter 4
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