J. Sheridan Le Fanu's The Sexton's Adventure: A Detailed Summary and Literary Analysis

 “Ghost Stories of Chapelizod” is one of several small cameo collections of ghost legends that Le Fanu published during his life. The stories are typically dressed up versions of genuine Irish lore, all of which are polished in a particularly Lefanuvian manner – that crepuscular, twilit queasiness that have made “The Familiar,” “Schalken the Painter,” and “Green Tea” famous. The following excerpt from that collection effortlessly reminds one of “The Drunkard’s Dream,” yet with a far different ending, and – as befits a good campfire ghost story – no supernatural ambiguity to speak of: this is a straightforward tale of a man who is stalked by a ghost who wants to drag him back to hell with him.

“The Sexton’s Adventure” was coupled with two other tales: “The Village Bully,” and “The Spectre Lovers.” The first describes a brawling thug who humiliates a young whelp in a fist-fight; the lad dies soon after, and – as a ghost – gives the bully a paralyzing stroke with one touch. “The Spectre Lovers” tells of a boy who witnesses a phantom regiment from the 18th century, and later watches the ghosts of one of its officers honoring a rendezvous with the woman he impregnated and whose baby he may have killed. Both of these are splendid campfire stories, but they don’t quite have the heft or horror of this chilly tale.

SUMMARY

In this eerie and moralistic ghost story, an aging parish sexton named Bob Martin serves as both a figure of authority and superstition in the village of Chapelizod. A sexton is a church caretaker responsible for maintaining the churchyard, digging graves, and often ringing the bells—a figure frequently associated with death and spiritual vigilance, though rarely one of spiritual virtue. To the local boys, Bob is a bogeyman who prowls the graveyard, scaring off truants who play leapfrog over tombstones or peek into the crypts. With his “rusty, sable vesture,” “small, frosty visage,” suspicious grey eyes, and weathered wig, Bob is a figure born for Gothic tales.

Despite his official duties and outward severity, he’s a man of contradictions—his morality often “nodded,” and he was well known to enjoy a dram or two (or many more) of whiskey. His tales of ghosts and local scandals made him a welcome guest, especially to those willing to pay for his drink in exchange for stories both merry and macabre.

Chief among Bob’s companions was “black Phil Slaney,” a brooding publican with a “saturnine” (melancholic) temperament who operated a tavern across from the old turnpike. Slaney, though not an alcoholic by nature, found in Bob’s ghoulish tales a strange tonic for his low spirits.

Their friendship, fueled by drink and dark humor, deepened—Bob provided company and tales; Phil paid the bill. Yet their companionship proved mutually destructive. Bob drank more than ever, and Phil—under the constant influence of his unsettling friend—grew gloomier, his financial and emotional state declining until, one somber morning, he locked himself in his back room and shot himself in the head, the bullet blowing off “the upper part of his skull.”

The horror of his friend’s suicide rattled Bob. Perhaps fearing the judgment of others or the specter of death that had finally taken one of his own, Bob sobered up—at least mostly. Though he still indulged now and then, he kept himself largely reformed, earning his wife’s cautious gratitude and the renewed respect of the town.

Roughly a year after the suicide, on an autumn evening heavy with thunderclouds and atmospheric dread, Bob was summoned to the curate’s house to receive instructions for a funeral. His wife, handing him his hat, begged him to stay away from drink. She pleaded with him using Irish endearments—“darlin',” “mavourneen,” “acushla”—and with an urgency born of hard-earned mistrust. After a brief verbal sparring, Bob angrily promised, “divil carry me if I drink a drop till I come back again,” sealing his vow with a curse, unwisely binding his abstinence with supernatural terms.

As he walked to the curate’s house, the public houses glowed warmly, wafting whiskey-scented air, but Bob resisted. The curate, however, was delayed on a sick call, and Bob was made to wait—alone—for hours. It was nearly midnight when he left, the town now sealed in darkness, the storm breaking over the Dublin hills, and lightning exposing the houses in ghostly flashes.

Passing by the now-defunct public house once run by Phil Slaney, Bob noticed a curious light filtering through its shuttered windows. Beneath the glow sat a man on a bench, his hat pulled low, a long pipe between his lips, a bottle and glass beside him, and a saddled horse waiting nearby.

The scene was strange, but Bob rationalized it—perhaps a traveler finishing his drink outside after closing time. But as he passed, the stranger raised the bottle and motioned for him to join. Bob, though tempted, declined politely, reminding himself of his vow. The man repeated the gesture more insistently, even lifting the bottle and jingling the glass. Bob’s mouth watered, but he stayed firm. Then the stranger stood, following Bob silently with bottle and glass in hand, his horse close behind. The glow of the pipe cast a red aura, “like the lurid atmosphere of a meteor,” that clung to the figure as he dogged Bob’s heels through the storm-shadowed street.

Frightened now, Bob tried to lose him. “In God's name,” he cried, “fall back and don't be tormenting me this way.” But the stranger advanced, head wagging, glass extended. As Bob reached his home by the riverbank, he pounded desperately on the door, calling for his wife. The stranger stood before him, now without his pipe, uttering growling, “cavernous sounds,” and poured a glass from his bottle. Bob screamed once more, invoking God's name.

At that moment, the figure flung the bottle’s contents at him—not whiskey, but fire. A stream of flame burst out, whirling around them both. The man’s hat flew off, revealing the horrific truth: his skull was split open, the top blown away, “roofless,” just like Phil Slaney’s. Bob collapsed in the doorway just as his wife pulled it open, the smell of smoke still lingering in the air.

The next morning, the old thorn tree above the doorway was found scorched, as if struck by lightning. The locals quickly understood what had happened: the specter of Phil Slaney had returned, summoned by demonic forces to tempt Bob into breaking his oath. Had he taken the drink, the saddled horse would have borne both ghost and sexton away to the infernal realm.

The tale, as the narrator dryly remarks, “requires no moral”—for the image of a flaming bottle, a beckoning ghost, and a grave-digging drunk nearly damned by a midnight sip tells its own cautionary lesson: keep your word, especially when you swear it to God… or else.

ANALYSIS

If you’ve been enjoying Le Fanu and would like to read the rest of “Ghost Stories of Chapelizod,” I would certainly recommend it, although – as previously alluded – the other two stories don’t quite carry the uneasiness of this creepy tale (although the ending to “The Spectre Lovers” is rather surprising and mysterious). What makes “The Sexton’s Adventure” so different is the utter malignity of its ghost – a predatory, invasive mercenary who ruthlessly stalks his prey, a man who was his only friend in life. Unlike the spirits in “The Spectre Lovers” (a forlorn couple who relive their miserable affair) and “The Village Bully” (a battered victim who exerts a just – and even restrained – revenge on his killer), the mutilated stalker in “The Sexton’s Adventure” is unnecessarily sinister toward his friend, and his zombie-like lack of loyalty, pity, or justice defy Victorian conventions where ghosts are supposed to act as benevolent protectors and guides to their friends.

Once again, we see Le Fanu’s version of the supernatural: merciless forces sent to entrap weak-willed humans regardless of their good intentions. Martin is far more fortunate (and resolved) than Connell in “The Drunkard’s Dream,” but just barely: he is aggressively and effectively tempted in a bid to collect another sinner for hell. And why? Who gains from his damnation? Not the suicidal bounty hunter sent to bring him in. Satan, or hell, or heaven, or the gods, or the cosmos, or whatever force oversees men’s fates must be fundamentally sadistic – they gain more from a man’s ruination than from his redemption. And this is the universe that Le Fanu chooses to represent. As with most supernatural fiction, it is tempting to write this off as mere theatrics meant to entertain, but beneath the surface of these works (especially those of artists like Le Fanu, Lovecraft, Bierce, and Poe) lurks a cohesive, philosophical vision – one related more to the psychological conditions of mankind than the metaphysical laws of the afterlife.

So too here: even though Martin passes his test, Le Fanu’s story still illustrates his cynical worldview – that humanity is left alone to rely on our sheer willpower to resist evil, that those temptations usually prevail, and that even when our will is stronger than our desire, the people around us – even our best friends – are more likely to comply in our destruction than support us in our nobler ambitions.

You can read the original story HERE!

And you can find our annotated and illustrated edition of Le Fanu's best ghost stories HERE!