Growing up, I heard whispers that one side of my family was part Native American. I’d stare into the mirror like a detective in a low-budget ancestry thriller, searching for clues—high cheekbones, mystical aura, anything. Instead, I found a confused expression and a cowlick that defied gravity.

Fast forward a few decades and I dove headfirst into the DNA rabbit hole. I spit in the tube, mailed it in and then . . . VOILA!! Hundreds of cousins I didn’t know existed and DNA that contains exactly zero percent Native American. Zilch. Nada. Instead, I’m apparently a walking Celtic mixtape—mostly Irish, Scottish, and British.

And now when I look in the mirror, I see it: the light skin, the freckles, the stubbornness, and the inexplicable craving for tea. Seriously, I am all about the tea!

These findings piqued my curiosity even more creating my obsession with Ancestry.com. Because who doesn’t want to know how they came to be? Especially when it might involve royalty, castles or scandal.

Maybe I would uncover a royal lineage—complete with questionable portraits, scandalous tiaras, and a distant cousin named Lady Moira McFuddle of Milford.

Maybe my family tree is less “oak of nobility” and more “jungle of fame and fortune.” Eccentric inventors, failed magicians, or the creator of Irish road bowling.

I’ve spent hours digging through the past. Not all at once—I’m not that caffeinated—but over a few months of sleuthing and muttering “Wait, what?” at my screen.

After some serious genealogical gymnastics, I traced my roots back to the 1700s when my ancestors packed up their kilts and crumpets and sailed to the U.S. But the real plot twist? My 12th great-grandfather, James Shaw.

James left Scotland and in 1625 he built Ballygally Castle in Northern Ireland. Fancy, right? But it gets better.

He married a woman named Lady Isobel (I’ve seen a few different spellings of her name) and took her from Scotland to Ballygally. Unfortunately, James wasn’t exactly husband-of-the-year material. A drunken wife abuser, he turned Isobel from blushing bride to tortured wife. Eventually, she came to be with child which was a happy occasion for the unhappy wife. She gave birth to a baby girl, which angered James (because patriarchy), so he took the infant and locked Isobel in a turret room like some medieval soap opera villain. Starved and separated from her child, she tragically threw herself from the turret window to her death. It is said she now haunts the castle going room to room in search of her baby girl. Honestly, if I were her, I’d haunt him in his grave.

Today, Ballygally Castle is a hotel and if you choose to do so, you can explore the ‘haunted’ part of the castle in search of Isobel. In other words, you can book a room in my ancestral home and maybe get ghosted—literally.

So . . . I don’t come from royalty or a famous inventor. At least not on one side of the family. But despite the sordid history, I’m still hooked. Is Lady Isobel my 12th great-grandmother or did James find another victim wife? I want to dig deeper, maybe even visit Ireland and see the castle for myself. Who knows? Maybe I’ll leave a Yelp review: “Lovely views, haunted by family drama. Would stay again.”