Good evening, it’s Spooky Boo Rhodes from Sandcastle, California. I hope you had a wonderful St. Patrick’s Day and you were out drinking green stuff and eating your corned beef and cabbage. For Sandcastle, we always have a big party here celebrating the fae, the leprechauns, and the pooka as well as the Irish Catholic and the Shamrocks. Back in the day, the High King of Ireland Brian Boru who, according to our ancestry file, is supposedly one of my relatives, tamed the pooka by creating a special bridle that used three hairs of the Pooka’s tail. But more on that later. Tonight we have other tales of Irish lore for you!
The story Irish Locket can be found in my collection of horror stories in paperback and Kindle or a signed copy of the paperback by visiting www.scarystorytime.com/sandcastle.
Now let’s begin…
Banshee Go Bragh
by MakRalston
The gent behind the bar hollered, “Sit anywhere ya please,” but Shannon didn’t hear him — rather, she couldn’t hear him. It wasn’t called ‘The Clangy Clover’ for shits and giggles, but a grouping of drunkies and a roaring fire just beneath a window still being weaved in streaks of rainwater wasn’t the reason why. Shannon couldn’t hear at all. She was deaf, but she didn’t need to be told to ‘sit anywhere she pleased’, she could do that all on her own.
“You’re a yank, ain’t ya?” The gent behind the bar now wasn’t, he was standing beside her at the little booth tucked just beneath the windowsill, aside the fireplace. That fire had caught her attention with all it’s crackling and popping like a tiny fireworks show, and she didn’t look up at him until the menu and napkins slid across her table. She made a face somewhere between a smile and a grimace and motioned with her hand as if she were writing on invisible paper that was floating in the air. The gent was confused at first but reached into his apron and pulled out a measly green pen. She nodded fervently, took it, and on one of the napkins scribbled something. She turned it to face him.
I’m deaf.
The gent raised two brows and nodded down at her, “Can ya read lips?” He said it like a tourist trying to talk to a native outside of their native tongue. Fortunately for him, she nodded.
“By the luck o’ the Irish,” he said, and he pointed over to the sign labeled ‘specials’ and smiled. It certainly was a ‘special’ day for some, that being it was the Feast of Saint Patrick, March 17th, and the list of the day’s options reflected that: corned beef, cabbage, colcannon, boxties, and stew, all of which were typical there, yet for a yank from the states it was just about as festive as having a leprechaun being shoved up your ass.
Shannon took a quick glance at the sign and began jotting, and not a moment later the napkin read, plainly:
Stew.
The gent nodded but before he could turn around, she grabbed the napkin and wrote something else.
No onions.
“We make it in a crock,” he said, “so I can’t go and give ya no onion. Besides, who the feck doesn’t like onion in their stew? That’s a crock.”
She smiled up at him and nodded understandingly.
“Ya still want it?” he asked.
She made a knocking motion with her hand and nodded alongside it, and the gent meandered into the kitchen. Shannon sat silently, cleared her throat after a sharp cough, and looked around the place. Clearly, there was some kind of music playing — she couldn’t damn well hear it, but the fella at the booth behind her was tapping his toe pretty hardily in 6/8 time. She smiled. A couple of guys were clinking their pints at the bar, a bearded one shuffling a deck of cards, and just behind him, a woman danced a soft jig.
“Here’s that stew,” the gent said, setting it just before her at the table, “I tried me damnedest to get a scoop with no onion. Tell me how ya like it.”
She pressed her fingers to her chin and lowered them down at him before lifting the spoon out of the bowl and swallowing a nip. It was nice and warm, much like the place she had found herself in on such a cold, wintry night, and it was rather heavy on the potatoes, yet obviously, she expected as much. She grabbed the pen and napkin and wrote again.
It’s good.
“I thought ya’d like it,” the gent smiled, flashing a set of yellowed teeth. “It’s me Mammy’s re-“
He was about to go on when a single, shrill wail from just beyond the rain-pattered window brought him to silence. It was almost so faint that he couldn’t even hear it, but when the same scream, still muffled by the glass but clearly closer now, rang through the joint again, he froze. And though he could peer out into the night, he couldn’t see anything. Shannon continued to look up at him with bewilderment and lifted both of her hands from her chest; the single, silver spoon dangling from between her thumb and fingers like a cigar.
He looked from beyond the window back down at her but couldn’t speak. His heart, too, was thumping in 6/8 time, and he was about to ask her if she had heard it, but already knew her answer, and a quick glance around the place answered the second question on his mind.
“I-it’s me Mammy’s recipe,” he finished, spitting it out like the plague. He was about to walk away but his knees grew weak, nearly buckling, so he sat down across from her at the booth and dug the scruff of his chin into his knuckles, which were worn and smelled of Guinness. The pub, which only seconds earlier was coddled in the warmth of the crackling fire, was now chilled as the night outside. At least, to him.
Now seated across from the man, Shannon stared the stranger dead in the eyes as she wrote something else on the same dinner napkin, freshly smeared in beer broth and lipstick.
What’s wrong?
The gent shook his head and looked around the place — everyone was going about laughing and drinking and dancing as usual. No one else had heard the scream.
“Shite,” the gent said, hushed under his intoxicated breath. He turned back to face the woman, but his attention was drawn to the large clump of matted hair floating in her stew. Something beneath it was bubbling, and the once-gravy-brown color of the broth was now a deep red that reeked like rusted metal. He was about to gag just as the hair began to sink back into the contents of the bowl, and that’s when the ghastly white face of a woman emerged from the bubbling broth, her mouth wide and filled with the same gurgling suds. She was screaming.
The gent was too.
From around the pub, several glances were made in the man’s direction, however considering the occasion, and the reputation of such a place as ‘The Clangy Clover’, a bit of hollering wasn’t going to surprise anyone, aside from maybe a couple of tourists dressed in all green and sticking out like a sore thumb in the opposite corner. Men had been killed for wearing such a shade.
Another glance down at the bowl and the face was gone, replaced once again with the woman’s stew, still steaming. The woman, whom he’d later come to know as Shannon, hadn’t noticed the entire ordeal, though her face was flushed off all its once-inviting, warm color as if she had. She was staring out through the hazy window, and if Irish eyes could smile, hers were most definitely shouting. When he saw that awful expression on her face, the gent lightly grasped her shoulder and she jolted at the touch.
“Gather yourself,” he said. She puffed four rapid breaths, coughed into her sleeve, and placed her hand over her heart until she calmed. “You aight?” She nodded and grabbed the pen.
There’s someone out there.
“Who?” He was staring at her like he was shooting darts. She wrote.
A woman.
“Was she screamin’?” he asked. Shannon swallowed and lifted the pen again, more hesitantly than before.
I don’t know.
“Why?” the gent asked.
The Headless Banshee.jpg
She didn’t have a head.
The gent combed his scraggly, gray hair with his hands, which were now trembling. He reached into his apron pocket again, the same one which once housed the little green pen, and pulled out a small bottle of Jameson. He chugged it. Meanwhile, as he did, the woman reached for her spoon — she had well lost her appetite, but she supposed there was some sort of comfort to be found in a hot meal.
“Don’t,” the man said. She couldn’t hear him, so he waved his hands at her, and when they locked eyes he said again, “Don’t.” She grabbed the napkin.
Why?
“Onion,” he croaked, and for a second was relieved by the sound of his own laughter, until it turned into a fit of coughing. She wasn’t laughing, though. And, again, she lifted the napkin.
Why?
The gent sighed, “Why’re ya here?”
Shannon stared at him silently and then lifted the napkin once more. This time, she held it up for longer.
“I can read,” the man said, “I’ll answer that when ya answer me: why’re ya here?”
She took the napkin and, still looking at him, scribbled something.
Looking for someone.
The gent attempted to suck whatever he could from the empty Jameson bottle and was only met with the fumes of a liquor ghost, “Who?” She wrote.
Family.
“You’ve got family in the Emerald Isle? Your clan?”
She wrote again, this time on the back (since the front was nearly covered).
My parents.
“Your parents?” he said, clearing his throat with a chuckle, “What’re they doin’ in Ireland?” She was already answering his question, and as she wrote she nearly choked on her own spit. She was sick, clearly, and that fair skin of hers which he assumed was from Irish blood might’ve been another tell-tale sign of that.
That’s what I’m trying to find out.
The gent nodded and pushed the bowl from between them to the end of the table, glancing out the window again. The rain had stopped, and just before he was about to sigh, a flash of lighting and the immediate crack of thunder rolled through the place, not that it would shut any of the drunkards up, of course.
“You an orphan?” he asked. The woman nodded. “What’s your Christian name?” She flipped over the napkin.
Why?
He stared at her, “I just wanna know,” he finally said. “Then I’ll tell you what I know.” She wrote.
Shannon.
The gent bowed his head, leaned forward, and extended a still-trembling hand, “Daniel O’Brien. Call me Danny.”
She shook it, though somewhat hesitantly, as the man tightly gripped her hand in his. After he rested his arm along the table, he sighed and stroked his chin.
“Y’ever heard of the banshee?” He took the pen and napkin from her and wrote the word down: B-A-N-S-H-E-E. She shook her head and pointed to the word still scribbled on the sheet, just below his.
Why?
“’Cause you fecking asked,” he chuckled, though his voice was robbed of any joy, and again the laughter ended in a harsh swell of hacking. Shannon nodded her head and he continued, “The banshee is an Irish spirit. Me mammy told me the legend when I was a wee little one. She said that the banshee’s scream, if ya heard it, meant one of your clan was gonna die.”
Shannon squinted but didn’t do anything but sit there. She didn’t need to write anything; her face said it all.
“I know,” Danny said, “I know. Stop lookin’ at me like that.”
Shannon blinked, only once. Danny sighed. Then he laughed. It was a hoarse laugh.
“I might be a wee bit drunk,” he said through parted lips, “but I’m not that drunk.”
There was silence between the two of them again, and now it was Shannon who was staring darts into the eyes of Danny. They were reddened eyes, strained, dilated, and bulging with tired veins. He didn’t say a word, yet those eyes spoke a million until it was his turn again.
“How’d ya know your parents were in Donnybrook?”
Shannon turned and peered out the window again, watching as the post-rain fog rolled across the dewy glass. She looked at him and lifted the napkin, pointing to the word he had written: BANSHEE.
“We’ll get back to her,” he nodded, patting the wooden table, and still trembling (but calmer than before), “right now we’re talkin’ ‘bout you.”
Still looking dead at him, Shannon slapped something onto the table between them. She lifted the flat palm of her hand and revealed a box of playing cards, inscribed with the name ‘Emerald Isle’. He lifted the box just as Shannon began jotting something else. His eyes began to swell as, again, he coughed, but that was not the reason why. On the side of the little white-and-green box, a string of letters plainly read, “The Ormond Printing Co. Limited. Dublin. Made in Ireland.”
Before he could comment, Shannon slid the napkin toward him. It said:
This was my father’s deck, a full set except for the three of clubs. It was made here in Dublin. I’d like to finally meet him and my mother. I’m sick.
Danny smiled a shy grin, which was unbefitting of him given his brashness up to that point. He reached into his pocket (not the apron but his actual pants pocket) and pulled something out, smacking it against the table.
He sighed and that timid little smile vanished from his cheeks. He then lifted his trembling hand to reveal a three of clubs.
Shannon instantly slapped him across the face. It was a knee-jerk reaction and was only followed by a sea of tears flowing out of her eyes. Danny was crying too, but that didn’t stop him from speaking his mind; a once-again familiar trait, most befitting of him.
“I deserved that,” he said, “you didn’t, Shanny.”
Shannon, who was still choked up, pointed at the napkin now soaked in her own tears. The word, running with green ink, still read:
Why?
“I ask myself that every night,” Danny said with a sniffle, “if I find an answer, I’ll tell ya.”
Shannon jotted something, biting her lip. She was afraid of the words she was inscribing into that paper.
Where’s Mom?
All Danny could do was shake his head, and she knew right away what he meant, “That was the last time I had heard the banshee. I begged the Lord that I’d never hear her cry again.” After a silent moment, which, mind you, was still just as clangy as the Clover, he lifted the three of clubs and held it, tightly, between his pinchers. His voice was stronger, now.
“Y’ever wonder why it’s called the three of clubs?” he asked, tapping the shape beneath the number with his finger, “that’s a shamrock.”
Shannon didn’t respond. She wanted answers, not more questions. What happened to her mother? Why’d they leave her? Was the banshee going to kill her? And, for some strange reason now, what’s with the three of clubs?
“Pretty funny when something’s hidden in plain sight,” Danny said, lowering his voice to a whisper, even though that didn’t make any difference to his deaf daughter. “In the states, the yanks call it the ‘Lads in Black’ or some shite, here in Erin it’s the ‘Club’ — both ‘cause of this,” he said, tapping the clover shape, “and ‘cause if you tell a soul ‘bout it they’ll club yer ass to death.”
Shannon shook her head in confusion. Danny looked over to the bearded man playing cards beside the bar, and then back to Shannon.
“That’s Connor Ferguson,” he said, “two o’ clubs. I’m three. We aren’t like the yanks,” Danny said, brows furrowed, “’tisn’t a gov’ment job. We’re like a militia against the fair folk.”
Shannon shook her head again. She didn’t understand, but how could she? Danny pounded the table and held two fingers high above his head. Not a moment after did the bearded fella, Connor Ferguson as he called him, clink two, green beers onto the table.
“Who’s the lass, Boy-o?” Connor Ferguson grinned down at her with a smile, but Shannon wasn’t reciprocating it. He swallowed and then turned back to Danny. “Want me to deal ya in, Danny Boy?”
Danny shook his head and Connor, rather confusedly, meandered back to the drunken bunch of gamblers while whistling Danny Boy to himself, taking one last glance over his shoulder at Shannon. His eyes looked familiar, perhaps from a memory that she couldn’t remember.
“Your mother, God rest her soul, started this place thirty-five years ago today. Connor was here from the very beginnin’,” Danny said. Shannon continued to wear her confused expression, and Danny chuckled. “What? Ya think I dreamed of being a barter? Not much barterin’ to do when you’re protecting your clan from the fair folk.”
Shannon grabbed the napkin and pen and began scribbling again. Danny tapped it and caught her attention. He pointed to the beer before her.
“Ya better drink up,” he smiled. Shannon continued writing.
Who are the fair folk?
“Feckin’ yanks,” Danny muttered under his breath. “Fair folks are the fae — the fairies.”
Shannon’s eyes lit up.
“Yeah, ya read me lips right. But they ain’t fecking Tinker Bell, Shanny. They’re boggarts, goblins, and…ya…banshees. Now, not all of ‘em is bad. Hell, take our banshee out there for example,” he said, pointing to the window, “she’s what we call an omen. She only tells it as it is. Every clan has one. That’s why, when ya saw her, I knew ya was me own flesh and blood. That’s why no one else seen nor heard her cry.”
Shannon swallowed toughly; it was a hard pill, after all.
“I know ya don’t wanna believe me…believe me, I know. But your mother and I did what we did to protect ya.” Danny’s lip quivered and he bowed his head. “When she told me ‘bout your listenin’” he said, pointing to his ear, “I thought lady luck had stopped smiling on us. We were young and we were scared. I thought your deaf ears were a curse-“
Shannon interrupted him and bitterly wrote, ripping the napkin some in the process:
They are.
Danny shook his head, “You were our greatest blessin’, Shanny — are our greatest blessin’. I’m sorry we were too blind to see it, then. But I see it now-“
Danny’s speech was interrupted by another high-pitched howl from outside. It was even closer than before as if the thing’s lips were now pressed against the window’s foggy glass. He didn’t look. He faced forward, and as he stared at his teary-eyed daughter, she coughed again. Only once, but she coughed hard enough to spit blood onto her sleeve. She wiped it with the napkin. At that moment, Danny’s Irish blood ran icier than it ever had, and immediately he reached out with his old and cold hands and embraced hers. They were cold, too, but full of life.
“Is it bad?” he asked. Shannon nodded without looking up at him and Danny muttered something softly to himself, perhaps a prayer or plea (either to God or the godforsaken banshee) and scooted up in the booth until his gut was pressed against the table. “And this was the first time ya seen her? The banshee?”
Shannon bobbed her head and Danny’s lips parted into a smile, but now there was joy in his demeanor.
“I remember when you was three,” he said, his eyes glowing like emeralds, “it was the last week we’d ever seen ya, and all ya wanted was a unicorn,” he chuckled. “Your mother told ya there was no such thing,” he said, reaching into his other pants pocket, “but she was talkin’ a load of blarney.”
Danny lifted his hand and placed a large, golden horseshoe smackdab between them on the table. Shannon stared down at it with bewildered eyes.
“I got this from Scotland. I carry it ‘round with me as a sign o’ good luck,” Danny winked, “but it was always meant for you, Shanny.”
Shannon lifted it to her watery eyes. It was heavy, and it glimmered louder than the fire. Before she could thank him, Danny had already placed another trinket onto the table.
“This is me die,” he said, lifting his fingers and nudging a tiny white cube, dotted with six black dots atop it, toward his daughter. “It was with that die that I won your mother,” he smiled, shrugging, “well, not won but…well, y’know, we were both playin’ Craps for shite…and I tell her ‘Let’s go’, and we did. And that’s how you came along.”
Shannon nodded and picked up the die, rolling it around in the fingers of her hand, holding up the golden horseshoe with the other. Danny, who had grown more somber within an instant, held out his final charm.
Banshee (until the end of time).jpg
“This one’s the most special,” Danny said, lifting up a three-leaf clover; a shamrock, which was creased and wrinkled up and had clearly seen sunnier days, “most feckin’ idiots will tell ya the four-leafers are the lucky ones…but they’re wrong, Shanny.” He held out the tiny, green plant and pointed to one of its droopy petals, “Father…Son…Holy Ghost,” he said, extending it to her, “Patrick rid the Emerald Isle of serpents, and God willin’ we’ll keep the other devils out.”
Shannon took the shamrock in her palm and looked up at her father as a single tear caressed the heat of her face. Danny smiled a toothy grin and, for the last time, whooped a final, bellowing cough from his lungs. He glanced over to the window and noticed the glaring white face of the woman, the same one from the stew, staring back at him. But the banshee wasn’t screaming; not anymore.
Danny looked back over to his daughter, pushed the lonesome three of clubs toward her from his side of the table, and said, tenderly and hushed, “Good luck, Shanny.”
And with that, he keeled over onto the table and died.
The Wiles of the Leprechaun
by Evan.dollarhide
I’m writing this now because I don’t know when I’ll get another chance. I don’t want to tell people face to face, because it’s humiliating enough for me to know what they think of me, because of where I’m going. You see, I’m going to spend the rest of my life in a sterile, cold, lonely prison cell.
Here’s what happened. For the last two years, I’ve had hard times. I’ve had a shaky employment history. That makes it really hard to get the next job. In turn, that then makes it easy to worry about where to get the next paycheck. That, in turn, makes it very easy to worry about where to find a cardboard box to sleep in.
If wishes were fishes, there would be no room left in the river. I would wish for so many things in those days. I wished for a stable job. I wished for a cure for my depression that didn’t involve me tearing hundreds of dollars from my already meager pay, just to pay for placebos and Gandhi-esque absolutes. So, all I have ever gotten from my post-high school life was a lot of holes in my heart, and my pockets.
Wishes do not come true, or so it seemed. On my pay rate, I could not afford any of the luxuries or comforts in which one may forget their sorrows, such as video games, friends, evenings at the local bars diving into local brews. What I could afford to do was walk. I lived on “that” side of the railroad tracks in town, just on the edge of the woods.
It was a nice time of year. We’d had a lot of rain in the area, and everything was green as could be, and a cool breeze combated the heat of the afternoon like a refreshing drink of ice water. I would walk the nameless paths where, if you wanted to, one could become blissfully lost. There are paths for everyone: the hardcore climber, the lazy looper, the brisk slope. The last one was my favorite. It was enough physical exertion to keep my mind off the pile of horse pies I called an existence, but little enough that I could easily make it back to my “hovel”.
Looking back on it now, I must’ve walked that path a thousand times. It never got old. The air would always taste fresh, the breeze would feel clean, and the sunlight poking through the leaves felt pure. It was a place to cleanse the soul. I knew the place so well, every log that would offer a place to rest, every stone, the creek of crystalline water.
So, you can imagine my surprise when I noticed just how out of place it all seemed, that one fateful day…
I was on another walk, about two months ago. I went earlier in the day, planning to walk further than normal, the one medicine I knew that really worked. I brought a bottle of water, wore my jeans and jacket, and my hat was pulled over my eyes. I felt that the air had a mild bite to it, fall was coming up quick.
As I walked, I thought about how nice it would be to walk this trail in the fall, when the aspens turn to gold. Nature is wealthy, and generous too; look at all it shares with us and how much we take. I was about halfway through my walk, and thinking about how I could go blind and still know my way around the trail when I saw something I must have missed, which I thought was impossible.
There were these two boulders that seemed to form a wall in this gorge, like a gate diverting the path elsewhere. It was just a place you’d run into and go another way. But as I rounded the turn, my eyes fell on a little gap in the rocks.
It was about two feet tall and maybe two-and-a-half wide; small, but too large to not notice. I walked up to it, and I immediately thought of Alice and Wonderland, the hole that the White Rabbit runs into at the beginning. Funny, “down the rabbit hole”, indeed. If only I had known.
I was intrigued; this was like being a kid again, the thought of becoming a great explorer, if only in my own mind. I took into account the size of the hole and stooped down to look into it. There was light at the other end, and the “tunnel” was only about a dozen feet along. So, murmuring “I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date,” I got on my hands and knees to crawl through.
It went easily, and I stood up at the other end, somewhat surprised at what I had found. There before me was a rocky canyon, only about twenty feet wide, with rich, green moss growing everywhere. I was impressed at my discovery and walked into it. It got deeper and twisted like a passageway in the Paris Catacombs, but it never went underground.
Just when I thought that I had made the greatest discovery ever, I rounded a bend and nearly dropped a brick from my underpants.
I had come into… I guess what you could call nature’s Cul-de-sac, a circular pit, with a dripping waterfall at the end, and a pool in the middle. None of these beauties were what I saw at first, though. I was riveted on the strangest creature I had ever seen in my life.
It was sitting on a rock slab by the pool, its feet dangling into the cool water. For the tiniest split of a second, I thought it was a human, perhaps a child, but my stare proved me wrong.
It did have a vaguely human shape, and had a thin build, almost a stick figure; it had a gray beard that came down to its waist. Its ears were huge, and it had a long nose and fingers like taper candles. The skin was white as wax and wrinkly. The best description was a mix of a shriveled old man and Pinocchio.
It also resembled a human because it wore clothes. They were once green, but so faded it was some drab color, and it had a long pointed cap on its head, worn and wrinkled, and a cracked, black leather belt around a pencil-thin gut.
I thought that he… that “it” had not noticed me, but the moment I tried to freeze in place, it slowly turned its head to face me. That moment was when I was sure it wasn’t human just because of those eyes. They glowed green as poison from under bushy gray eyebrows, like emeralds in a spotlight.
My terror must have looked amusing because, somewhere above that beard, a tiny pair of cracked lips curled into a mischievous grin of pointy, yellowed teeth. The grin someone gets when they know something you don’t. I heard it speak in a reedy but clear voice.
“My, my, my. Ye found me at last.”
It was still taking all of my concentration not to pee my pants, so I could say nothing. It scratched its chin with its bony fingers and hopped to its feet.
“Don’t worry. boyo. Plenty of folks find themselves where ye are.”
I finally gulped down the stone in my throat to utter a question. “Where is here?”
“Ah, the downside of the hill of life, of course. Difficulty. Problems. In yer instance, money. That marvelous, shiny stuff that causes most, if not all human problems.”
“Human? Then… what does that make you?” I asked sheepishly.
The bizarre little thing twirled on its bare feet, its arms spread out like an exuberant girl showing off a new dress. “Well, I can tell ye, boyo, ye lads and lasses got the look all wrong. Red hair, green jacket with shiny brass buttons, shamrocks, and all that rot.”
The once beloved image of a short, red-haired, jolly little man in green clothes clashed in my mind, and now brought only revulsion, even compared to this ghastly looking imp. “A leprechaun?” The word sounded ridiculous, even in that moment.
The creature clapped its hands excitedly and jigged about making shrill noises. “Oh, penny for the smart one there, bright lil’ lad, aren’t you? Bright as mud!”
I was not about to be mocked by the Irish version of a Jigsaw doll, so I clenched my fist. “What the hell do you want, you… you…”
“Ye can say it, I’ve heard it all by now. ‘Tis music to me ears. Ye long-legs are not as good with insults as ye used to be.” It spoke dreamily, as if not talking to me at all, and it stared off into nothing. I was about to speak when it continued in its screechy but dreamy voice. “Listen here, spindle shanks. What if I were to tell ye that I can fix yer woes?”
“Say what?” I asked stupidly.
“Ye’d like to be kept off the streets, eatin’ the rats and roaches, ye’d like the comfort of a home to the misery of living under a tarp, eh?”
“How would you know that?” I felt slightly violated to know that somehow, some way, this odd creature put me at a disadvantage, that it had been watching me somehow.
“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, and it doesn’t even matter how I know. What matters is that I can help ye with yer problems. I can help ye with yer finances. I can keep ye from sleeping with some mangy stray mutt in some alleyway.”
I don’t deny that I was tempted, my need for answers dampened by this tantalizing offer. But somehow, that little cricket in my head still remembered that all this was very wrong. “What’s it gonna cost me?”
It gasped dramatically and clasped its bony hands over its chest. “Oh, dear, my ‘reputation’ precedes me” the Leprechaun leered. It then dropped the theatrics and looked very solemn. “Listen, boyo. There is NOTHIN’ ye have that I could possibly want. Not a thing, even if ye were a king, I have it all, and more. All that ye need do is accept.”
I had read enough online stories in my spare time to instill some fear in me of these backwater deals. “What do you want, sign my name in blood? Sell you my soul?”
It comically began slapping its forehead with its palm, rolling its eyes. “Tis like talking to a bloody rock in here, innit? I don’t want nothin’ at all! In fact, ye don’t even need to do anythin’, except say yes or no. Once that happens, ye’ll never even see me again. So, I’ll ask ye one more time. Do ye want to forget your worries about money? Don’t ye want to live in ease? Simply answer me… yes, or no.”
I don’t know how long I stood there, silently thinking. It must not have been long enough. No matter what this creature was, I did need money. I did need ease. I needed relief from the hell I had been living for so long. So, I looked it dead in the eyes and spoke simply, but clearly, the one word that ruined my life.
“Yes.”
The withered little Leprechaun giggled, clapping its hands again, and the grin on its face stretched even wider. Quick as a flash, it lunged to within short range of me, until it was looking up at me from at my feet. It looked even fouler from so close, but when it extended its tapering hand, I shook it without a thought. Its skin was cold, clammy, but the grip was strong as iron.
The next thing I knew, I was standing back at the turn in the trail, my back against the stones. The sunlight hurt my eyes as if I had just come out of the strangest dream in my life. Wishful thinking, looking back on it now. I turned to the rocks, only to find that the hole was gone.
I went home immediately, surprisingly refreshed by this break in banality. I went straight to sleep, almost convinced that I had imagined the whole thing. When I woke up the next day, I thought that perhaps I was mad.
I had little time to think since I had just woken to an alarm. I swung my legs down to head out the door as if all were normal. My foot connected with something, and, completely unprepared, I flew sprawling to the floor. Stars filled my vision, and I rolled onto my back rubbing my bruised jaw. As I sat up, the curses on my breath froze when I saw what I had fallen over.
A wooden chest the size of a little red wagon was sitting dead center on the rug. It looked very old, the wood starting to warp, the iron bindings rusted, and a creaky padlock securing it shut. Taking a shovel from the nearest neighbor’s yard, I broke the lock, and opened it to the most jaw-dropping sight I had ever seen, a sight that now fills me with dread.
The box was filled to the brim with gold; gold coins, gold bullion, gold jewelry. I must have sat there for several minutes, still as stone before I screamed for joy, dipping my hands into the treasure like life-giving water, flinging it about the place, burying my face in it, being a proper fool.
Days later, I had made plans to start pawning the better stuff for cash, so I started to sort it all out into boxes I grabbed from behind the local booze store. I looked and pawed each one, thinking of the golden aspens outside, and of the path. Gee, how short-lived joy can be.
See, I had gone through about two-thirds of the box, having sorted and stored this part of the findings and sold some of them, when I came across a gold plate. There was something on it, this brownish stain that looked almost like rust. I wanted it to look nice when I would sell it, so I made to clean it off when I smelled it. It smelled like when you have a nosebleed. A sinking feeling told me that I knew what it was. Blood.
I looked at some of the other, more buried pieces. Some of them had blood on them too, and I was surprised. That’s when I found the knife at the bottom. It was not made of gold at all, in fact, it was a four-inch switchblade. One that I had once owned, but had lost weeks ago. The knife with my fingerprints on the handle, and the blood of three people on the blade.
The next day, when I was trying to plan on what to do, a S.W.A.T. team kicked down my door and dragged me to jail in handcuffs. It all happened so fast I said nothing in my own defense. However, in the past few weeks, things became all too clear. I had been connected to the murders of three different wealthy people who collected gold items, all of them within my home state. No one had even seen who had broken in and killed them, but the evidence was overwhelming. Each had been stabbed to death, their stolen gold now had my fingerprints all over it, and it was all too clear that I would have had a clear motive: I needed the money.
I didn’t even try to defend myself. How could I have? The evidence was all against me. And what was I going to tell them? What would I say to them, about what I had met in that forest? To be honest, I’m gonna be in here a long time, and I’d like to keep a shred of my dignity and sanity. I prefer a state prison to a mental institution. I am writing this with a pen after all, not a crayon.
The law of conversion of mass says that matter cannot be created or destroyed. I realize now that I was a fool. Magic does not exist, and never will. Everything has to come from somewhere. I just didn’t think of where the gold came from… or who it had come from.
The Bargain
by G.M. Danielson
I stared into my pint of Guinness. In the dim corner of the pub where I sat, the brown liquid appeared almost like rosewood. I played with the foam at the top a moment, then glanced down at the four other pints strewn around the table like partially played chess pieces, all in various stages of consumption. I’ll admit I never liked to actually finish a pint, rather get each to its own point where I grew tired of it, then start another. Starting a pint felt better than finishing it. I’m not sure if that’s because the foamy part tasted better, or because finishing it reminded me Lynn wouldn’t be coming back. When we were in love, I’d always leave half a pint for her to finish. She’d said once she liked the bottom part since it tasted stronger.
God we loved each other. She was almost like a dream. Dirty blonde, tiny nymph-like body. She always wore flowers in her hair and loved the outdoors, though not because it was another way of spelling fitness. She read and wrote poetry (and not the shite nowadays that doesn’t rhyme, and tells everyone reading the shite life of the author as though it were as good as Othello), delighted in making clothing (her handmade undies…I still get excited thinking about what she used to wear underneath everything else), and above all, she loved to talk. We’d talk about everything and never anything dirty. It just didn’t feel right with her. Actually, of all the girls I’ve been with who enjoyed discussing sex, no one could make me blush like Lynn. Other girls would get all frank in public places the morning after a romp, but it never did anything for me except rouse incredulous laughter. But all Lynn had to say was something like, last night…remember? or Colin…when you brushed my shoulder with your fingertips…and I would blush brighter than Rudolph on Christmas Eve, and squirm to boot. She had a way of saying everything without saying anything. God. If we’d have been food, I was all beefsteak and potatoes; she was all saffron and fois gras. Shite that sounds stupid, but it’s one of the only ways I can put it. And we never did anything dirty…ever. But I swear she satisfied me to a point where I would smile inexplicably almost every day.
Then we fought. She started it, but I really was to blame. And I didn’t listen—well, I did, just not enough. The flame flickered low and went out. Now, we barely notice each other at work. We still talk, but she has never said the special things she used to whisper to me again. I miss them terribly. I miss her terribly. Sometimes, I still say things to her, and I know she hears; sometimes she smiles. But she never replies. She knows it hurts me.
And still she never replies.
Does she know she’s too good for me…or that I can’t get better in certain ways (to compliment her)…and like a proud fine thing, allows the passage of time to work its bitter magic and dissever what once was bound?
The sound of a finger tapping one of my pint glasses roused me from my daydream. I looked up, but nothing and no one was there. From below my table, I heard a whisper, and looking down, I saw crouched at my feet a terrible, queer little creature, draped in the thickest scarlet felt you can imagine, a weird grin on its face, and a gnarled finger at its lips. It motioned me to remain quiet, but I was too speechless to utter a word. I looked around the rest of the pub, certain someone else had seen what was happening. However, no one moved or even looked in my direction. How the creature had managed to tap my glass while remaining unseen was beyond me.
I looked back down and saw it grin evilly. I shivered.
“Colin!” Its voice sounded like a deathly wheeze. It tapped my knee with a hideously long claw to get my attention.
“A-are you—”
The creature bowed slightly, doffing a strange tam-like hat. “I am Ciaran the Leprechaun! I beg your pardon, but I must not be seen; indeed, it is in the nature of my folk never to be seen by those other than whom we choose.”
The word choose made be bite my tongue. “You, and all other Leprechauns, then?” I whispered in return.
The creature spat violently. “No! Fool, know you not that we like Mankind are a vast and numerous race, possessing many clans, all similar, all from one ancestor? But some of these lines are wholly cancerous and not acknowledged by my kind. Hm-hm, yes; you understand. I am a true Leprechaun of the oldest times. We live beyond the others; we are greater, you might say. In short, we know things the rest do not. We deal in the deep magic ere the Tuatha dé Danann reigned. Red is our color, for we are old and wise. Wise in our own way. And we keep watch on you though you do not keep watch on us. We have always watched the heirs of Ulster, weak as they are, for your weakness is our need and we are bound to you. So fear not.”
I was incredulous. “Do you honor me?”
It smiled. “I do. Weak as you are, you no longer have the disability of the Ulstermen. And you have a need do you not.”
I hesitated.
“No, no,” it crooned, stroking my knee. “No lies. No hiding. The Big People are seen and known by the Little People who understand many things. It is the proper way of things. You miss someone do you not? As a weak Ulsterman, you feel weaker since her departure?”
“This is ridiculous!” I cried, half-attempting to draw attention to my table.
The creature dug its claw into my thigh. “It has always been the law between our peoples that we bargain; such is my business with you. We bargain and do not cheat; we deal creature to creature secretly. Neither betrays each other.”
Though it did not speak the consequence, yet I knew it; and dazed though I was, I did not fool myself with notions that such a consequence would not befall me if I cried out again.
“This someone,” it continued, “no longer desires you in equal measure with your own affections; it is a common fact among your race, but not with so acute an effect as in your case.”
I smiled, amused that it sought to distinguish my condition so.
“I have mentioned both our races’ mutual arrangement and in short have come to bargain. You must likewise bargain with me, agreed?”
Again I hesitated.
“Agreed?” it rasped, drawing blood from my knee.
I waved my hand in parley. “Yes. Agreed,” I whispered.
The word felt like a knife in my throat.
“Good! Then let me state my proposal.” Out of his sumptuous felt coat he drew a strange, curved bottle of red glass, one of many I saw that lined the inside before he covered them once more. He held it up to me, a lurid light in his eyes. “This is a treasure inestimable in value; one I have made while watching you. It is as you suppose and more: a potion of lovers. With it, there is no regimen, no system, no catch; its truth known to Fergus mac Roich. I give it freely to you. Make her love you.”
I took the proffered bottle and stared at it in the light. “And what am I to bargain in return?” I said, trying not to stammer.
It tilted its head, brushing its wiry beard. “Your life.”
I nearly dropped the magic bottle.
“Take it. She will love you. Indeed, she will love you not only in this life but in the next. Her love will be as unbroken as was Nessa’s of old. But to possess such love…you like Fergus must die.”
So. This was my choice: to love eternally…or live unhappily. “How…when am I to do it? Am I to kill myself?” The very words that escaped my mouth left me cold.
The creature laughed hoarsely. “The way is meaningless. But the death must be…or she dies not loving you.”
My mind reeled. Disbelief paralyzed my limbs. Suddenly my thoughts became clear. “No. There is another way.”
“There is no other way,” it sneered.
“What is given may not be used—ever if needs be, and if the will is strong.”
The creature leered at me, baring its teeth.
“Not only so,” I continued, “but what is bargained to one may be bargained back to the other.”
The creature clawed my foot. “And what is gainsaid in bargaining may be punished!”
I did not blanch. “This is my bargain: I give to you this potion of lovers, to make she who loves me love you. And your bargain shall be to emerge out of darkness and shadow if indeed she loves you, to no longer crawl and tempt. Are we agreed?”
For the first time, the creature hesitated. He growled gutturally, muttering deep in his throat.
“Are we agreed?” I announced, feeling confidence surge in my veins.
The creature glanced around, fear in his eyes at being discovered. It glowered at me, hatred in its eyes at being bested. Then it drew a dagger hidden in its coat.
I flew backwards in my chair, kicking the table over as I did so. Now unmasked, the creature dashed away, seeking whatever shelter it might find. But all was too late. It had broken the law of its kind. Before we could capture it, it turned and fell on its own weapon, piercing itself in the heart.
The police did not question me much concerning the events in the pub, though I have offered to oblige them with a full written account of my discourse with the creature, as well as a public statement should they require it. I have since been questioned only once in great secrecy, and paid handsomely to remain quiet. I suppose things never change; the authorities always find some way to lie and conceal the supernatural around them whenever it rears its frightful head. Though I promised under oath not to tell a living soul of what happened that day in the pub, I have since met with Lynn and confessed everything. She didn’t speak a single word to me either in trust or doubt, merely listened to all I had to tell. Somehow, I know she believes me. She doesn’t really need to tell me she does. I have not told her about the potion. The police have said nothing, and unless they do, I will remain silent about it forever. I keep it with my at all times, in a pocket or inside the breast of my jacket on cold winter days. Sometimes I look at it, knowing as I stare into its vitreous depths that I hold in my hand Lynn’s eternal love for me.
Do I think the creature lied about her love? I don’t consider that part of our bargain.
The Headless Fairy
by KingSparta300
The memory of the night my grandmother passed away is perhaps the most clear of my entire childhood.
“Get in the car, Michael,” my father had said while I sat on the floor, playing with my toys, “we’re going to see your grandmother.”
“Why?” I asked him, “Is grandmother making us tea and biscuits?” A grandmother’s tea and biscuits are always the best.
“No,” my father said, his eyes dark and clouded, “she’s sick, Michael. Very sick. We have to go see her right now.”
“Should I bring my pajamas?” I asked. “I could sleep over again. That would make her feel better.”
My father clenched his fist and tried to say something, but instead his mouth snapped shut as he bored into me with broken eyes. They weren’t usually so strange and sad. I didn’t understand why he would be. We’d visited grandmother a good many times before when she was sick. I was sure those visits helped her get better.
“Let him bring his pajamas,” I heard mother say. She came up behind my father and gently rested a hand on his shoulder. Her eyes were also strange and sad, but not as hard as father’s.
“Alright,” father said softly. “But we have to go right now.”
Mother got my Postman Pat pajamas while father started the car. When I got into the booster seat, she buckled me in. Her hands felt cold. I noticed her eyes were somewhat damp. When I turned to my father, his were practically soaked. It was so hard to see them like this.
“Mum, dad,” I said, “why are you crying? Grandmother will be alright.”
Both were silent for a few moments. My mother’s hand rested on dad’s, and she gently began to rub it soothingly, like she did for me when I cut myself.
“Not this time, Michael,” father sighed, “not this time.”
The drive was quiet and still. I didn’t say anything, just held my pajamas in my lap. My parents said nothing the whole way, aside from mother telling father which way he should go. He would only answer her with an ‘I know’ or a ‘thank you.’
Grandmother’s house was way out in the country. It was a big, two-story house, with a low stone wall encompassing it, the driveway and the yard. Her gate was rusted at the joints and squeaked whenever it was opened. Tonight, we parked next to the wall. Father practically ran out of the car while mother collected me. I watched as he pushed the gate open and then was inside the house. Mother closed the gate behind her carefully, but our pace was just as quick and tense.
Inside, some of grandmother’s friends and neighbors were already present. Like me and her son, she was an only child. People like Mr O’Brian, the local pig farmer, kept her company, as did that McCune woman. I never liked her much and now that I look back, I can’t understand why. She was so eager to help out during the whole ordeal. Made me some lovely sandwiches.
I heard people muttering about when the doctor would be here or how far Father Riley was. It was discomforting to hear them whispering to each other and giving me a look of sympathy whenever I asked them what was wrong. They never answered, though, just said I needed to go see grandmother.
When mother finally led me upstairs, father was clutching on grandmother’s hand tightly, as if he thought he could do so forever. Her arm was softly caressing his back, as she hummed softly. “It’ll be alright,” she said softly, “everything will be alright. I know this is hard, but we’ll see each other again someday. You, me, and your father.”
When grandmother saw me enter, she smiled and patted her son’s back a few times before lightly kissing his cheek.
“I’d like some time alone with Michael,” she said softly. “One last talk with him. Just the two of us.”
Father sniffed hard as he stood up, his every breath as unstable as a crooked wall. Without a word, he and mother left the room, gently closing the bedroom door behind them. And so now I was left alone with my dear grandmother.
“Oh, Michael,” she said, extending her thin, wrinkled arms to me, “come here, my dear boy.”
She didn’t look anything like herself. However, seeing the old, weak husk of a woman who, just months before, had been able to carry me on her shoulders without much trouble, was not particularly upsetting. She still had those same eyes full of deep, sincere love I had grown to find safety in.
I could hear my father crying as he marched downstairs, even through the closed oak door. It wafted up to the room and penetrated into me. The safety of my grandmother’s eyes weren’t a reassurance anymore.
Her fingertips gently traced my cheeks as she smiled, keeping her lips pressed together. Her blonde hair descended down from her scalp in flowing curls, but I could see the clumps where it was falling out.
“Oh Michael,” she sighed, “dear boy. You know the old stories we shared together? Of the púca and fear dearg? How the leprechauns play the fiddle as the little people dance?”
I nodded and smiled with her. Those were lovely stories. Stories of nature, old and mysterious, of the creatures which lived there and how we must be wary of them.
“You know where I keep the book containing those tales? Go get it – there is one Aoi Sí I must tell you about before I go.”
I didn’t like how grandmother said she would go. It sounded like we would never see each other again. Not even the passage of time and maturity has diminished how much I dislike them. But I was a good boy who did as I was told and got the book.
Grandmother’s book was an old, dusty thing, bound by faded leather and decorated with intricate spirals. It was on a bookshelf which must be the same age, and thankfully just in reach for a child like me.
It was a heavy book, and my small body struggled to hold it as I waddled back over to her. She hurried me along, all the while glancing outside the window into the night. Licking her dry lips with a dreadful anticipation, her eyes were searching for something. More than once she cocked her head to the side and listened before breathing a sigh of relief.
I set the book down on her bed, and grandmother opened it quickly, brushing through the pages filled with words I couldn’t read but beautiful pictures of small men in wonderful clothes that I loved to trace over with pencil and paper. My grandmother had read this book to me many nights already, but in the short time we had together, she never did read me the whole thing. That undertaking I would perform on my own.
On this night, she hurriedly flipped through the pages until she came to one in particular. My eyes were drawn immediately to the picture of a large black horse rearing on its back legs with horrible, furious eyes that gleamed with an ethereal power I could feel even through the illustration. There was a rider on its back, dressed in clothes the same shade as the horse. This rider had no head upon his shoulders, but instead held the rotted and grinning thing in his hand, the other holding a whip of bones. I shivered at the sight of it, gazing into unnaturally large eyes that shone with a sickly light. The grin plastered across it stretched from one ear to the other, exposing yellow, jagged teeth while the skin hung down off it in tatters, the same color as moldy cheese.
“Michael,” grandmother said softly, “in this fine country of ours, there is no creature more terrible than the dullahan. Some call him Gan Ceann. That’s Irish, Michael. Do you know what it means? Go on, tell me.”
I thought back to the Irish lessons my grandmother had given me, and the answer came to me in a flash. “Without a head.”
“Very good,” my grandmother said with the warmest, proudest smile I’ve ever seen, “very, very good. There’s something very important you need to know. Gan Ceann is coming here tonight.”
“Why? Why’s he coming here?”
“Because the black rider comes for those like me, Michael.”
“You mean…old people?” I asked, staring up at her with a quizzical expression. She laughed softly.
“Aye, sometimes, Michael, he comes for the elderly. But not all the time. Sometimes he comes for those who are sick, or those who have been in a car accident. Sometimes he comes for little babies in their cribs, sleeping soundly. And sometimes he comes for soldiers on the battlefield. He must be very busy then.”
“Why is he coming for you?” I asked, becoming distressed. “Is he going to take you away, grandmother? He can’t! I won’t let him.”
She smiled warmly at me, stroking my cheek with her knuckles. “Ah, Michael, there’s nothing you can do to stop him. Unless,” and here she chuckled softly, without a hint of malice or mockery but only forlorn longing and affection, “you have some gold. He’s terrified of the stuff.”
I blinked and shook my head sadly. “What’ll he do to you, grandmother? Will he hurt you?”
“It’s alright Michael,” she said again, patting my head, “I don’t think he will.”
“What will happen?”
She opened her mouth and this time I saw how many of her teeth, those lovely white teeth of hers, now were slightly brown with black stuff building between them. “He shall call my name, my love,” she said sweetly, “and I shall go home to heaven, to be with your grandfather. You don’t remember him now; he went there before you were born.”
I knew enough about heaven to understand. Sniffling, I rubbed my nose on my sleeve. “Use a tissue, Michael, use a tissue,” she said gently, “you’ll get your lovely shirt all dirty.”
“I don’t want you to go to heaven,” I said with water streaming down my cheeks, “I want you to stay here and read me more stories.”
“Oh, Michael, don’t cry,” she said as she took my hand, “we all have to go one day. Tell you what, when it’s your time, I’ll make sure everything is perfect for you. We’ll have a party so big even God Himself will get drunk, and we can read so many stories together. Would you like that?”
I nodded, and then she wrapped her thin arms around me, holding my body close to hers. A knock on the door interrupted us. “That’ll be the doctor,” grandmother sighed, “you’ll have to now. But Michael, listen closely. Don’t go outside tonight, and if you have to, the moment you hear the pounding of hooves and a horse screaming, I want you to lay face down, close your eyes and cover your ears. Don’t open them no matter what, otherwise, you’ll go blind, and we can’t have that now, can we?”
I shook my head as the door opened. The doctor, a tall, thin man in a white coat was accompanied by the parish priest, Father Riley. The two men ushered me out of the room. As I saw the door swing back its hinges, my grandmother held my gaze one last time, her last farewell. But just before she was blocked from my sight, I saw her expression change as she seemed to recall something and then there was a great panic in her eyes as the doctor inserted a needle into her arm. “The door,” she said weakly, “oh Michael, beware of the doors!” Then she was gone.
It was against my weak protestations that my parents sent me to the car while they stayed in the living room. I tried to ask father if he had any gold so we could stop the Dullahan, but he just scowled at me and said not to bother him with fairy tales. Mother took my hand and lead me back, locking the doors after she gave me a kiss on the forehead. “Get your rest Michael,” she said to me, “your father wishes to be alone right now. We’ll be out soon.”
They weren’t. I waited for what felt like hours in that cold, freezing car, laying on the passenger seat as I tried to rest, but I could only think of my grandmother and her panic that was my final memory of her. I pondered over it, turning it round and round in my head with all the brain power a five-year-old could muster, but that isn’t much to speak of.
Then the doors unlocked. I sat up, expecting to see my parents coming round the side of the car doors, but nobody was there. Not a soul.
Instead, all four doors swung slowly open, with no assistance from any living creature I could see. I stared through the window out into the night and saw the door of grandmother’s house also lay open, the bright light of the house streaming out and illuminating the darkness. I jumped when I heard a crash from behind me and turned to see the gate had swung open all on its own. It bumped against the stone three times before coming to a rest.
All was still and quiet, save the wind through the trees and my shallow gasps for air. It traveled through that same wind and wafted about me. The fear of this dark night and what it had to offer me.
Something was coming. Something dark and dreadful.
It came over the hill. The first tramping footfalls of hooves, faint but carrying a sinister power that no child should have familiarity with. Then I saw a faint, pale light in the distance, coming closer and close as the tramping got louder and louder. It passed under the trees which adorned either side of the road, but through the leaves, moonlight trailed down and I saw a figure. A horse, far bigger than any I have ever seen before or since, was approaching fast, its snout twisted into an angry grimace. I only briefly saw the rider upon its back, yet that glimpse turned my blood cold as grandmother’s last warning was whispered into my ears.
The dark rider really had come. And I had no gold to protect myself or grandmother.
For a moment I almost tried to run back inside the house, but I hesitated. And those wasted moments closed off that choice completely. The rider was coming too fast for any adult to hope to outrun it, let alone a child.
I curled into a ball on the seat, closing my eyes tight and pressing my palms hard against my ears. I mustn’t look nor must I listen, that’s what grandmother had told me, but I could still feel the vibrations from every crashing hoof grow stronger.
And then, as I finally heard the harsh snorting of the horse which overpowered every over sound, the tramping stopped For a moment, I almost considered opening my eyes to take a peek. But I knew grandmother would be so disappointed in me if I didn’t listen to her last instructions.
Then came a slow clopping which stopped just outside the open door. The horse’s snorting was now so close I could feel the otherworldly presence with each breath, and it was accompanied by the dreadful odor of rotting flesh. I gagged but kept still through sheer fear.
Then I felt something against my hair, blowing hot gusts of wind that washed across my soul. I shivered at a horrible sniffing sound that accompanied it before cold, rough flesh pressed against the top of my head. Flesh I later came to know as that of a horse’s nose.
And then the dullahan spoke my grandmother’s name. His voice was loud and as full of sinister power as the rest of him and that horse, yet there was neither malice nor hate in it. Instead, it was filled with a somber calm. The horse gave a cry and the terrible pounding was back with full force, but this time it grew fainter and fainter, before finally fading away.
Trembling, I finally uncurled myself and heard running footsteps. It was my parents. Mother kissed me when she saw I was alright and father couldn’t stop looking up the road after the rider, shaking from head to toe. They scooped me up from the car before rushing back into the house, slamming the door shut. Inside, the other grown-ups were whispering to each other, badly shaken. The air around them was filled by their dread and fear as they huddled around me, peeking out the windows every now and then. There was some talk of calling the police, but in the end, nobody did. They prayed and beseeched God for protection instead because the police wouldn’t be any help. The doctor inspected me for any injuries, and when he said he found none, the collective sigh of relief lifted the dreadful tension only slightly. I overheard the priest remark that “it was a miracle the rider of Crom Dubh didn’t harm the child.”
We waited well past midnight before going back to our house. The priest came with us, leading us in reciting the rosary. None of us slept at all, though I tried. Every night I did from then on, I had nightmares of that demonic horse chasing me down before it sunk its teeth into my arm and ripped the flesh from my bones, crushing my skull under its hooves. My parents took me to several doctors to make the nightmares stop, but they didn’t help. I came to dread sleep and prayed always for a pleasant dream, just one to bring an end to these horrific nights. But like all things, even those horrible nightmares drifted away and bothered me no more.
But I will never forget that voice, nor the nightmares that came from hearing it.
For I know one day, I too shall hear it call my own name. And I will finally be able to read stories with grandmother again.
Irish Locket
by Spooky Boo Rhodes
Text available in the book Sandcastle Horror, Volume I on Paperback, Kindle or Kindle Unlimited amazon.com.
How to Trap a Leprechaun
by MakRalston
So, you wanna catch a Leprechaun, aye?
My fascination with the tricky little green bastards started one year ago today—St. Patrick’s Day. Or, rather, the Eve of St. Patrick’s Day—when my daughter brought home one of those tiny makeshift “leprechaun traps” that they make in Elementary schools for the holiday. It was a cute ‘lil thing: an old shoebox, painted green, held up by a popsicle stick tied to a sliver of green yarn. Clever, I’ll give it that.
It was what she said, however, as she placed the thing next to the doggy door in the kitchen, that struck me as deceptively clever, “you can only catch ‘em if you believe in ‘em, Dad!”
Now, that’s exactly the kind of thing that a public elementary school teacher would say: if it doesn’t work, you didn’t “believe hard enough.” A good excuse, no doubt, which leads to my first, and most important, point:
And let’s get it out of the way: you don’t actually believe in Leprechauns. I know it’s a cute idea: the whole “pot o’ gold at the end of the rainbow” scenario. But, let’s be adults here: scientifically speaking, anyways, rainbows have no end. They’re circles—which makes the entire idea one big joke. Kids eat this stuff up—just like Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy—but just like anything that’s too good to be true, it isn’t. There’s no pot of gold ‘cause there’s no end to a rainbow. And there’s no little Irish guy that you can catch that will magically grant you three wishes to let him go, right?
Well, so I thought.
See, despite my unbelief my daughter very much believed in the whole Leprechaun thing. And that’s the part that matters. How’s the Proverb go? Faith like a child? That’s the idea, here.
So, step one is that you need a child. Presumably yours. If you don’t have a child then I question your interests in the whole “Leprechaun” thing to begin with but—I digress. Obviously, the younger the better. Because younger children tend to be more—pardon my bluntness—stupid. They believe in a lot, and you’d be surprised as to how large of a commodity belief is in the world of the supernatural. In a word: very.
Step two is getting to know your adversary. Just like any hunter, you’ve got to get, at least in a rudimentary sense, an understanding of your prey. Leprechauns are small, but they aren’t stupid. And I know you still don’t believe in them, but they don’t care. In fact, they hope you don’t believe—that’s a part of their trick.
Leprechauns are Irish folklore, obviously, deriving many of their legends and lores from the stories of Celtic faes, or fairies. Unlike many types of fae, however, Leprechauns are always male. Don’t ask, it’s magic. And, just like most males, Leprechauns are mischievous. Oh, and they love money. Mostly gold, but you already knew that.
When I say love, I really stress love—as in, they will kill for this gold. Think about it: imagine being three to eight inches (maybe taller, I’m not exactly sure) in stature, cunning as all hell to begin with, and schlockered up on Irish whiskey. You’d kill anyone that’d try to so-much-as look at your gold, wouldn’t you? So, moving forward with this whole ordeal, be careful. I will not be held responsible if you’re not so “lucky” by the end of this.
Now that you’ve got the basics, it’s time to get into the nitty-gritty: catching a live Leprechaun.
You’re going to feel like an idiot. But just like any idiot that strikes gold, you’ll be begging for someone to pinch you cause you’ll feel like you’re dreaming. Either that or you weren’t wearing any green. My daughter saw to that one…
This leads me to the bait. Which, if you fish you should know this, is the key to catching the right prey. There are a couple of options, some better than others, but here’s the basic breakdown:
Simplest of all, you’ve got potatoes. Leprechauns love potatoes. Not as much as gold but, as any drunk Irish dude at a pub will tell you, they love a good spud. The downside to potatoes is that you’d only entice the really hungry Leprechauns. The other ones wouldn’t dare stick their neck out for a quick bite.
Secondly, you’ve got shoes. I know you do—probably some old, nasty ones stinking up your closet up to the Heavens right about now. It’s a little-known fact that Leprechauns are shoemakers, and shoe-fixer-uppers for that matter, so if you leave out some worn-down shoes, most of them can’t resist but mend and polish them. And, hey, if all else fails, at least you’ll have some nice shoes to fill by the end of this.
Lastly, and most costly is, obviously, gold. They simply can’t resist it. An old gold watch, gold tooth, gold…whatever will do the trick. Just make sure it’s not fool’s gold, or else the only fool is gonna be you.
Now, to trap the little runts you’re gonna need one of two things: a four-leaf clover, or iron. And, considering that four-leafers are one-in-ten-thousand, I assume the latter will be more readily available. Iron is extremely harmful to fairies of any kind, due to its contents being strictly “from Earth”—whatever that means. Iron is found in loads of common household products, like hammers or frying pans, so it should be easy to access. Even something as simple as a metal nail will do the trick. This is magic, after all.
In brief, you’re going to construct a little “leprechaun trap” of your own. Don’t overthink it: keep it simple, just like the kiddies do. And, speaking of kids, it needs to be arranged in the same household as a sleeping child. As I said before, their belief is the key to all of this.
It can be as small as a shoebox or as large as an entire room. Ideally, it should have only one “exit” point, to prevent the little bastard from escaping. Place your bait of choice in an obvious spot, and tie off something that makes noise to it. I need not go into every option but… use your imagination. We are talking about hunting Leprechauns, here. The easiest option would be to tie a tiny bell or something similar onto whichever bait you chose. That way, when the Leprechaun snags it—you snag him.
Leprechauns are solitary fairies, which means they tend to say out of the limelight—which also means you’ll probably need to be up late for this trap to work. It could be anywhere from sunset to sunrise, but a good rule of thumb is between midnight and four AM.
I cannot stress enough that Leprechauns are tricksters. You probably won’t see the little imp, but don’t let your unbelief fool you…he’s there. Any rapid clicks or chimes that you might hear late in the night are nothing but the belts on his shoes. And if you hear them, you’ll realize how fast these little things are. So be alert.
If you’ve ever read up on Saint Patrick, you might’ve heard the legend of how he banished all the snakes from Ireland. Some say this is a half-truth. Some say these “snakes” were actually Leprechauns themselves. No scholars will confirm this, of course, but keep in mind that Patrick wanted to spread Christianity in a nation full of Pagans; Pagans who believed in, and worshiped, gods like Lugh—a craftsman and crafty warrior. If that name doesn’t ring any bells for you, keep in mind that Lugh is sometimes pronounced “Luq”…as in, the Luck of the Irish. I told you these things are deceptive little devils. Why else would Saint Patrick call them “snakes”?
Once you hear the audible sound of your trap snapping into action, you’ll have but seconds to react. As I said, they’re fast. If your trap’s under a box, pull the string and place your iron object atop it. If the trap is in a room, barricade the door with your iron object. It’ll take only seconds for him to realize he’s been caught, but even less time to think up a trick to get himself out of it.
Do not forget this: he owes you three wishes, now.
Don’t be surprised if he doesn’t start talking right away. He’s counting on your unbelief, waiting for you to lift that box, open that door. Don’t give him the satisfaction of such a simple escape.
If you successfully keep him trapped for a certain duration of time, he’ll realize he’s been bested, and think up a new scheme to weasel his way out of his obligation of the three wishes. They’re stingy—don’t let this one escape without your ransom payment.
Some Leprechaun catchers claim they’ve heard sounds from within the traps—sounds of helpless pets or loved ones—begging to be set free. Or, maybe, they’ll watch a beloved family photograph “randomly” fall from the wall, prompting the use of that iron hammer all-so conveniently.
These are all tricks. The Leprechaun knows just the right buttons to press. They think humans are stupid, greedy monsters. Don’t let him win.
You’ve got to be tough. You’ve got to believe. ‘Cause, when I heard the voice of my daughter from the other side of our basement door, I doubted myself, and this whole “Leprechaun” thing, for a long minute.
“Daddy? Why are my school sneakers in the basement? I can’t open the door, Daddy!”
It’s a really good trick—the kind that messes with your mind. Do not, no matter what he tells you with that lying, deceptive tongue, open that door, lift that box.
And be prepared for a long struggle. Leprechauns don’t give up their gold, their wishes, their lies, easily. It might take hours, days…weeks to get the little bastard to give in. Hell, it took mine nearly a week just to give up the whole daughter mimicry charade. It hasn’t spoken since, but I refuse to open the basement door until it does.
I know it will—eventually. And always remember: it owes you those three wishes.
