Murder in an Irish Cottage. Carlene O'Connor
fairies, or shape-shifters, or piseog, one of the many Irish words that referred to the supernatural. Such tales belonged in the pages of a book. Ellen groaned at the thought of the professor’s book. Dylan Kelly. He was also behind this. Riling everyone up with the promise of wild tales. Enough. She didn’t want to think about them anymore. Ellen Delaney dove into the tent and rifled through her bag for her bottle of Powers whiskey. This nonsense would end tonight. She had made a bet. In her quieter moments, she called it a “Deal with the Devil,” but she would see to it that the terms were honored. As she sipped on the whiskey and looked out over the soft green hills, kissed by the lingering sun, the conversation played in her mind, like background music:
“If you’re so sure fairies don’t exist, spend the night near the fairy ring. ”
“I will, so.”
“Sundown to sunrise.”
“Not a bother.”
“Alone.”
“If I do, what’s in it for me?”
They opened the calendar to study the cycles of the moon. The twenty-first of June, the summer solstice. Ellen’s daughter was leaving for a conference in Dublin just at the right time. Ellen had no intention of forcing Jane to camp overnight with her; she wasn’t built for it. Legally blind, her daughter startled easily. With Jane gone, it was the perfect weekend to do it. She said as much, and the next thing she knew the date was set. Friday evening, sundown. An official agreement between villagers. The contract had been drawn up, witnessed, notarized, and signed.
Streaks of red and orange in the sky promised a remarkable sunset, and soon a full, honey-colored moon would send sweet light shining down on her. Ellen continued to gaze out over the meadow as she sipped her whiskey. Sixty-four years of age and she never failed to be awestruck by the landscape. One didn’t have to profess a belief in fairies to cherish the trees, and the rolling green hills, and the cragged rocks. Preserve away, just don’t get carried away! Stories had their place, and their place was on the lips of seanchaíthe—professional storytellers enthralling folks gathered around a roaring turf fire.
Yes, she respected storytellers, with the exception of Eddie Doolan (don’t get her started), who could be seen spouting off everywhere she looked, draped in theatrical garb and stuttering around pretty women. He was giving professional storytellers a bad name, had no right to call himself a seanchaí.
Speaking of fools, in the distance a clump of color soon turned out to be her fellow art students, hiding behind their easels. Annabel’s evening painting class. She’d forgotten all about it. Was Mary Madigan among them, Annabel’s prize student? They would capture the setting sun, and the full moon, and then be gone. She prayed her tent would go unnoticed, relieved that the brown material blended in with the night and no one would think to look for it. She thought of making a fire but didn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to herself.
When the sun finally dipped below the horizon, the art students packed up and disappeared. The moon did not disappoint—a fat orb pulsing with life. So palpable was its glow, Ellen could almost feel a magnetic pull, igniting the first prickle of fear. Nonsense.
She crawled into the tent lest her imagination get the best of her. Moments later she opened the flap and peered out at the hawthorn tree. She had to admit, against the amber sky the gnarled branches were ethereal and downright witchy. She took a last gulp of whiskey, noting with some shock the dent she’d put in it, as the nibbles of worry turned into vicious little bites. Would their deal be honored? How could anyone prove she’d actually spent the night? It dawned on her now, how foolish she’d been not to ask. Was she being watched? Once the thought hit, it took root, digging deep into her psyche. Someone, somewhere, was watching. Maybe several someones.
Let them.
There was a slight chill to the air and she snuggled farther into her sleeping bag. Fairies! Those tales were for fools. What time was it? Had she been here an hour or four?
They put a stray on you. If a fairy put a stray on you, you could be standing in your own yard and nothing would look familiar. What felt like days might only be hours. Was this what was happening to her?
Stop it. Stop it right now. Shame on her, a schoolteacher. She knew where she was. She knew who she was. A right fool. All to prove to an even bigger fool that no fairies meant her harm.
She just needed to fall asleep, that was the key to surviving this night. She’d been forbidden to bring her sleeping tablets. Cheating. At least the whiskey went unchallenged. She’d gotten the short stick, she saw that now. What was to stop a person from creeping up on her, pretending to be a fairy? She would not be fooled, or frightened. There was no need to jump at the crack of every little twig. She set her head back in her sleeping bag, pulled it up to her face, and closed her eyes. Outside there was a faint whistling of the wind, and her limbs began to relax as she listened to nature’s tunes. How sweet. It sounded like flutes.
Flutes! Someone was playing music nearby, trying to make her think it was fairy music.
She shot up, wishing she had brought a weapon. A knife from the kitchen at the least. She pawed her side for her torch. If anyone tried anything, she could strike them with it, and run. She found it, gripped it, then relaxed again once it was securely by her side. The wind was louder now, more of a roar than a whisper. She attempted to soothe herself by imagining cheerful fairies, dancing around the ring. Nothing to fear as long as you stayed out of their way.
The cottage was in their way. Why else had all the poor souls who lived there before her come to such misfortune? Just say it . . .
They died.
She sat bolt upright, for the voice had sounded real, not in her head, but like someone whispering the words directly into her tent. They died, they died, they died. A chorus of whispers now. How could that be? How could anyone know what she was thinking and finish her sentence out loud?
She reached for her torch but felt only the soft ground underneath the tent. It had been right there, right by her side. She was being tricked. Set up. She pawed the ground on both sides, all around the tent. Her torch was gone!
The sound of giggling, like children, filtered into the tent, making her blood run cold. “Who’s there?” She sounded terrified, which infuriated her. Another twig snapped. She sat hunched over inside her tent, eyes squeezed shut, livid at the tricks that were being played on her.
Malevolent.
The word came into her mind, and she felt little pinpricks all over her body. What if this wasn’t a simple prank; what if someone meant her real harm?
Run.
A dark shadow fell over the tent, and she squeezed her eyes and scrunched her body up in a ball, and that’s when she felt it. The tip of a bony finger touching her face, tracing her jawline. Her hands automatically tried to slap it away and met with nothing but air. Her eyes flew open. She saw nothing but the black of night. And yet someone was there. A creeper creeping.
Stories she’d heard over the years settled around her neck and squeezed like a pair of old hands. The farmer whose head was severed while trying to pull a fairy tree out of the ground with his tractor; the woman who had the gift of sight, only to have dozens of black beetles crawl out of her eyes the moment she died; cattle that were seemingly healthy one day struck dead in farmers’ fields the next. No one spared. Not even children. Sickened in their cribs, their souls snatched and switched. She shivered. She was hallucinating. Hearing things, seeing things, feelings things. Her limbs were tingling. Would they shut off that music? She clasped her hands over her ears as colored lights danced in her mind. Something strange was going on. This wasn’t worth it. They died, died, died. She had better do something before she was next. Dead. She scrambled out of the tent, set her sights on her cottage, and ran.
Chapter 2
Summer had officially arrived in Kilbane, County Cork, Ireland, and the interior of Naomi’s Bistro captured the moment like a still-life painting. Sports equipment lay dumped in the hallway, runners littered the stairwell, and