The old man’s hut burns at dawn, its thatch
curling into smoke that smells of burnt sage and
wet earth. Neighbours say he cursed the wind.
The village council bans bonfires after the
third night. Children whisper of a woman in the
ditch, her face halfmelted, singing a lullaby
from a time before the roads were paved.
A boy finds a silver coin in the mud, etched
with a symbol no one recognises. His mother
throws it into the river, but the water turns
black for three days.
The Traveller elder’s daughter arrives in a red
coat, her eyes hollow. She speaks to the stones,
not the people. The priest warns her to leave
before the walls bleed.
A new law passes: no one may sleep under the
stars. Those who do are found with their hands
clawing at the soil, nails split open.
The daughter digs beneath the church, unearthing
a box sealed with wax and a name she doesn’t
remember. Inside, a letter dated 1922, signed by
a man who died in the War of Independence.
The council calls it a hoax. The girl is taken
to a home on the edge of town, but she escapes,
trailing ash like a shadow.
The dead begin to gather at the crossroads,
their voices rising in a language that cracks
the pavement. The police close the roads, but
the bodies keep coming.
The girl stands at the edge of the bog, holding
the coin. She speaks the name from the letter,
and the ground opens.
No one sees her again. The bog fills with
silence. The coins stop appearing. The council
reopens the bonfires, but the fire never catches.
