Wind whipped across barren fields.
Carrying a banshee’s wail.
Through empty streets and homes.
And into a damp room.
Where the last inhabitant was sitting.

  • Hungry
  • Hopeless
  • Emaciated
  • Exhausted

A knock followed the wailing.

‘Tár isteach Diabhal‘, hissed Bríd.

A creature hesitated, then opened the door.

‘Are you not afraid child? I’m here to claim your soul.’

Bríd pointed outside to the starved ghost of a townland.
And laughed.

‘I’ll take my chances‘, she said.