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Irish Horror Stories
Published 3 years, 2 months ago
Description
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 Braghby 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 an
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 Braghby 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 an