Irish Gothic by Ronald Kelly

When Irish eyes are dying

Breath chills till time is over,

Death pulls slowly graveward

To rest 'neath sod and clover...

Ireland... Sweet Erin...The Emerald Isle. In the bright and bonnie light of day, it is a place of beauty, history, and good humor. Of rolling green hills and stone walls at every step of a mile. A kind blessing for health and happiness, and a pint in your hand at the village pub... as well as the sound of fife and fiddle, the lilting tune of laughter, and the cheerful dance of a jig.

But, as the sun takes leave and dusk descends, deep shadows and the dank of an evening mist claim the Land of Saints. Within the cloak of night, boogies and beasties roam the moors, keen for the echo of lonesome footsteps and the alluring scent of fear and dread. Banshee, selkie, leprechaun, and fairy alike. The restless spirit of the Sluagh and the bestial form of the werewolf, hungry and on the prowl.

In Irish Gothic: Tales of Celtic Horror,...