Ban Sidhe

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In a small village of northern Ireland there lies a lake that holds a secret ominous beauty. The people of the village, however, are oblivious to the fact of what lurks in the late hours of the night while they sleep soundly in their beds. The tale of the Bean Sidhe is not one to take lightly. If you do, you may very well find why the sailor, whom had spread this myth, perished. Bid my warning, dear readers, and discover what awaits you until the end.

Fog rolls off of the mountain sides and creeps towards the wharf and across the water. It rolls upon the cobblestone path and makes way through the trees at the end of the woods. It invades the village with its eerie call and engulfs the square with a greedy hunger. The residents of the village fall prey to its curse and grow tired, drifting off to a dreamless slumber.

Even after casting its dark spell, the fog rolls on, swallowing the village with its pale cover. Not a sound echoed, not a breath taken, all was silent. The clock struck twelve, warning the living that the witching hour has arrived, bringing its eerie call of evil to life.

Suddenly, as the wind swept across the land, a song of sorrow and beauty rang through the night. Breaking the curse of silence. Whom the voice belongs to remains anonymous. For the fog was so thick that nothing could be seen, concealing the cloaked figure who walks along the path of cobblestone.

Moments later, a feminine figure emerges from the haze, parting the fog slightly as they walk. They wore what looked like a cloak of ivory and a dress of bone. Strands the color of flame peaked out from the hood, showing only that of the mysterious spirit.

She walks along the narrow path, singing her song of despair. The melancholy notes echoed from corner to corner as the voice of the woman grew in strength. How beautifully it cuts through the air, sounding through the fog as if they were church bells ringing on Christmas Day, Sauntering through the wisps of fog that encircled her, she continued her stride. A cool breeze came along, lifting the strands of flame off of her frame only slightly. The spirit suddenly stopped in front of a house of wood and stone, looking at the top left window sadly before she collapsed onto the earth and sobbed.

Her wails echoed terribly throughout the town, making the lake near tremble. The mist swarmed around the woman, engulfing her in its penetratingly cold grasp. It only began to part as the presence of two more spirits joined the woman as they slowly approached with lungs full of eerie song. They grasped the flame-haired spirit's hands and pulled her up as they brought her along the streets of Ireland as they sang. The spirit, now calm, joined them as they walked through the fog and towards the graveyard.

Hand-in-hand they sang, bringing melancholy tunes to dance around with the wind. Soon enough, they arrived next to a newly dug hole. The three women's voices grew in power, causing their music to cause one's hair lift off the back of their neck. The night grew colder, the wind bitter, as they serenaded the graves of the deceased.

A wisp of smoke escaped from the ground, causing the very hole before the spirits to tremble. The spirits wailed out their song even more, causing the ground to rumble and shake. The earth around the hole grew, causing the grass to form a bridge across the rising dirt. Boulders rolled to the front of the covered area and set in place. A gravestone was made with the words "Rest In Peace," etched onto its cool surface appeared, causing the spirits to shriek and wail before disappearing without a sight.

It was then that all was silent. Rays of light raced toward the village and woke up its rested people, causing the day to begin once more. With the lack still and the mist gone, the mountains stood tall...hiding the secret of what had come and gone.

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