I wanted to believe in something. Ghosts. Dragons. Will-o-the-wisps. I stood at the edge of the forest, peered into the dark and deep. I trod through derelict houses, touched their decay. I counted the standing stones, once, twice, waiting for lightning to strike. An unearthly chill. A glimpse of the unknown.

The woods were my constant haunt, with its stream trickling, twisting on and on. A sun-dappled day, I whistled a joyless tune. A jay startled. I lurked under the shadow of trees, crouched amongst the brambles, let their sweet sharpness prickle my tongue. A grown woman, beckoning fairies and ghouls.

And yet.

I listened. The softest hush of leaf against leaf in the treetops. And something other. I stood at the stream’s edge, straining to hear the strange humming over its rush and chatter. There! Where the water bows around the ash: a bent-back figure. Hunched amongst the shining pebbles, nose to water, a woman washing bloody garments with strong, clenched fists. 

‘Bean-nighe.’

She paused, looked at me with small, mournful eyes. Hummed her solemn song. I shuddered; a violent tremor. But. Fairies and ghouls: no such thing. I turned away from the foreteller of death. A trick of the dappled light. I would watch telly, eat dinner, phone my mother. I would survive the day, the night, on and on. 

All I had to do was not believe.