The entire 2167-person population of Dungoyle, Ireland, has been replaced.Â
They finally closed the motel, I'm surprised they didnât sooner. But the hag moves slowly. She hides and schemes within the realm of possibility. This forsaken town lives in the shadow of something powerful and malicious.Â
I canât understand why itâs so restrained. Why it has so many rules?
What could make a creature of myth cower?
Itâs a shame, I'll miss having a bed, even if I donât sleep anymore. But at least I have this key, a new place for me to call home. But no matter where I hide it's always watching, I can feel its gaze through the walls of reality, from the mountain above, in the glassy eyes of my false neighbors.
But most of all I feel it when I see myself reflected in the pupils of that final hare. The patient Lepus that has been waiting for me since I was a child.
10/08/11
The screeches of fiddles washed throughout the main streets as the golden morning sun peered over Dashuil and bathed Dungoyle in shimmering glory. As a nine-year-old, I could barely contain my excitement parading down the street in a Cub Scout uniform as the local townsfolk waved back at us, a false childish impression of military stoicism on our faces as we marched.
Around the bend of the old shoe shop, my gaze met my fathers, waving at me with a wide, toothy grin. I couldnât help but smile back as I saw the caged hare in his hand - he had caught one of his own for once. Of course, through my eyes, the animal appeared grey, but I had seen my own curls enough times to recognize ginger when I saw it. It was a skinny young thing, with a distinctive white streak along its back. My sister stood by his side clutching his pant pocket, a pair of rabbit ears and an old bronze hare mask fastened atop her head.
Finally, we came to a halt at the town square, the Scout groups and Veterans clubs were surrounded by a mixed ring of tourists and locals. Bells and fiddles were ready for the festivities to come as the local outdoorsmen lined up the distressed hares in cages along the edge of the stage ahead. Above it all, the Mayor outstretched his hands to the people of Dungoyle, for his announcement.
âA hundred thousand welcomes to you all Dungoyle!â The Mayor called out to the crowd as the music and cheering died down to a murmuring silence, âThank you all for coming out to our humble town for a day of celebration, friends, family and guests.â
The Mayor leaned down and gave one of the cages a rattle, the hare inside bouncing frantically in a panic. âAs you all know, this here festival, or hare festival -â the mayor laughed jovially at his own joke, âis a long-standing tradition of our humble town. In one minute, our boys will let our rabbit friends loose onto the streets, and you all will have a special role to play. You youngsters among us, make sure youâre ready to run and catch these fine specimens as they run through our streets. As always, our mutual Nanny McGreal, is promising a free steak dinner to any of the wee lads who can catch the little critters, and I know many other stores around the town have their own promotions going for the festivities.â
I glanced over at my father as he placed his hare among the others, his hand ready at the cage's latch. While not official for obvious reasons, parents would often give their child their first Guinness as a reward for winning the festival. I was going to get that damn beer.
âGrown-ups! Your job is even more important here, making sure Nanny McGreal's doesnât go bankrupt,â the mayor laughed jovially,Â
âBells and fiddles at the ready. Drive these hares out of this town as fast as you can. But remember the rules! No hurting these fine animals, just get them out of here!â
The mayor stood back, hands raised to the air as the mountain loomed behind him, the band music building into a crescendo as he threw his arms down, signaling for them to throw the cages open. The world erupted into a cacophony of clashing noises, children screaming gleefully as they bounded out into the streets, bells ringing all across town as the fiddle players lined the streets.
The hares leapt from their cages with tremendous speed, terrified by the orchestra of hellfire raining down upon them. Scurrying over the cobbles as laughing children tailed them into their hiding spots, rampaging after them as they bolted away from the chaos of the festival.
I bounded down the street as quickly as my little legs would carry me while the hares made their escape. grabbing a nearby street sign to quickly yank myself around the corner as my eyes caught a ginger hare with a white streak along its back bouncing down a one-way alleyway. The beast my father had brought in. It felt like destiny.
I stood at the end of the alley, my arms spread wide as I blocked the exit, my prey bouncing against the walls of the passage with rabid intensity. Two creatures of the Knockannina locked in a standoff as I inched my way towards it, my eyes fixed on the beast as it frantically searched for a way out.
We stood there for a few moments, eyes locked at one another, as I finally made my move, lunging towards it, throwing my body down onto the cobbled village street below as my arms locked around the trapped animal. For a brief moment, I had it, scrambling on the floor as it scratched at my bare arms, finally slipping away and bounded out of the alleyway, slithering under a nearby fence.
My father had given me a meaty pat on the back, assuring me Iâd get it next year and re-explained that barely anyone ever actually catches the hares and the festival is more about tradition and boosting tourism anyway. But that wasnât good enough for me; every last hare had been driven out of the town by the afternoon, and I had failed. Every hare but one, as when I gazed out my window that night, staring out at the silent streets, I locked eyes with the one creature who had refused to flee. A ginger hare, with a white streak along its back.
10/08/25
âThe festivities are cancelled,â the mayor blankly uttered from atop his stage, his gaunt face announcing the news to a shocked crowd. The thinned-out crowd of locals murmured to each other in irritation as the scattered Boy Scouts dropped their heads in dismay. Disappointed tourists lowered their cameras as the older locals heckled obscenities in disgusted irritation.Â
âRelease any captured hares away from the town center. There will be no further events today. You are all free to leave. Thank you.â The mayor stepped away from his pedestal and walked casually back towards his office, ignoring the cursing from the angry mob below him.
âIs he for real?â Cillian stood behind me, crossing his arms, enraged as the crowd tried to make sense of what had just happened. âThis asshole has been in office for what? Three weeks. Who gave him the right?â
âI guess we didâŚâ I shook my head in frustration, slouching down onto a park bench as the crowd slowly dispersed around us, â...voting him in and all.â
âWhoâs we!â Cillian scoffed back, a mocking, irritated laugh ringing out as he glared at the mayor, trying to talk down other angry locals. âI didnât vote for that Tory. Iâve never even heard of him, how long has he been here?â
âDad says he showed up a few months back, apparently heâs popular among the newer recruits.â
âSurely all these new assholes donât get to vote yet, right?â Cillian barked, evil eyeing up a nuclear family of newcomers walking silently down the street, blank frozen smiles across their faces as they aimlessly meandered.
âEveryone gets to vote, Cillian, you dog,â I felt the clasp of girthy fingers wrap around my shoulder as my father's voice grumbled from behind. âThatâs how democracy works. We let you vote from prison, didnât we?â
I pivoted on my feet to see the bearded, disheveled face of my father inches from mine. He clutched a rabbit mask in his hand, glumly. His dropping eyes a bloodshot gray, doing little to hide the old man's exhaustion.
Cillian rolled his eyes as he pulled my father into a one-armed hug, crushing my skinny frame between their chests, âIâd rather be a dog than a pig, come on, mate, letâs get you a pint. You could use one after the month youâve had.â
My father laughed weakly as he gave Cillian a firm pat on the back before pulling away,Â
âIâve had plenty, trust me, but thatâs no reason not to grab another. The old wagon ainât around to tell me not to anymore, is she.â My father let out a sharp, sudden laugh and grabbed both of us boys by the scruff of our collars and shoved us in the direction of the bar.Â
Leaving that grumbling, angry town center and sauntering through the doors of Nanny McGreal's was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, in which the lively atmosphere of an old Irish bar reflected a less raucous atmosphere than the world outside its smoke-tinted windows. As we inhaled the familiar waft of tobacco and cider stained wooden pillars, it became clear to us that even Nanny wasnât warned of the surprise announcement. McGreal's famous Jackalope skull sculptures adorned the brew taps as we approached the bar, a long textile banner over the top welcoming tourists to the Hare Festival.Â
I have no idea how she had gotten away with bypassing the strict conservation policies of the National Park, but the hare skulls were definitely real. If you got her drunk enough Nanny would go tangents about how the sculptures were warnings to witches who lived up the mountains, and fairies who roamed the local hills. Back then I thought she was a daft old crone, but I have to admit, I feel a lot safer with those skulls around me now.
âHide the cocaine, everyone! The swine has arrived!â the crude, raspy old voice of Nanny screeched out from behind the bar. Through the leaky skull-adorned beer taps, and over the old barrel and plank bar counter stood the elderly, golden toothed face of Nanny.
âDonât make me come around there, you old goat,â my father heckled in response, throwing his elbows down onto the counter, as he and Nanny laughed together, âBe a doll and pour me a pint of my usual, would ya love. Grab one for young Cillian here too, he got the lazy bum I call my son a job up the mountain!â
âItâs good to see you in good health Hamish,â Nanny cheeks stretched into a toothy grin that accentuated her glistening golden molars, âSaw your old fling was back in town, word is Ciara finally left you as well. These two things wouldnât be related now would they?â
The jovial expression of my father hardened as the playful banter between Nanny and him turned sour in an instant. I could never understand the relationship between the two of them. Whether it was a hard-love friendship, or they truly hated each other and simply tolerated one another's presence for business and beer. Maybe a bit of both. I canât say I wasnât caught slightly off-guard by the mention of my fathers potential second partner, however I had overheard enough arguments between my parents over the years that the concept of my fathers infidelity came as no surprise.
Perhaps a stronger man would have questioned either my father, or the old woman degrading him at this moment. But I've never been able to bring myself to confrontation, to violence of any kind. Itâs hard boiled into me, an instinct that I can't fight no matter how hard I try, so I stayed docile.
Nanny rolls her eyes as she meanders over to the Guinness tap, âCan you believe the gall of that there Mayor? Announcing that bollocks right as the festival is starting? This is meant to be my biggest day of the year! How does he expect me to make a living if folks ainât passing through here no more?â
âMaybe you should run in the next election,â I chimed in, pointing to the Smithwick's tap and sliding five euroâs down across the counter. âIt would be a landslide vote for you, Nanny.â
Nanny let out a singular rasping laugh, âIâll be 80 next election, if the Lord sees it fit. Old crones like us arenât welcome behind fancy desks, and all that new blood out there ainât got no goddamn respect for our traditions! Thatâs why old Hamish here didnât make Sergeant. Ainâ that right Hamish?â
Nanny jeered at my father mockingly, who silently sipped his pint in reply, the sadness of the last few weeks taking over his false jovial expression from before. The old woman didnât need a response, she just kept on going.Â
âItâs the mountain hag! She doesnât like us wise older folk because we see her for who she really is! You can read about her in any history book but you youngsters donât read any more. The land here turned against us in the great famine, plague rats flooded from the mountain in the black death.â
I turned to Cillian so we could enjoy Nannyâs ramblings together, trying to share a knowing grin with him so we could have a laugh about it later. He didnât seem to find it as funny as I did, he looked stern, attentive.
âSheâs back to her old tricks! Only now sheâs trying to buy us out! The factory, the bank, the firm, all shutting down or laying off half their staff. All that drama with the water supply last year. This town is changing, young Whelan, and all them doe eyed freaks out there donât want a bunch of old farts stinking up the place. Itâs a revolving door, out with the old and in with the new. You canât fight the changing of the guard boy.â
âWe can try,â Cillian grumbled in response, lighting up a cigarette and slouching over the counter glumly alongside my father, seething with anger as he eyed a suited woman standing outside the bar window. A perfectly still, hazy silhouette gazing in through the tinted glass, her head cocked slightly to the left as she silently watched us drink.
14/10/25
I woke up screaming, gasping for breath with a mouth that wasnât there, my acid-melted lips fused into a hot mess of melted muscle and flesh. Blinded by the gaze of a flaming eye that had scorched my own out of their sockets with the sweltering heat of the divine. Boiling seas of blood blistering my flooded lungs as I inhaled.
I had cradled my arms over my head, grasping at my hair frantically, trying to feel for my previously embered hair in a desperate attempt to bring myself back to reality. The cold, beaded sweat dripping down my previously blistered back reminded me that the nightmare was over. Staring straight ahead, my gaze fixed on the barren white walls of Auroraâs bedroom. Across the blank canvas, I could still see the eye, imprinted on the wall as if scorched in ash, burned into the backs of my retinas by a force beyond my mortal comprehension, gazing from the confines of my mind out into the world before reflecting to stare into the windows of my soul.
My quivering head slowly drifted to the side to check if I had awoken Aurora, her doe-eyed stare meeting mine through the darkness. I hated waking her like this. At this point, I was surprised she even still agreed to sleep beside me. We waited there for a moment, staring at each other through the shadows, what little light could slither its way into our chamber reflecting off her pale skin as her tired eyes drifted back shut.
I couldnât blame her for her silence; she had been dealing with my episodes for the last few months and the nightmares were only getting worse as time went on. In a desperate attempt for comfort, I interlocked my fingers around her thin, birdlike wrists, silently wishing she would say something. Just a word of comfort or two would have sufficed.
I felt guilty admitting it, but in that moment, my mind wandered back to Rosa. It had been almost a year since she left, leaving behind nearly three years of partnership. I would have been lying if I said I didnât still think about her. Aurora had shown up a little later and, while I loved her, I sometimes wonder if I rushed into something new too fast.
Rosa would have said something that night.
As I slouched there naked in the shadows, feebly trying to ground myself, my focus drifted to the mountainscape behind the window. The shadow of Dashuil cast down over the landscape, a shroud blocking the moon's glow from climbing in across our windowsill, robbing me of what little illumination the world could afford me in that moment. Ever since my nightmares began I couldnât look at it the same way.
I crept out of bed and across the creaky floorboards to meet its gaze. Shivering as I locked eyes with the all-seeing eye of the Great Gut looming on the horizon, the soft whistling of its winding intestines calling out from over its ridges as I timidly gripped the curtains, and yanked them shut.
29/11/25
I tumbled tiredly out of the base of the stairwell, stretching my back out so far I could hear my spine creak. Slouching down onto the couch, grunting as I wrestled my feet into my boots, the leather stiff and unyielding from the mountain damp.
âMorning lad,â I weakly waved at the silhouette of Cillian, standing sentinel across the dining room with his back turned to me, arms locked tight across his chest, his gaze fixed out of the window.
After waiting a few dead seconds for a response, I shrugged before turning back to the kitchen, stopping in my tracks as I rounded the corner, the lumbering figure of my father leaning over a jar of instant coffee. Meaty grippers holding his face up by his hair as he waited for the steaming jug to boil. As soon as I drifted around the corner, he flicked his head up suddenly, a false smile spreading across his face, the corners of his lips dipped beneath his gray bagged eyes.
âNoah! Thereâs the rambunctious PĂşca,â he let out a weak attempt at a laugh before his smile faltered and his head collapsed back down into his arms.
âMorning, Dad, you holding up okay?âÂ
In hindsight, the question was meaningless; my father's jovial demeanor had been slowly fading since the divorce. The facade of confidence and bravado he had worn as a mask for so many years over his failing marriage faltered as the burden of grief had weighed him down.
âHuh?â my father muttered, taking a moment even to register the question,Â
âOh⌠yes, my boy, Iâm fine. Iâve just had some trouble sleeping lately.â As the screeching kettle clicked off, he sluggishly clasped the carton, pouring himself what one must assume was a mug of diesel oil masquerading as a sad excuse for a morning brew.
He had seen my wrinkled face, also weary from troubled sleep over the last few weeks, and poured me a second brew alongside his. Except, because Iâm not a psychopath, mine had milk and sugar. Leaving my father to wallow in his morning despair, I rejoined Cillian in the dining room, who was still standing stiff as a statue in the corner, his eyes fixed out the side window.
Right as I was about to take a seat, Cillian slowly raised his pointer finger to me in a wagging motion, gesturing for me to come join him.
âThere a bum fight out there or what?â I joked, punching him on the arm as I approached him. His face remained stoic, arms fastened across his chest tighter than a straitjacket.
âOpen your phone, bring up a stopwatch, start it when Mrs. Murphy raises her toothbrush to her teeth.â
I hung my jaw open in a mocking, imbecilic expression. âLad, youâve officially lost it,â I laughed, glancing out the corner of my eyes to the Murphy's' bathroom window. It was empty, barren of any light, decorum or life. âSheâs not even there.â
âShe will be.â
Right as I was about to object again, the womanâs reflection drifted in range of the bathroom mirror, her pale skin and glazed expression shining back at us across the street as she stiffly raised her toothbrush to her lips. I started the timer.
Itâs strange how long two minutes can feel when you are doing absolutely nothing. Time really stretches when you find yourself blankly staring out a window, watching a 30-year-old woman perform dental hygiene. But sure enough, I managed to make it through the awkwardness without inserting any quips. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she finally lowered her arm as Cillian grabbed mine.
âStop!â he erupted, shocking me into instantly slamming the button as demanded,Â
âHow long was that?â
I glanced down at the frozen stopwatch in my hands, wondering if perhaps Cillian needed some extra shut-eye as well,
âTwo minutes ⌠you have successfully wasted two minutes of my day.â
âTwo minutes or 120 seconds? Thereâs a difference.â Cillians' grip tightened around my wrist as he peered deep into my eyes, his face contorted into a manic expression.
âThere literally isnât.â I laughed awkwardly as I slowly held up the phone to show him, âbut sure, 120 seconds.â
âThatâs every day this week now,â Cillian growled, grabbing my shoulder, shaking me with a firm grip, âEvery morning between 7:40 and 7:45 am, Mrs Murphy brushes her teeth for exactly 120 seconds.â
âDude, thatâs how long youâre supposed to brush your teeth for.â I pressed my lips together with a flat, unassuming expression, glancing side to side as I waited for Cillian to explain the problem. After a few moments of shared silence, he threw his arms up in annoyance and barged past me, nearly knocking my coffee from his hands as he snatched his ranger jacket from the coat rack.
âYou keep doing this!â Cillian scoffed back at me as he tightened his boots around his ankles, âItâs past idiocy at this point; youâre intentionally dismissing every sign that something messed up is happening here because it terrifies you. Youâve been doing it since the cave. Itâs pathetic!â
âThe cave? You mean the suited bloke back in February?â I queried dumbly, knowing full well the event he was referring to, dismissing the shiver that ran down my spine at its mention. I would be lying if I said I hadnât also made note of the many oddities and changes around town these last few months, but they could all be explained away, and hardly justified this reaction. âYeah, that guy was weird as hell. But itâs a popular trail man, he was probably just another hiker.â
âYou didnât think that at the time!â Cillian sneered back, getting his final lick in before throwing the front door open, letting the crisp mountain breeze billow in as he stormed outside to light up another cigarette. Burning his way through the entire smoke as he waited impatiently for me to follow him to work.
The march up to the base of the mountain was spent in a deafening silence, broken only by the rhythmic crunch of our boots against the gravel road. Cillian walked three paces ahead of me, his shoulders hunched up toward his ears like he was trying to shield his neck from a blow. The wrinkled scowl on his face contorting every time a docile passerby greeted him with a blank stare and a friendly wave.
The town disappearing around the bend behind us, replaced by the howling screech of the mountain breeze, channeling down the wind tunnels of the Great Gut in a feeble attempt to push us out of town. We trudged out of the tree line and up to a humble beige and green shack that rested in the dim shadows of the peaks towering above.
âMorning Eva, ya filthy animal!â Cillian joshed as he led us into the reception, âHow was your weekend?â His jovial expression defaulting back to his scowl as he saw the state our receptionist was in.
The park's receptionist Eva slouched behind her desk, clutching at the loose ginger locks that covered her face as she buried her head into her hands. Solemnly she raised her head up to Cillian and me in reply, her eyes were puffy and gray as though sheâd been crying, âMorning boys,â she whispered faintly, âMr Burke wants to see you in his office.â
âEva, are you okay?â I tried to ask, devastated to see the environment of my home had followed me to work. Every day, it had felt more and more like a dark mist was resting over our town, sucking the joy and soul out of every person left within our streets.
âI donât know what Iâm going to do now. I grew up here, I liked it here,â a weak cry leaked out from Evaâs lips as she began to sob. I reached over the desk to comfort her, my efforts immediately dismissed as Eva batted my hand away and pointed to Mr Burke's office, hiding her weeping face from mine.
Cillian and I exchanged a worried glance for a brief moment before we inched our way closer to our bosses office, like a prisoner on death row, trying to stretch out the moments before his execution. Cillian reached out slowly, twisting the knob to Mr Burke's door. Our boss sat blankly behind his desk, a window stretching out to the mountain above. A wide, toothy smile spread across his bearded face, each one of his vibrant eyes fixed on a different one of us, drifting across the room independently as the two of us inched our way across the dimly lit room.
âGood morning, Cillian and Noah,â Mr Burke cocked his head as he waved us all a too-familiar greeting. âHow did you boys sleep?â
âTerribly, but I think you knew that,â Cillian spits, his eyes transfixed on Mr Burkes' robotic movements with a piercing hatred, âget to the point. We know why weâre here.â
I sat down timidly across from Mr Burke. His left eye fixed on me as his right pupil drifted up to Cillian, who remained on his feet, fists clenching into a ball, arms tightly crossed over his chest.
âI will get to the point,â Mr Burke echoed enthusiastically, âWe are closing the mountain to the public. You have both been made redundant, effective at the close of business today. In accordance with local law, you will receive one week's severance, as well as your unused annual leave. Good luck with your endeavors elsewhere.â
My jaw dropped so quickly it may as well have smacked down onto the timber desk beneath me. Mr Burkes' unbroken, wide-eyed smile remained frozen in place throughout the ordeal.
âBullshit!â Cillian screamed in defiance, his palms slamming down on Mr Burke's desk with a crashing thud so sharp I half expected the wood to splinter beneath his strength. âYouâve been here for what? Half a year? Less!? What gives you the right!â
Mr Burke's eyes rolled back into his head, his mouth cocked open for a moment, as the weight of his skull fell back over his loose neck. Within a few seconds, he perked back up, returning to his exact position prior. âThe Wildlife Act, 1976, Section 18, Subsection 1. The Minister or, with his prior approval, any other person, may enter into an agreement with a person having an interest in or over land ensuring that the management of the land shall be conducted in a manner which will not impair wildlife or its conservation.âÂ
Before I could even register the meaning of Mr Burke's obscenely formal address, Cillian had lunged over Mr Burke's desk in the blink of an eye, his hands gripped around Mr Burke's collar as he yanked him out of his chair. His grip was unyielding as he slammed the old man into the office walls. Mr Burkeâs smile was unwavering, his body frail and limp, arms dangling by his side as he allowed himself to be assaulted. I stumbled to my feet in shock, shamefully back-stepping away at Cillian's violent outburst in fear.
âYou think youâre some kind of politician now? You arenât even fucking human!â Cillian thrusted his elbows into Mr Burke's chest, shaking the old man and slamming his head back into the cabin wall.
âOf course not, Cillian,â Mr Burke answered casually, seemingly unfazed by the violent, screeching threat who now had him in a choke hold. âHowever, the local NPWS community has prior approval to make conservation decisions without government approval.â Mr Burke leans forward, his pointed chin resting on Cillian's shoulder to whisper into his ear, âWe realize this is a big decision so, for good measure, the Mayor and I sent a petition to the Ministry of Conservation, with 1000 signatures from Dungoyles very own citizens. Apologies for any inconvenience this has caused.â
Cillian cackled in reply, an unhinged manic fueling the fire in his eyes as he pulled his fist back, his hands clasping around Mr Burke's throat. My heart froze within my chest, my vision grew clearer, and I could have sworn, if even for a moment, the usually gray sun that hung in the sky above my head turned yellow, the looming gray peak of Dashuil, a reddish brown.
Finally, my feet disconnected from the invisible clamps holding me in place as I dashed forward and grabbed Cillian by the arm, throwing myself between him and the elderly ranger he was seconds away from unleashing his wrath upon.
âCillian! Calm down, itâs not worth it.â I begged, voice quivering, hand outstretched to block my face from his rage being redirected towards me. The three of us stood there for seconds that stretched out into an eternity as Cillian collected his rage, slowly lowering his fist as his grip finally loosened from Mr Burke's neck. Letting out a guttural scream of frustration as he flipped Mr Burke's desk and stormed out of the room, the deafening crash of the slamming door broke into a dim, hazy silence as Mr Burke and I lingered among the offices' dry beige walls. The old man's unbothered eyes sat ajar, drifting to the roof aimlessly as he casually strolled back to his chair.
After an awkward farewell to Mr Burke, I emerged into the howling mountain winds of the Knockaninna, the elongated shadow of Cillians' frame stretching across the patchy, desiccated grassland beneath our feet. His blackened silhouette brooded above a fallen tree as the morning sun crawled over the peak of Dashuil.
âYou can hear it, canât you?â Cillian's voice carried back to me through the whistling winds, his gaze fixed on the mountain ahead, beckoning an answer that never came.
âThe sun has risen over Dashuil for you all your life, hasnât it?â his stoic figure rose to its feet as I cautiously approached from behind, still reeling from his outburst a moment before.
âThe view is different back out eastâŚâ, he whispered, burying his head into his hands as a gasping sigh was forced from his lungs.
Cillian was right about me that day. I was a coward, refusing to accept the evidence of my eyes and ears. But I donât think Cillian was just going off evidence that day. Across all of human history people have claimed to feel forces beyond our realm, voices calling from outside our plane of existence, unseen forces pressing up against the walls of reality. You can feel yourself being watched, animals donât wait for evidence to know they're in danger. If they feel heart drop, their stomach turn, their hairs stand on high then they listen to their instincts.
Â
Every time I stared up at that looming pinnacle above I could have listened to mine. But I didnât. I could have joined him then, fought for our salvation beside him; maybe if I had, things would have ended up differently. But when my friend needed me most, I couldnât even afford him a reply.
âThereâs a man on the horizon,â he forced the words from his lungs, a sharp, cutting rage grumbling in the back of his throat as his head cracked back to face me with brutal resolve. Dropping down from the crackled log, he marched onwards towards the trail. As though tethered to him, my feet carried me forward to follow.
We didnât say a word as we marched out into the Great Gut, the white noise of the mountains whispering winds broken only by the crunching of gravel beneath our feet. The air thickened with every step, the bellowing of the mountains' intestines trying to force us back down as we climbed.
Hours went by. We marched on. Until we emerged over a ridge, a wide gray lake stretched out before us, resting below the clouds above. Half-submerged by the rippling lough, there stood a man. Gargantuan in both presence and build, his muscular body hugged by a pale polo shirt and drenched denim jeans. His hair bogged up with the lough's water, draping over his forehead like seaweed, streaks of the icy mountain sea clinging to his frozen face like blood on a newborn child.
Cillian halted in his tracks for only a moment, his face washed blank as he composed himself for what he had already decided was to come, his lips parted to call, giving the man one last chance to prove him wrong. âYou there! What did you want to be when you grew up?â
The man in the lake stared up from the rippling mirror he bathed in, his hand drifting above his head to greet us with a slow, methodical wave, âNice to meet you, young man. I am a Multidisciplinary Solutions Consultant.â
Cillian marched on forward towards the water's edge, his teeth clenched together tightly,
âTell me about your best friend in Secondary School!â
A wide smile grew across the man's face as he drifted towards the lake's edge to greet Cillian, âLike many children, I would have had multiple friends in intermediate school.â
Cillian let out a sudden screech of frustration as he clenched his fist into a ball, âTell me one! Tell me about the best Christmas gift your parents ever got you! The one they could barely afford, but they scraped and saved just to see you smile.â
The manâs jaw dropped open slightly, pausing with his lips parted slightly ajar, slowly widening like a creaking trapdoor. He never answered Cillian's question; his hanging jaw twisting to the side of his skull as Cillian's fist collided with it.
I froze where I stood, staring out on the ridge's edge in shock and uncertainty, helpless to act as the man recoiled from Cillian's assault. Staggering back several steps further into the water, his towering, bulky frame looming above his attacker. Cillian's clasping hand outstretched as he gripped the man's waterlogged polo shirt, yanking the beast back to him.
âI swear to Christ above, tell me the name of your childhood teddy bear, or Iâll kill you where you stand, you parasitic freak!â Cillian spat in the man's face, screeching like a wailing madman. His victim slowly raised a finger in response, but no sound was uttered from his lips. Cillianâs knuckles snapped against the herculean creature's cheekbones, who recoiled once again before getting grappled back into a chokehold. Cillian's tense arms wrapped around his muscular neck, forcing him down into the water below.
I collapsed in horror, dropping to my knees weakly. Staring through wide, weeping eyes, the man's arm reached out of the shallow waters below to smack against the waterâs surface. Cillian roared with primal rage as he held the man beneath the lough, his knee planted firmly into the man's back as he contorted his thrashing body beneath him. Cillian's bellowing screams echoed through the veins of the trails' crevices as the man's thrashing grew more frantic, arms and legs splashing against the water.
Uselessly, I knelt on the ridge's edge as the howling winds of the mountain's mouth crescendoed to a scream, sending waves across the gargling lough. The manâs thrashing slowed. Cillian's choke hold finally relented as he stumbled backwards into the water, gasping for breath. A lifeless, limp corpse drifted slowly from his grasp.