Murder in an Irish Cottage. Carlene O'Connor

He glanced at their feet. “You have your Wellies. Well done.”

      Siobhán pointed at the hawthorn tree. “Is there a fairy ring there?”

      “Indeed,” Geraldine Madigan said. “And on the other side of the cottage you’ll find nearly the same, a fairy tree and a fairy ring. The cottage is in the middle.” She moved in on Siobhán. “That’s why it needs to come down, so.”

      Aiden Cunningham approached. “Let’s not burden our guests with this conversation.” It was clear he didn’t want them around. Why was that? Perhaps he didn’t want them spreading rumors that many of the folks of Ballysiogdun believed in fairies.

      “I wouldn’t stay long,” Geraldine said. “Either of you.”

      Siobhán turned to Geraldine. “Earlier someone mentioned someone dying.”

      Geraldine nodded. “Five past inhabitants of the cottage have met with untimely deaths,” she said. “It’s proof the Good People aren’t happy about the structure.”

      “Five?” Siobhán said. That sounded grim. “Over what period of time?”

      “We should go,” Macdara said. He tugged gently on Siobhán’s sleeve, and they started on their way.

      “The first man took his own life. Hung himself in the cottage.”

      Siobhán stopped and turned back. “Sadly, that happens.” She was a firm believer that they all needed to do whatever they could to bring the rates down. Relentless rain and too much alcohol or drugs never helped a person out of a black mood.

      “The second man was killed in a motor accident just two weeks after he moved in.”

      “Another common tragedy.” Siobhán didn’t want to dwell on this one as her own parents had been killed in an automobile accident several years ago.

      “The third died in his chair by the fire. The official word was he died from smoke inhalation.”

      “Smoke from the fireplace?”

      “It seems so.” Siobhán turned to Macdara to see if he was as riveted as she was. Instead, he shook his head. “The fourth was stabbed while traveling in Wales one month after moving in.”

      “And the fifth?” Siobhán had to hear it out now.

      “The fifth dropped dead in the doorway. Heart attack it was.” Geraldine leaned in. “Something put the heart in her crossways.”

      “Over what period of time?” Siobhán repeated.

      “Over the span of two decades, but that’s not the point.” Geraldine stepped forward. “Every single person who has rented it up until now has died. Would you want to live in it?”

      Geraldine’s words were biting. Siobhán had to remind herself that she had stepped into an ongoing drama that had nothing to do with her personally. “No. I surely wouldn’t.”

      “Last night was the last straw,” Geraldine continued. “They have to listen to reason now.”

      “They?” Macdara said. When no one answered, he filled it in for himself. “My aunt and cousin, you mean.”

      Professor Kelly stepped forward. “The people of this village are suffering.” He edged in closer and lowered his voice. “It doesn’t matter what you believe,” he said to Siobhán. “It’s what they believe.” His eyes flicked toward the hill. “And that scream last night. I must admit, it was like someone walked over me grave.”

      “What about the strange lights?” Siobhán asked.

      “Siobhán,” Macdara said, now pleading with her.

      “I didn’t see the lights,” he said. “It was the scream that woke me up. Maybe by the time I put my coat on and hurried outside the strange lights had disappeared.”

      Or maybe they were never there at all.

      “And until the deed is done those women should see fit to open the front and back doors of the cottage,” another added.

      A common belief was that if you couldn’t remove a building that was in the middle of a fairy path, you should open the front and back doors allowing the fairies to pass freely through the structures. Fairies, it was said, lived alongside humans, when they weren’t underground, and they simply asked that the humans stay out of their way. Back in the day you had to be careful where you emptied your pails of milk, lest you throw it out and drench a passing fairy. She turned to Macdara. “Is this why she called you?”

      His face seemed to reflect the same concerns. “If it isn’t, I’d hate to see what else is going on.”

      * * *

      As they trudged across the soft meadow, feeling the eyes of the villagers on their backs, Siobhán was grateful for her Wellies. It was hard to traverse the meadow and balance the sack, but she had no intention of dropping her brown bread. Macdara offered to carry it, but she trusted his sense of balance even less and waved him off with a look that made him laugh. The farther in they walked the softer the ground became, rendering the trusty boots a must-have. Once they were over the hill, the rusty gate as described by the councilman came into view.

      It was swaying despite the lack of a breeze, and Siobhán could hear a gentle squeak. Green paint flaked from the gate, and when it yawned open it revealed a narrow dirt path clogged with brambles and briars. Dark clouds swirled in, and the threat of rain hung heavy. Siobhán had a foreboding feeling. The calm before the storm. Her fingertips tingled. Fairies.

      They stopped just before entering the path, as if once they stepped through, there would be no return. “Have you ever seen a fairy?” she asked Macdara.

      “This again?”

      “Never hurts to ask twice.”

      “I beg to differ. You’re giving me a pain.” He paused. “Have you?”

      “No.”

      “That’s sorted then.”

      “My grandfather had some good stories though.”

      “The one who taught you to whittle?” Macdara took the first steps onto the path beyond the gate, and Siobhán followed.

      “The very same.” He’d taught her his hobby because he thought it would help calm her fiery temper. There was something about the never-ending rugged land that made her want to sit down and whittle the days away.

      “I grew up with tales of Cucúlin, and Druids,” Macdara said, as he ducked to avoid hitting his head on the branches intertwined above. Tales of Druids and kings. Siobhán smiled, imagining a wee Dara transfixed by it all. “That’s as mystical as I get.”

      Out here Siobhán could almost feel the thin veil that was supposed to separate the human world from the fairy world, and she could not help but wonder, what if? Her grandfather had regaled her with tales of the Tuatha Dé Danann. A supernatural race in Irish mythology, they dwelled in the Otherworld but interacted with humans. The Tuatha Dé eventually became the Aos sí, more commonly referred to as fairies. Siobhán used to lose herself for hours in those captivating tales. She edged closer to Macdara, chiding herself for the twinges of fear. Her brother Eoin would love it here—so much material for his graphic novels.

      The path came to an end, opening up on a stone cottage in the valley to the left and a weathered farmhouse over the hill to the right. They were the only two structures as far as the eye could see.

      “The branches get thick through here,” Macdara said. “Watch out for nettles.”

      Siobhán was well aware of the awful sting of nettles and was always on the lookout for the pointy green herb. “We could make a soup.” Two minutes in boiling water and a handful of other ingredients could transform biting nettles into a nice healing tea or soup. The juice could even be used to cure the sting of a nettle, although it was handier to find a dock plant. Siobhán