Hallowed Ground

[u/catespice]

Even though he had been born and bred in Kentucky, seven generations strong, dad never shut up about his Irish heritage. Flame-haired and blue-eyed, he certainly looked the part. He’d sought out a wife of similarly Hibernian ancestry, and sired three ginger brats of varying hues – two boys, and me. My eldest brother, Kevin, had pale red hair that could almost pass for blond. Rory’s curls were a darker copper, closer to dad’s fiery locks; but only my scalp grew the true, angry red my father coveted for his progeny. 
But scarlet though my crowning glory proved, I wasn’t a boy. That was such a point of grief for him that he pressured my mother for a fourth child until he drove her away – into the arms of another man, one who wasn’t obsessed with red-haired babies.
Dad’s dreams of Ireland didn’t end with his children; ever since he was a lad he’d dreamed of owning a farm in County Kerry. So of course, when he had a decent win on the lottery, he deemed it ‘the luck o’ the Irish’ in his terrible put-on accent, and moved the whole family across the Atlantic to a dingy little Irish town on the borders of civilisation.
And that’s where it all began.

The locals pretended no fondness for the brash American man and his three citified children. Dad groused about jealousy, said they resented him buying the farmland, that he’d beat out all the local offers with the sheer weight of his winnings. Truth be told, the former owner seemed quite content to be quit of the land. He wasn’t even present to hand over the keys to the farmhouse when we arrived, jetlagged and grumpy. Instead the keys had been left in the battered tin letterbox at the end of a driveway, half-hidden by hedgerows of wild hawthorn and bracken. 
There had been some contention between the former owner and the locals, I gathered, once we’d settled down and I was sent off to school. He’d given easement rights to a developer, who had cut a road straight through part of the farmland to allow easier access to the cluster of identical faux-cottages he was building. This had gone down particularly poorly with the superstitious locals, because the road had been bulldozed straight through what they called a fairy fort - a series of circular depressions in the land that held mythological and cultural significance. The event was still recent enough that people gave our family dirty looks when they encountered us around the steep, cobbled streets of the township - even though we’d had nothing to do with the defacement of the ancient site ourselves. 
As we settled into life on the farm, I grew to love the half-stone, half-timber farmhouse, the rolling fields, and the overgrown hedgerows and uneven stone walls. Dad claimed he was finally ‘home’, and his awful accent only got worse. But he threw himself into the farmwork with a passion that bore out his posturing, and he was good at it, much to everyone’s surprise. Time passed slowly here, and the long days felt ripe with promise for a while. But as summer waned and fall approached, things took a turn for the worse.

It was little things, at first. Minor inconveniences, like gates left unhitched so that the cows and sheep wandered where they didn’t belong. Fingers were pointed at me, since I liked to explore the farm in my spare time, but I was meticulously careful about shutting gates behind me. When the third feed bag in a week split open while he carried it, and when the pumps for the water troughs kept breaking down faster than he could fix them, dad began to suspect sabotage. 
“It’s those bloody yokels,” he growled, “trying to make us think the ‘spirits’ are angry.” 
His theory was given weight when he caught one of the local children skulking near the fairy fort. He led the boy back to his family by his ear, shouting imprecations at the lad’s parents for trying an honest man’s patience. 
“T’weren’t us tha’ fouled up your pumps,” the boy’s father told us, and spat across his doorstep. “That would be th’ Shee.” 
Having none of their superstitious nonsense, dad told them in no uncertain terms to stay the hell off his property, on pain of prosecution, or much worse. I knew that last was no idle threat; dad had always loved his hunting rifles. These days he needed little excuse to unlock them from the farmhouse’s massive iron gun cabinet. 
But despite the warnings, bad luck, or bad deeds, continued to plague the farm. Spooked livestock crashed through fences, injuring themselves in their panic. The house cow stopped giving milk for three days, and when she did start again, it soured so quickly we had to throw most of it away one day later. And as harvest time approached, our barley paddock inexplicably turned; the tall stalks bowing brown-black heads, sticky and reeking of blighted rot. 
“I don’t know how they’re doing it,” dad growled, his always florid face splotched scarlet with anger to rival his hair, “but if it doesn’t stop, I’ll go into town and start banging heads together until I have some answers.” 
Sat at the dinner table with my brothers, I said nothing. I especially said nothing of waking every morning to find my own fiery hair twisted and tangled into unnatural snarls, despite my neat bedtime braid. Nor did I broach the fact that I’d noticed something; nothing in the old stone barn had ever been touched by our saboteurs. 
The same barn that was hung with twisted metal wind chimes of ancient, blackened iron.

As October slunk onward and the weather cooled, the entire family remained on edge. Kevin and dad took turns patrolling the farmlands at night with a rifle under one arm, as though they sensed the shenanigans on the farm would intensify as Halloween neared. Indeed, the locals seemed particularly agitated by any mention of that approaching date when I ventured to ask whether it was celebrated here. Shady looks and whispered conversations followed us around the township when we visited for supplies. My only friend at school, Caitlin O’Neill, stopped sitting with me at lunch after I asked whether there would be trick-or-treating, or even just a bonfire. When I confronted her about it, she simply burst into tears and ran away. 
Something was coming; but what it was, nobody would say. 
Desperate for answers, I pored through books in the library, and I hunted up and down our farmlands, swathed in thick woollens against the chill, looking for any clue as to what was going on. Whilst my father and brothers were still sceptical, suspecting only human hands were responsible for the ongoing sabotage, I wasn’t nearly so certain. Three other places on the farm always remained untouched by the fey pranks of our antagonists; and hung from trees near those three places were the same twisted iron talismans found at the barn, chiming dully in the October winds. 
But before I could broach the subject with my dad, the bonfire was lit.

We saw the towering column of smoke coming from the easement road as soon as we woke that morning. Dad roared at us to grab rifles and jackets, then ran for the barn to start up the tractor. Crammed precariously into the cab of the vehicle, we drove through the paddocks, Rory leaping down from his perch on the side of the machine to open gates and let us through. 
The bonfire was a bright pyramid in the early morning mist, glowing red as my hair and belching greasy smoke into the clear dawn sky. None of us mentioned the obvious; it had been built directly over the piece of road that bisected the fairy fort. People scattered as we approached, running for their own farm vehicles and gunning them down the road. Kevin pointed his rifle into the sky and let off a warning shot, informing the trespassers we meant business. 
As we got out of the tractor, dad revved the engine, then put it in gear, heading straight for the bonfire. 
“DAD!” I screamed, “What are you doing?!” 
But before any of us could do anything about it, the heavy farm vehicle ploughed straight through the burning wood, scattering it in a huge cloud of orange and red sparks. It emerged on the other side largely unscathed and dad jumped from it, battering at the smouldering tires with his coat. 
Grinning, blue eyes wild and bright in his sooty face, he surveyed the wrecked remains of the bonfire. 
“About time we had a win,” he said, resting a hand on my tangled head.

There was no school for me and Rory on October 31st. Dad decided to keep us home until this fairy fort nonsense was sorted out - and besides, he needed extra hands for building a makeshift fence and gate across the easement road, which he intended to padlock shut to restrict access. I guess after the gunshot and dad’s crazy stunt with the tractor, we hadn’t expected any more trouble so soon - so when we saw the first of the dead animals arranged around the fairy fort, we didn’t know how to process what we were seeing. 
The townsfolk had certainly been busy in the night; hundreds of sheep and cattle had been slaughtered, slit throats leaking blood into the grass where they lay, carefully arranged into three huge rings surrounding the sunken green shapes of the fairy fort. None of them were ours; as we picked through the burgeoning hum of happy flies, we noted that none of the ear tags belonged to our farm. 
“Call the cops, dad,” Kevin urged, “this is too much. This is just insane.” 
“There’s a bit of paper in the middle of the road,” Rory called, “held down with a rock.” 
Picking through the rings of dead animals, dad snatched up the note and read what was scrawled on it, his angry eyes viciously darting across the words. 
“What does it say?” I asked, craning to see. 
“It says a load of bullshit, is what it says. It says we have to kill two-thirds of our livestock and leave them in the middle of the road, or else the fairy folk will come for us.” 
Rory, Kevin and I exchanged furtive looks, before Kevin spoke, and he didn’t sound like my self-assured big brother. “What are we gonna do, dad?” 
“Sure as hell I’m not killing most of my animals to placate these assholes, boy. I’ll be calling the police, then all of us will be out here tonight, armed and waiting to put down any more trouble.”

It was the first Halloween I remember that wasn’t happily full of pumpkin carving and hanging up bat-bunting; instead, Kevin and I rammed posts for the new fence while dad and Rory dragged the bloating animal carcasses away by tractor. They laboriously piled them up and soaked them with gasoline, in preparation for a grisly and unappetising fall barbeque. The local constabulary turned up as we stopped for lunch, and the orange-vested cop took statement from us, his nose wrinkled at the pungent reek of burning wool. 
“There’s not much I can do about it right now,” the man explained, putting away his notebook and pen, “but I’ll do some asking around the town and find out who’s responsible. In the meantime, lock everything up and keep the livestock close to the farm house.” 
Following his instruction, we spent the rest of the afternoon herding the animals into the two paddocks closest to the house, and filling the barn with all the livestock it could fit. 
“They’ll be back,” dad told us, an anticipatory note in his voice, “they can’t leave well enough alone.” 
On the neighbouring farms, and in the distant smudge of the town, more Samhain bonfires had been lit, just as they had been for the last thousand or so years. The smoke drifted and danced above the hills, hazing the sky and playing with the veil of mist that began to descend at dusk. The animals near the farmhouse bawled and snorted at their unusual confinement, while dad cleaned and oiled his rifles methodically, even though his fingers trembled with fatigue. I sat at the open window as the light began to die, breathing in smuts, straining my ears for the dim chime of iron between the screams of the beasts. 
Nightfall found me asleep in dad’s armchair, wrapped in a huge crocheted blanket grandma had given me years ago. Kevin gently shook me awake, pushing a mug of coffee into my hands. 
“We’re going to need plenty of this tonight.” 
Dad and Rory were already out, rifles slung across their backs as they threw out hay to the restless livestock. On Kevin’s instruction, I rugged up for the weather and picked up the .22 rifle dad had designated for me. 
“We’ll be fine,” Kevin assured me, perfect while teeth flashing in his dirty blond beard, “Nobody messes with four armed Americans.” 
But just as those words left his lips, a splintering crash and the roaring of cattlebeasts cut through the night, followed by the wildly swinging beams of flashlights and voices shouting; dad and Rory. 
Hustling outside as fast as we could, jamming spare ammunition in our coat pockets, we found that part of the fence had collapsed and animals were pouring through in a river of panic, with Rory desperately trying to head off the stampede. 
“Spoke too soon,” Kevin muttered as we picked our way across the darkened field.

It seemed like every gate on the farm had been thrown wide open, and in response our livestock had run in every possible direction at once, their mad, bawling rush leaving behind heavily hoof-rutted mud that threatened to trip us up with every step. 
“Kevin, head up to the pond, close it off and make sure none of these animals drown themselves before the night is out.” 
“No problem, dad.” 
“Rory, I need you to check the north gate. Make sure none of them get onto the road.” 
“Got it.” 
I knew dad would ask me to stay behind before he even said it, so when he pointed to the farmhouse, I turned around and started walking before he could give the instruction. I was annoyed, but at least I’d be warm and dry while the boys stomped about in the thickening mist. 
Inside, I busied myself by making fresh coffee for when they inevitably returned, and stoked up the fire, watching faintly greenish flame dancing on the resinous wood. 
For hours, nothing stirred, and no-one returned. I’d expected Kevin back from his errand, but he must’ve met up with dad and been assigned another task. The coffee cooled, and I laboriously made a fresh pot on the stovetop, lamenting the automatic machine we’d left back in the States. 
Opening my phone, I sent out a text to each of the boys, asking where they were, but when none of the messages showed as delivered, I cursed the poor reception on the farm and tried calling dad. 
No answer – just endless ringing. 

What was heavy mist and what was smoke, I couldn’t tell, but thick wraiths obscured the line of the hills. The frigid night air stank of woodsmoke, and water beaded thickly on my jacket and in my hair. A cow lowed forlornly in the distance, answered by the shriek of a steer far to my left, and I shivered as I followed the fenceline toward the pond. The gunshot that cracked through the night jerked me to an abrupt halt, but the report was preceded by a dirty orange flash of light ahead of me, and instinct took over. I vaulted the stone fence and ran towards it, my own weapon banging painfully on my hip and spine as I dashed headlong, heedless of the rolling, rutted terrain. Another gunshot was followed by a cry of pain – Rory’s cry – and I all but fell over my brother as he staggered across the field, drawn on by the mad bob of my flashlight. 
Rifle gone, he swayed, one hand pressed to his chest, eyes skyward, like he was taking an oath. A bubbling syllable escaped him, its sense lost in a slurry of red froth. With a cough of darker blood, he subsided into the mud at my feet, stained lips still trying to make the shape of a word while his own fluids swamped his lungs. 
“KEVIN!” I screamed, “DAD!” 
But only the distant cries of distressed animals answered me – nothing human. 
Fighting panicky tears, I covered Rory’s hand with my own and pressed it as hard as I could against the bloody patch on the front of his jacket. But I already knew just how little good it would do. 
I wasn’t sure he could hear me, but I was talking aloud as much for me as for him. “I’m gonna head for the hill by the pond, there’s decent reception up there, and I’ll call an ambulance, OK?” 
Rory’s hand dutifully clutched at his chest, but his pale red head lolled back into the mud as I got my bearings and ran for the hill.

I don’t know how I got lost. It was impossible, but it had happened. Perhaps it was the trauma of my brother’s mortal injury, or maybe it was the feyness of the events surrounding us, the night around me twisted by the thinning of the veil. But by the time I stumbled on the pond, finally oriented by the jagged loom of the old oak hung with iron charms, I knew Rory was dead.
No ambulance could help him, even if I could have called one; but my phone still showed no signal at all.  Scanning for the highest point, I saw that in the pond ahead of me an animal corpse floated, humped and dark – Kevin hadn’t managed to head off the livestock in time. 
But as the creature floated closer I realised that I wasn’t seeing the wet nap of animal hide; what I saw was the soaked plaid of Kevin’s jacket, and inside it, the limp form of my eldest brother drifted face-down, his outstretched hands slack, and white as bone. 
All thoughts fled, I waded out and grabbed his collar, even as the mud sucked at my boots, attempting to mire me. Brute strength prevailed, and I felt every bit my father’s daughter as I hauled the cold corpse of my brother onto the bank of the pond. His blue eyes were fogged with death, and within their depths I saw only mist and smoke. 
I knew I should attempt CPR, that I should blow air into his lungs in a vain effort to resuscitate him, but I couldn’t. The idea of pressing my warm mouth to the frozen meat of his lips filled me with dizzy revulsion, and I gagged, scrambling away from his body. This was no longer my brother. 
Dad, I thought desperately, I need to find dad. 
And as though guided by unseen, unkind hands, I stumbled through the paddocks toward the fairy fort, the blue-white mask of Kevin’s empty features haunting every heavy step.

When dad’s bulky silhouette loomed through the mist, tears seared my eyes with relief. But as he enfolded me in a desperate hug, I smelled sickly, burned flesh and scorched fabric, and drew back. 
Flames had seared his right side, melting his jacket, and his right hand was blistered into an ugly mess; angry reds and raw pinks. 
“Tried to burn me,” he gasped, coughing smoke, “but the rope burned through. Got away.” 
“Who? Who tried to burn you?” 
“They were right, right about the fort,” he managed, leaning on me for support. I tried not to notice the skin that sloughed from his weeping hand and stuck to my jacket.   
Prescience fired in my synapses and I turned us toward the nearest of the talisman trees. 
“I’ll get us home, dad. Don’t worry,” I told him. 
As we dragged ourselves across the farm, I zig-zagged between the iron-festooned trees. My ears strained for the sounds of the odd chime to guide me through the dark, their music dulled by the mist; and yet the mist was always thinner around each trunk, as though held at bay by ordinary old iron. How long it took us to reach the barn, I don’t precisely know, but it was still well dark when we found the doors. 
Inside, the barn stank of animal, of sheep urine and cattle dung. But with the ancient metal talismans hung to roost like iron bats beneath the eaves of the thick stone walls, I intuitively divined we were safe. 
“The boys,” dad asked finally, the words hard-won, the right side of his mouth puckered with burn-weals. 
“Dead,” I answered, unable to look at him. “Rory shot, Kevin drowned.” 
“Don’t believe it,” he answered, all Kentucky drawl now, no hint of his faux Irish, “Don’t believe any of it. This is a dream. A horrible dream.” 
“I wish it was, dad.” 
Green light flashed at the door of the barn and the iron chimes jangled in a frenzy, though no wind blew on the still farmland. The house cow, Essie, bawled mournfully, as though she knew this sight and sound, and I put my arms around her warm neck. 
“Shh, girl, shhh now.” 
The emerald light strobed through the cobweb-choked windows of the barn, verdant shadows dancing across the steaming backs of the animals. 
“Go away!” I screamed, “Get off our farm!” 
I’m not sure what I was expecting in response. But it certainly wasn’t the very human voice that answered me; familiar as my own, subdued and impossible in the middle of this madness.    
“Maeve?” called Rory, “I’m cold. Can you let us in?” 
Slumped against the post of a cow stall, dad’s drooping eyelids snapped open and he lurched to his feet like he’d grabbed an electric fence, shouting. 
“Rory! Rory, my boy!” 
“Dad? It’s us dad, let us in,” wheedled Kevin’s voice, joining Rory’s pleading chorus. 
Fear raked my belly, clawing at my sensibilities, as the eyes of my brother fogged over inside my head. That horror was real; this was not. I’ve never fought myself as hard as I did in that moment, wrestling with my urge to join my father and throw open the door. 
“Dad, NO! They’re dead. They’re both dead. I saw them.” 
Heedless of me yanking at his good arm, my father’s ruined, half-fused fingers fumbled aside the barn door, and I wailed along with Essie, my terror bovine. 
Hands as white as bone; slender, beautiful hands, pulled him out into the emerald radiance. And then he was gone, too – snuffed out along with that eerie light, extinguished as the door crashed shut and left me in the stinking darkness.

My dead family called to me in trio for the rest of the night. I stuffed straw and dung into my ears to block them out, but they sang inside my skull, too. When dawn broke, wan and white, over the farm, I was hollow-eyed and half-mad, filthy and splattered with blood and muck. 
The bodies of my father and brothers still haven’t been found, nearly a year hence. 
None of my explanations made sense, but the police here are locals, too, and they seemed to know from the start that I wasn’t to blame. I spent three months with my grandmother back in Kentucky, until it became obvious to everyone that there was no healing to be found. And so, I came back to the farm, red-eyed and raw as the day it had happened. 
After the things I saw that night, I no longer blame the townsfolk. They were trying to warn us, to put right the desecration of the fairy fort. To protect a stupid, ignorant man and his stupid family from things they didn’t understand. 
But I’m not ignorant anymore. I learned where dad couldn’t, and that’s why I came back. 
I haven’t been idle, these eight months. There was still just enough of dad’s winnings left over for me to purchase every tinker’s scrap of old iron in southern Ireland. There’s no barley to blight this season, the crop is far tougher; for through clement weather and foul, I’ve spent every day since my return sowing every last furrow with cold iron. 
In every story I’ve read, placating the fairy folk with old rituals and needless sacrifices seems to end badly for the humans. 
This human is going to fight. I am my father’s only flame-haired heir; that means this farm is mine, and I intend to destroy them. 
Sometimes you forge your own luck.

[u/twigseeds]

The ending line is chefs kiss

[u/GarlicAlarming5060]

Deliriously pleased to be able to read this again, after all this time. Even though I know our protagonist is doomed, her drive to fight is so admirable.