My name is Fáinche and I'm an Irish amateur horror writer. I'm from the border in Ireland so it's rich in history and culture. I am a bird mom to 2 green cheek conures who are 5 and 8 years old and the loves of my life. I also live with my partner who introduced me to the only living animals I am not allergic to. I am working on a collection of short stories, and a novel, and I am so excited for what the future holds for me. After dealing with a few years of ill health, I am ready to kick the fear of failure to the curb and take the bull by the horns.
HOLIDAY NIGHTMARES
by
Fainche Ni Dhubhne
The doctor sighed as he finished taking my father’s pulse as he lay motionless, and leaned back from the bed. He looked at me and pushed his lips together in an apologetic smile.
“It won't be long now,” he said.
I couldn’t meet his eyes. I looked around the room, the red candles, the flowers, the holy water. The sacred heart illuminating the sweat beads on my father’s papery thin forehead.
“Okay,” I managed after a moment. “Thank you,” I said.
“I’ll let everyone know,” he said as he packed up his things. “Call me when it happens so I can announce it.” He pulled something out of his bag.
“To keep you awake,” he smiled, the whisky bottle sloshing with suspiciously clear liquid. “Doctors orders.”
My father wasn’t a well-liked man. He had spent his miserable life cooped up in this house after my grandmother died, and after the divorce, I only saw him a handful of times. Neighbours came in hordes once the news broke; sweeping in with dripping raincoats, thrusting mass cards, sandwiches and vegetable soup at me.
It was a little past midnight and no one remained. My mind was fuzzy from all of the greetings and the poitín. All of the how are you holding ups? And, haven't seen you since you were wee. How's the auld one?
The kitchen was a mess of used tea cups and biscuit crumbs, so I had tinfoil wrapped sandwiches sitting on the edge of the couch, careful not to disturb the arse indents that had been decades in the making. The sad little Christmas tree was pushed into the corner, the fairy lights barely working. A single wrapped present lay underneath it, addressed to me. I hadn’t seen my father in years, and when I looked at the parcel, a layer of dust covered the red glittered paper. I stared at it, listening to the clock, until the ticks morphed into bomb threats and the house began to shrink around me.
The dancing flame of the candles cast garish shadows across his ghoulish face.Time had not been kind to him. He was all angles and cheekbones. His chin jutted out like it did when he had too much drink on him, a permanent sneer etched into his thin blue lips. His hands clasped together, the rosary beads wrapped around his pale fingers, done when he was given his last rites a few hours earlier.
I sat on the chair by the bed,staring at him, the alcohol burning down my throat.
After a while, his eyelids fluttered. His thin lips parted.
“Sluaaaaagh,” he exhaled.
Fear washed over me. I stumbled to the kitchen, knowing that one of the windows in the kitchen was open after a particularly bad Guinness fart.
The blankets on the mirrors fluttered as I passed them, and I realised it was too late. Dark shapes wisped by the windows. The room became darker - the fairy lights dulled to tiny pinpricks of light. The sound of flapping filled the air. I shrank against the kitchen wall, heart hammering in my ears, holding the now-empty mug like a weapon.
The sluagh entered the open window like a murmuration of starlings. It started slowly, wisps of shadow that fluttered like feathers, until a form appeared. Ribbons of skin somehow clung to exposed decaying bone. Huge leathery wings folded up as it crawled into the house with clawed hands and feet. Black eyes floated in their sockets as it twitched its head back and forth like a bird. It opened its beak-like mouth in an ear shattering screech.
The shock was enough to freeze me, if not for another bang, as loud as an explosion. I scrambled to my feet, just as a clawed hand grabbed at me, slicing a jagged cut along my black shirt. White hot pain cascaded down my chest along with the feeling of dripping warm water. The sluagh reached towards me and outstretched its wings, the air becoming thick around it. My chest exploded in pain. I collapsed to the floor on my back, the mug smashing on the lino. A second sluagh perched on top of the stove above me and chirped.
The world darkened around me. Everything went quiet. A light began to shine from somewhere deep inside me, slicing through the gash in my chest and beaming through my mouth as I struggled for air. It felt as though my intestines were simultaneously being pulled and knotted. As my own light began to fade, the room exploded in blinding light. The kettle on the stove started screaming, the microwave turned on and the fridge door flew open, knocking another sluagh who had just smashed through the scullery. It screamed and grabbed the door, ripping it off its hinges.
With my last granule of energy, I drove the handle of the mug into the fleshy sinew that snaked between the sluagh’s toes.
The bulbs blew. The kettle boiled. The microwave dinged. I ran, sliding my hands along the walls in the dark, unfamiliar hallway, the screeches of the advancing sluagh close behind.
Bunching the soft fabric of his jammies’ shoulders, I heaved him off the bed. He dropped like a bag of spuds, something crunching in his back. A pained groan escaped him through the cloud of morphine. Bile rose in the back of my throat. The wooden door began to shake as they approached. I took a deep breath and dragged him towards the door.
The squeals of delight of the sluagh echoed throughout the house as I sat hugging my knees on the bed, streaks of blood marring the white linen.