In the small town I grew up in, amongst the trees on the mountain top,
On a new moon, Once a year, A dark mist rolls over the village during the dead of night, All workplaces and shops close an hour before night fall to give the residents of the town plenty of time to get indoors and lock up.
They call it the “Oíche na marbh” the night of the dead.
You might say it’s just superstition amongst mountain folk but we have plenty reasons to be afraid of what lies waiting in the mist.
They say that in the mist the spirits of those who have died in our village rise to walk amongst the land of the living only for this one night.
My grandmother used to say If you listen closely you can hear the cries of those who wish to return to the mortal realm once more.
Watching us as we sleep, work or play indoors.
I awoke once as a child in the night, I was fascinated by the mist and couldn’t seem to draw my eyes from the window.
I felt a cold presence and the arms on my hair stood rigid as I saw… things… moving amongst the mist.
I like to believe that once we die we move on to a better place, I block out the memories of the mist and try move on with my life.
Even now, reading back over this in my house… far away from the mist, == I feel like there is eyes watching me
through the window.
They’re watching and waiting,
until the day I join them in the mist,
To join them in their cry for life.