The Shadow of the Púca

The sky over Ballinavoe was dark with thick, rolling clouds of early autumn, the kind that smothered the last of the summer warmth and sent the animals burrowing deeper into their nests. It was a time of transition, when the air held a certain charge, and the land itself seemed to hum with something just beyond reach. People in the village knew better than to linger too long in the woods or stray far from the path once the sun began its descent, but on this particular day, Caoimhe O’Connell had no choice.