Irish people; The faeries arenβt real
Irish people; No fucking way will I go in that faerie ring
#look#you donβt go in a fairy ring and you donβt fuck with a stone in the middle of a field#these are just facts#nobody does it#fairies will fuck you up#Ireland#folklore#fairiesΒ (Via @false-dawn)
Look, I donβt believe in God, but I will not disrespect the Good Gentlemen of the Hills. Thatβs just common sense.
Between this and the Icelanders with their elves I do not understand what is going on above the 50th parallel.
My general rule of thumb: you donβt have to believe in everything, but donβt fuck with it, just in case.
^^^ that part
This is truer than true. Especially the Irish part.
Let me tell you what I know about this after living here for nearly thirty years.
This is a modern European country, the home of hot net startups, of Internet giants and (in some places, some very few places) the fastest broadband on Earth. People here live in this century, HARD.
Yet they get nervous about walking up that one hill close to their home after dark, because, you know⦠stuff happens there.
I know this because Peter and I live next to One Of Those Hills. There are people in our locality who wouldnβt go up our tiny country road on a dark night for love or money. What they make of us being so close to it for so long without harm coming to us, I have no idea. For all I know, itβs ascribed to us being writers (i.e. sort of bards) or mad folk (also in some kind of positive relationship with the Dangerous Side: donβt forget that the root word of βsillyβ, which used to be English for βcrazyβ, is the Old English _saelig_, βholyββ¦) or otherwise somehow weirdly exempt.
And you know what? Iβm never going to ask. Because one does not discuss such things. Lest people from outside get the wrong idea about us, about normal modern Irish people living in normal modern Ireland.
You hear about this in whispers, though, in the pub, late at night, when all the tourists have gone to bed or gone away and no one but the locals are around. That hill. That curve in the road. That cold feeling you get in that one place. There is a deep understanding that there is something here older than us, that doesnβt care about us particularly, that (when we obtrude on it) is as willing to kick us in the slats as to let us pass by unmolested.
So you greet the magpies, singly or otherwise. You let stones in the middle of fields be. You apologize to the hawthorn bush when youβre pruning it. If you see something peculiar that cannot be otherwise explained, you are polite to it and pass onward about your business without further comment. And you donβt go on about it afterwards. Because itβsβ¦ unwise. Not that you personally know any examples of people whoβve screwed it up, of course. But you donβt meddle, and you learn when to look the other way, not to see, not to hear. Some things have just been here (for various values of βhereβ and various values of βbeenβ) a lot longer than you have, and will be here still after youβre gone. Thatβs the way of it. When you hear the story about the idiots who for a prank chainsawed the centuries-old fairy tree a couple of counties over, you say β if asked by a neighbor β exactly what theyβre probably thinking: βPoor fuckers. Theyβre doomed.β And if asked by anybody else you shake your head and say something anodyne about Kids These Days. (While thinking DOOMED all over again, because there are some particularly self-destructive ways to increase entropy.)
Meanwhile, in Iceland: the county council that carelessly knocked a known elf rock off a hillside when repairing a road has had to go dig the rock up from where it got buried during construction, because that road has had the most impossible damn stuff happen to it since that you ever heard of. Doubtless some nice person (maybe theyβll send out for the Priest of Thor or some such) will come along and do a little propitiatory sacrifice of some kind to the alfar, belatedly begging their pardon for the inconvenience.
Theyβre building the alfar a new temple, too.
Atlantic islands. Faerie: we haz it.
The Southwest is like this in some ways. You donβt go traveling along the highways at night with an empty car seat. Because an empty car seat is an invitation. You stick your luggage, your laptop bag, whatever you got in that seat. Else something best left undiscussed and unnamed (because to discuss it by name is to go βAY WEβRE TALKING BOUT YA WEβRE HERE AND ALSO IGNORANT OF WHAT YOUβRE CAPABLE OFβ at the top of your damn lungs at them) will jump in to the car, after which youβre gonna have a bad time.
If youβre out in the woods, you keep constant, consistent count of your party and make sure you know everyone well enough that you can ID them by face alone, lest something imitating a person get at you. They like to insert themselves in the party and just observe before they strike. Itβs a game to them. In general you donβt fuck with the weird, you ignore the lights in the sky (no, this isnβt a god damn night vale reference, yes Iβm serious) and the woods, you lock up at night and you donβt answer the door for love or money. Whatever or whoeverβs knocking ainβt your buddy.
^ So much good advice in this post right here
I live in the south andβ¦ you justβ¦ donβt go into the woods or fields at night.
Donβt go near big trees in the night
If you live on a farm, donβt look outside the windows at night
I have broken all these rules.
Iβve seen some shit.
If it sounds like your mom, but you didnβt realize your mom is homeβ¦. itβs not your mom. Promise.
One walked onto the porch once. Wasnβt fun. But theyβre not super keen on guns. Typically bolt when they see one.
You think itβs the neighbor kids.
Itβs not the neighbor kids.
Might sound like coyotes but you never really /see/ the coyotes but then wow that one cow was reaaaaaally fucked up this morning. The next night when you hear another one screaming you just turn the tv up a little more. Maybe fire a gun in the air but you donβt go after it. If it is coyotes then itβs probably a pack and you seriously donβt want to fuck with that and if itβs the other thing you seriously REALLY donβt want to fuck with that.
So in the south, especially near the mountains, you just go straight from your car to inside your house, draw your curtains and watch tv.
If you see lights in the fields just fucking leave it alone.
Eyes forward. Donβt be fucking stupid. Mind your own business. Call your neighbors and tell them to bring the cats in. Thereβs coyotes out. Some of them know. Most of them donβt.
Other than that everythingβs a ghost and they died in the civil war. Literally all of everything else is just the civil war. We used to smell old perfume and pipe tobacco in the weeks leading up to the battle anniversaries.
Shitβs wild and I sound fucking crazy but I swear to god itβs true.
Every time this post comes around, itβs my favorite to open up the notes and read the stories. Probably shouldnβt have since Iβm sleeping alone tonight, but you know, itβs fine. π
Iβm from the Northeastern United States and all I can think is βoh, so itβs not just us?β
Like. I am a grown-ass woman, 28 years old, but I wonβt enter a cemetery at night for anything. If thereβs an animal in my yard with eyes that glow in a flashlight like a deer, but itβs too small to be a deer, I shut the door, the blinds, and donβt ask questions. If itβs winter, you donβt go to the peninsula and go hunting for shells or beach glass even though the pickings are better. Thereβs nothing different about the rocks and sand in winter, except that there is, and thereβs a reason Iβve only done this dumbass thing one time.
When Iβm counting things out, I always skip thirteen. I donβt mean that I count the thirteenth object as β14β³βI mean that I just wonβt say the number. And when it comes to things like Friday the 13th or living on the 13th floor, Iβm not superstitious. You just donβt count thirteen, thatβs all. I wonβt cross a covered bridge after dark and if youβre smart you wonβt, either. If youβre out after dark and someone calls your name, if you donβt see someone, donβt answer. If youβre driving a wooded road at night, put on some music. Donβt look at anything in the trees. For that matter, donβt look at the trees. Keep your eyes on the road.
In the story Mrs. Toddβs Shortcut, Stephen King referred to these happenings as βsometimes there are holes in the middle of things.β If you have ever experienced what these comments are talking about, I think you will understand that statement way better than you really wanted to.




















