On the eve of Samhain, when the veil between worlds thins, I wandered the misty bogs near my Irish village. The air was heavy, scented with peat and decay. Locals whispered of the Sluagh, restless spirits who snatch souls. I scoffed, but curiosity drew me to the ancient standing stones. As dusk fell, a chill wrapped around me, not from the wind but something else. The stones hummed faintly, like a heartbeat. I felt eyes on me, unseen but piercing. Then, a voice—low, guttural—called my name from the fog. My breath caught. I spun, seeing nothing but shadows twisting unnaturally. Footsteps squelched behind me. I ran, heart pounding, but the bog seemed to shift, pulling me back toward the stones. A figure emerged—tall, cloaked, its face a hollow void. It whispered secrets I’d buried: my guilt over my brother’s accident, my unspoken fears. I froze, trembling, as it reached out, cold fingers grazing my soul.

I bolted, tripping over roots, until I reached the village, gasping. The pub’s warmth felt like salvation, but the locals’ eyes were knowing. “You saw it,” an old woman said. “The Sluagh don’t forget.” That night, my dreams were plagued by that voice, promising to return. The next day, I found a mark on my arm—three faint scratches, like a warning. This is true, from my own Samhain two years ago. The stones still stand, and I avoid them.