The Abhartach rose from his grave again. We buried him three times, and each night he returned.
He took my brother first. I found him drained in the stable, throat torn open. The Abhartach had fed, flesh scattered across hay.
Last night I caught him. His teeth were in my sister's neck, grinding through cartilage. Her eyes rolled back as he gulped. He looked up, chin dripping, and smiled with lips peeled back to blackened gums.
The yew wood sword went through his spine. He gurgled, and vomited blood.
I buried him upside-down in thorns, but I still hear scraping.
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