The Fairy Rath by A.C. Turner

The old woman begged me not to sell. I laughed in her face.

When they bulldozed the rath, the foreman hesitated at the lone hawthorn. I grabbed the axe. “Superstitious shite.” The tree bled red.

By November, Rath Meadows opened. Families moved in.

Within a week, all fled—voices in the walls called their children's names.

The Good Folk moved in that night.

I stayed. Stubborn. Foolish.

Shadows crowd my windows now, whispering my name. Last night, hawthorn split my floorboards. Roots and thorns wrapped around my bed.

The tree bled red for me.

Now I bleed red for it.