10/09/2026
THE PÚCA
An Irish tale of Samhain
Ireland, 1693.
There are things in this world that wear the shapes of animals… but aren’t quite animals themselves.
The old folk knew the difference, though they did not always live long enough to explain it.
They knew not to follow strange lights across the bog, nor to answer a familiar voice calling from an empty field after sunset. They knew to leave the old mounds undisturbed, to keep to the roads after dark, to always close the drapes at night, and never… never to climb upon, or to follow a horse that appeared riderless in the night.
Above all, they knew that when October gave way to November and the veil was thin, the old warnings must never be ignored.
For on the last night of October, when the harvest had been gathered and the first breath of winter crept over the hills, the Púca was abroad.
And the Púca had a fondness for horses.
⸻————-
The Flannery cottage stood at the edge of a small village in the west of Ireland, where the thatched roofs huddled together against the weather and the road beyond the last cottage dwindled into a narrow track between stone walls.
Beyond the walls lay the thick, wild woods.
No one in the village went there willingly after dark.
The wild woods were old, older than the village, older than anyone in living memory could recall. Their oaks stood crooked and black against the sky, their roots wound through the earth like the fingers of buried giants from the legends of old… and the wild wood was home to wild things.
There were stories about those woods.
There were always stories.
But the Flannery girls were young, and young children have a habit of believing that frightening things belong to the world of grown-ups.
Emma Flannery was 10 years old, old enough to carry water from the well and help her mother knead bread, old enough to be trusted with her little sister, and old enough to know that if she broke something, stayed out too late, or wandered beyond that distant garden wall, her father would hear of it before supper. She had her mother’s fiery red hair and her father’s iron will. Stubbornness, her mother called it. She liked to think of herself as… determined.
Moira was four.
Four years old, with tangled red curls, a gap between her front teeth, the perfect smattering of freckles upon her cherub cheeks, and a laugh that could fill the cottage from the hearth to the rafters. She was small enough to be carried on Emma’s hip, though she insisted she was far too big for such things.
She followed her sister everywhere.
Into the garden. To the well. Down the lane to watch the men bring their carts home from the fields.
But Moira also liked to wander. She’d always felt safe knowing Emma was nearby to find her if she went too far, and thanks to Emma’s quick response, she’d been saved from a bit of trouble more than once.
She’d often wander beyond the wall, certain she saw a wee fairy or a wisp at the edge of the wild wood. She’d wander down to the creek bed, determined to find the shiniest rock for her collection, or just to splash about. She’d wander without trepidation, knowing eventually Emma would come rescue her and bring her home, oftentimes without their parents being any the wiser.
And on the morning after Samhain, she wandered into the wild woods.
⸻————-
Emma awoke to the soft sound of a distant latch clicking into place.
At first, she thought it was the fire settling in the hearth. The cottage was quiet, the darkness thick around her, and her little sister’s bed stood empty beside her own.
She sat up.
The door to their room stood ajar.
A thin strip of grey light lay across the floorboards, though it was far too early for dawn.
“Moira?”
No answer.
Emma pushed back her blanket and hurried to the window.
Below, in the garden, stood a horse.
It was the most beautiful horse she had ever seen.
Its coat was black, blacker than the turf stacked beside the cottage, a black so deep it was almost blue, with a mane that hung in long, thick, silken waves along its neck. Not a single white hair marked its face. Its legs were strong, fine and elegant, its head held high, and its eyes caught the faint light with a strange amber gleam. This was no mere plough horse. This looked like a war horse, better built for a lord to ride into the battlefields.
Moira stood beside it in her nightdress. A small waif next to the hulking animal.
One small hand rested against its leg.
Emma’s stomach tightened.
They had no horse. Their father owned a donkey, old and stubborn, which slept in the shed behind the cottage. No animal in the village was so fine as this one, and Emma knew wild animals weren’t to be trusted even on the best of days.
“Moira!” Emma hissed through the glass.
Her sister did not turn.
The horse lowered its head. Moira giggled and reached up to stroke the silky black forelock between its ears, and then did something which caused Emma to nearly fly into a panic. She wrapped both arms around the face of the animal and gave its head a hug.
Emma froze. Unable to move. Terrified to make a sound, lest the horse start and send Moira’s small body airborne.
Then the animal gently lifted its great head and turned back toward the lane. It took great, long strides out of the garden and back down the path from where it must have come.
Moira followed.
Emma stared, scarcely believing what she was seeing. Her little sister ran after the horse in her bare feet, her nightdress fluttering around her ankles, following it through the gate and out onto the road.
The horse did not hurry. It didn’t need to. Its long legs carried it a great distance with its natural gait.
It walked a few paces, stopped, and waited.
Moira hurried to catch up, running in that clumsy, chaotic way young children do.
It walked again.
She followed.
Emma’s heart began to pound, and suddenly she found her feet again.
She glanced toward the bedchamber where their parents slept. Their father would be furious if he woke to find Moira missing, and more furious still if he discovered Emma had seemingly let her wander off alone.
She could wake them.
She should wake them.
But the horse was already halfway down the winding lane, and Moira was almost at the first bend.
Emma could catch her. She was older, faster, and knew every inch of the road. She’d done it before. It was always better to catch Moira and have her back before her parents even knew she’d wandered off rather than see little Moira get punished for exploring. She hated seeing Moira punished.
It would take only a moment.
She pulled her woollen cloak over her nightdress, shoved her feet into her shoes, and snatched Moira’s shawl from the peg. She slipped downstairs, unlatched the door, and hurried outside without waking a soul.
Behind her, the cottage settled into silence.
Ahead, the black horse disappeared around the next bend.
And without hesitation, Moira went after it.
⸻————————————-
The lane was cold and hard beneath Emma’s shoes.
Mist had risen from the fields, curling over the stone walls and gathering in the hollows of the road. The air smelled of wet leaves, peat smoke, and just… cold.
“Moira!”
Her voice carried farther than she expected.
Somewhere ahead, a child laughed. A chaotic giggle of pure joy.
Emma broke into a run.
She rounded the next bend and saw her sister again, a pale little figure moving through the fog. Already at the end of the lane. Already nearing the edge of the wood.
“Moira, wait! Stop!”
The little girl raced forward, her arms outstretched toward the horse. It had begun to move more quickly, its hooves striking the earth with a soft, steady rhythm.
Clip-clop.
Clip-clop.
Clip-clop.
Emma tried to catch up, but the distance between them seemed to grow. She realized she’d underestimated how fast this animal moved and how fast her baby sister could go when she was excited. The twists and turns in the lane slowed her pursuit.
The horse was trotting now.
She was running.
Yet Moira and the great animal remained beyond her reach.
The mist thickened around the animal’s legs. Its mane shifted in the air, though there was no wind. Once, Emma thought she saw the horse’s neck bend at an impossible angle as it looked back toward her, before disappearing into the thick of the wood completely. Little Moira at its heels.
“Moira! No!!”
Another laugh.
Higher this time. Almost breathless. Moira’s sweet little innocent laugh, a sound Emma loved more than any other, set her heart ablaze. She bolted into a dead run.
Emma stumbled over a rut in the road and fell hard and fast against the stones. Pain flashed through her knee. She looked down to find the skin scraped raw, with a deep slice in it. A bright line of blood quickly formed beneath the torn hem of her dress.
For a brief moment, she could only sit there, clutching her leg. Then, so faintly, she heard her precious Moira’s little giggle once more.
Emma lifted her head, picked herself up, and bolted into the woods where she’d seen the horse enter mere moments ago.
Silence.
No horse.
No Moira.
Only the mist and the dark line of trees beyond the road.
Emma slowed to a quick walk, unsure exactly where to go.
“Moira?”
The woods seemed to stretch endlessly before her, their branches tangled together above the narrow, roughly beaten path. She could just make out the small hoofprints pressed into the earth, leading beneath the trees.
Beside them were the ever-so-faint impressions of bare feet.
Emma swallowed.
Every sensible thought told her to turn back, to run to the cottage and wake their parents. To get help.
But she could not leave Moira alone.
Not her baby sister.
Not in those woods.
She took one step beneath the branches.
Then another.
And followed the prints.
The woods swallowed the light of the early morning.
The mist hung low among the trunks of trees, turning each one into a dark, looming pillar and every patch of shadow into a place where something might be lurking.
Fear began to grip Emma in earnest. She called her sister’s name until her throat hurt. Tears began to well in her eyes.
No. She would not let panic win.
Sometimes she thought she heard a laugh or squeal of delight ahead of her.
Sometimes she heard nothing at all.
The hoofprints wound between the trees, crossed a shallow stream, and disappeared beneath a tangle of roots before emerging on the other side.
Emma followed them.
The trees grew closer together. Their branches knitted overhead, shutting out what little light the morning had managed to bring. Once, she glanced back and could no longer see the road.
She stopped.
For the first time, she understood that she might not be able to find her way home. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter, so long as she found Moira. She’d figure out the rest later. It couldn’t be too far.
A twig snapped somewhere to her left.
Emma spun around.
Nothing.
Then came the sound of hooves.
Slow.
Measured.
A horse walking at a relaxed, easy pace.
She turned toward it and hurried forward, pushing past brambles that caught at her skirt. Her bloodied knee throbbed with every step, while the damp ground sucked at her shoes.
The sounds of movement grew louder. Emma lurched forward and found herself at the edge of a very small, round clearing.
It was a strange place, ringed by ancient oaks whose branches leaned inward, leaving the ground beneath them dim and cold.
It almost felt like a grand room in an old legend. A place where the fey of old might hold court, with branches for a ceiling and trees for walls. The mist lay thick over the grass, and the air was so still that Emma could hear her own heart pounding in her chest.
At the center of the clearing stood the black horse.
And in front of it stood Moira. She was mere feet away.
Emma nearly sobbed with relief. Every bit of tension left her body.
Her baby sister was safe.
She stood with one hand resting against the horse’s neck, her little face tilted upward. The animal was perfectly still, its head lowered so that Moira could stroke its muzzle.
For a moment, everything looked so gentle. Serene.
Emma slowed her steps, approaching with great caution.
She did not want to frighten the horse. A wild animal could be dangerous, and she had no wish to see it kick or bolt with Moira’s tiny body beneath its hooves.
“Moira,” she whispered.
Her sister did not answer.
The horse lowered its head further.
Moira leaned forward and rested her forehead against its muzzle.
Emma took another step.
“Come here, little lamb. We must go home. You’ll catch your death out here. Come wrap up in your shawl and I’ll carry you.”
Moira’s fingers curled into the horse’s mane.
The animal’s nostrils flared. Its ears began to flatten against its neck, pinning back against solid muscle.
Emma froze.
Something was wrong.
The horse’s breathing made no sound.
Its chest did not rise or fall.
Its black coat gleamed, nearly sparkling in the dim light, but the mist around its legs did not cling to it. Instead, the fog seemed to draw away from its body, leaving a clear space around its hooves. Nature itself seemed to give this creature a wide berth.
Emma stared at the animal. Its ears were pinned flat, and she knew she must tread with extreme caution.
Then it raised its head.
Slowly, deliberately, it turned to look directly at her.
Its large eyes were red.
Not the amber glimmer she had seen in the yard.
Red.
A deep, wet red, like the blood running down Emma’s scraped knee.
She could not move.
The horse held her gaze. Unblinking.
And then, from beside it, Moira began to turn and follow the horse’s gaze to her big sister.
Moira’s face was hard to make out at first from within the mist.
The same round cheeks. The same red curls. The same little mouth that always turned upward at one side when she was about to do something she knew she ought not.
But something was wrong.
Moira had never smiled like that.
It stretched too wide across her face, drawing her lips back until Emma could see the small white teeth beneath. Her eyes were dark, a deep red, almost black, and her head tilted to one side as though she were studying something curious.
“Emma… Emma-me.”
The voice was Moira’s. The nickname was something only Moira called her. A remnant from her younger days when saying “Emily” was too hard, but before Emma felt so grown she insisted on being called “Emma.”
But the sound of it made Emma’s blood turn cold.
“Emma-me! Come here…”
Moira held out her little arms.
Emma took a step backward.
Her sister’s smile widened, but her brows poorly feigned sadness.
“Emma-me. Don’t you want to play? Come and get me!”
The horse lowered its head beside her.
Both figures watched Emma.
Both sets of eyes burned red.
Then the horse’s mouth opened. Not mouth. Maw.
Not like a horse opening its mouth to whinny. It began like a yawn, the jaw parting, then going too far, the dark flesh of its muzzle stretching until the shape of its face became something that could not possibly belong to any living animal.
A sound came from its throat. A cross between a whinny and a scream and something else.
Warmth trickled down Emma’s leg…
Moira’s fingers lengthened.
Her small, chubby hands grew narrow and pale, the knuckles rising beneath the skin. Her arms stretched toward Emma, reaching farther than they should have been able to reach.
Emma tried to scream.
Nothing came out.
The horse began to change.
Its shoulders rose, then folded inward. Its long neck twisted, the mane sliding over its back like a curtain of black water. The forelegs bent inward, the joints shifting with a series of wet, wooden cracks.
For one terrible instant, Emma thought she was watching a giant, oily-black skeletal man trying to crawl out of the skin of a horse.
Then the shapeshifter stopped, its transformation seemingly complete.
Two figures stood before her in the clearing.
One was tall, twisted, and black as pitch, with limbs that bent in all the wrong places. It had large, pointed ears and long hair that was no longer beautifully shiny, but oily and slick, hanging down its muscular neck in thick curtains.
The other was small, angular, and pale, but still… with Moira’s face.
This was not Moira. And it most certainly was not a horse.
The little figure took a step forward. Its small white teeth were no longer childlike, but sharp and long.
The taller one remained behind it, its red eyes fixed on Emma.
She stumbled backward fast, her heel catching on a root.
The little figure laughed again and, in an imitation of Moira’s voice, said, “You took so long to catch me!” The sound was strange, as if dozens of other voices, not all of them human, were layered beneath it.
The mist surged in between the trees.
Emma righted herself and turned to run.
Something cold, rough, and hard seized her wrist.
⸻————————————
In the Flannery cottage, the fire of the large hearth had burned down to a bed of red embers.
The first light of a golden morning crept through the shutters.
Moira opened her eyes.
For a moment, she lay very still beneath the heavy, warm blankets, listening to the familiar sounds of the cottage. Her mother’s quiet, deep breathing. The crackle of turf in the hearth. The faint wind blowing outside.
She had climbed into her parents’ bed sometime during the night after a strange dream had frightened her awake.
She could not remember what the dream had been about now.
Only that she had been very cold and alone.
And that somewhere, far away, something had been calling her name…
But the morning was here, and the cottage was still warm, and there was nothing to fear anymore.
Moira slipped from beneath the blankets and padded across the floor in her bare feet. She was a big girl now, after all. She could finish the last of her sleep in her own bed.
She wanted to be back in her bed before Emma awoke. Emma treated her too much like a baby. Always fussing over her.
She opened the bedchamber door and went as silently as she could back to their room.
The bed was empty.
Her sister’s blanket lay tangled at the foot of the mattress, and her shoes were gone from beside the hearth.
Moira frowned.
Perhaps Emma had risen early to get an early start on chores. Perhaps she had gone to fetch water or gather kindling before the rest of the household woke. That was lovely! That meant more playtime later.
Moira was still very sleepy. She threw a few small chunks of turf into the small hearth in their room. She wasn’t supposed to touch the fire, but Emma never let it get this low, and the room was beginning to chill.
She climbed back into her own bed, pulled the blanket beneath her chin, and curled onto her side. She began to drift back to sleep as the comforting scent of burning turf filled her nose.
Outside, the morning mist began to burn away across the fields.
Beyond the garden wall, the woods stood dark and silent.
And somewhere beneath their ancient branches, a horse walked slowly through the leaves.
Clip-clop.
Clip-clop.
Clip-clop.
Moira sighed deeply.
She couldn’t wait for her sister to come back. What fun they’d have together that day. Maybe they’d even take a trip to the edge of the woods.
