We’re all Irish on St. Patrick’s Day! We celebrate with shamrocks, leprechauns, and the promise of a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. But beneath the emerald glow of Ireland’s rolling hills lies something far darker. Ireland is steeped in legends, its curses woven into the clovers, its shadows home to restless spirits, some even say the devil resides there. So while you revel in the festivities, don’t forget these urban legends lurking just beyond the light, waiting for you. First, the haunting at Loftus Hall Followed by evil never rests Finally in our last story, the devil is with us Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
What is the significance of St. Patrick's Day celebrations?
The cat was gone, but its presence lingered. An undeniable imprint on the land. Maeve and Aiden were never found. Some say they hear scratching at the door at night, faint whispers in the wind like a cat calling from the shadows, waiting for the next lost soul to wander too close.
And sometimes, on moonless nights, when the wind is quiet, you might glimpse glowing red eyes lurking just beyond the trees, waiting. Have you ever felt like you were being pulled towards something you couldn't understand, yet couldn't resist? And have you ever had a cat that terrified you?
Sometimes the things we think we know are just the beginning of what's hiding in the dark, waiting for the right moment to reveal itself. Like in this story inspired by Wren Colt. Viele von Irlands Legenden und Mythen werden kaum gesprochen, aber einige sind genug, um jemanden die Wahrheit zu fragen. Ich war ein völlig rationales Kind, bevor mir das passiert ist.
Ich war ungefähr zwölf, als es alles begann. Als ich in einem verschlossenen Teil der irischen Landwirtschaft wuchs, habe ich die meiste Zeit mit dem Motorrad gefahren, umfasst von unendlichen Feldern und dünnem Wald. The nearest houses were my uncle's place and a few others nearby, but other than that, there was no one for miles. It was a peaceful, quiet existence, too quiet sometimes.
I'd always bike up the hill near our house, past a crumbling stone wall, through the thick overgrowth, and all the way up to a small abandoned schoolhouse. It was the same route every day, familiar and comforting, until one day, it wasn't. It started with a strange feeling in my stomach, an odd twisting sensation, like I had swallowed something cold.
I was really sick, so this felt wrong, but I thought the fresh air and a bike ride would clear my head, so I geared up and headed out. As I passed my uncle's house, the unease grew. The air felt colder, even though it was a warm afternoon. The wind was still, but there was a tension in the silence. Then I saw it. The stone wall had been knocked down. It wasn't the first time.
It happened often enough, as sheep tended to tear down fences when they were restless. But this time, something was missing. No sheep, no sound, not a single bleat. No stomping hooves. It was dead silent. I got off my bike and approached the broken wall, my eyes scanning the area. That's when I saw it.
Der Kälte in der Luft schlug sich um mich herum und ich konnte nicht aufhören zu fühlen, dass etwas falsch war. Aber ich schlug es weg und ging weiter, versuchte den Knoten in meinem Körper zu verhindern. Am nächsten Tag kam ich zurück. Diesmal habe ich niemandem gesagt, nicht meinem Bruder, nicht meinen Cousinen.
Es fühlte sich an, als ob ich zurückgezogen werde, obwohl jeder Instinkt mir sagte, dass ich wegstehe. Die Wälder waren immer noch aufgeräumt. Die Wälder riefen weit, als ob sie für mich warten. Ich versuchte, aber mein Wunsch war vorbei. Die Luft wurde noch kälter, als ich über die Ruinen der Wälder steigte.
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