I sat in a nonexistent throne of fog and a skeleton dressed like a seventeenth-century bard stood in front of me. Considering the state of the clothes, he may very well have been an actual seventeenth-century bard that someone had dug up. His arms were wrapped around a lute in equally squalid condition. He strummed a note and began to croon. I was surprised that both sounded far sweeter than their sources looked. The notes coalesced into a song, and the voice of the haunted bard drifted around me.
“A Hallow’s Eve tale, have I to tell
of a family’s plight, from grace they fell.
Before you fools leave to treat or trick,
listen to the Wolves of Saint Patrick.
The priest traveled to the Emerald Isle
to convert its kin in his own style.
Against his mission, many did stand,
but some of them choose to join his band
until all who lived saw things his way.
Yet there was one clan he could not sway.
To old Celtic ways, they still held strong.
Ol’ Saint Paddy’s word, they said were wrong.
When he’d heard they’d - reject’d his path,
the Emerald Isle’s Saint was fill’d with wrath.
He condemned them for misanthropy,
cursed the whole clan with lycanthropy.
Every full moon’s night, the clan would howl,
trapped in a wolf’s form, and forced to prowl.
On each month after, the blood did flow.
Yet all other days, they did not show
the proof of their curse, they guarded tight
until they reveled, on full moon’s night.
The townspeople grew filled with dark fear
of the beasts hunting across the weir.
They began to move in angry mobs
for they’d grown tired of their own sobs.
They sought out the beasts, ready to kill
not knowing they lived just up the hill.
Yet one fateful night, the clan grew lazy.
The curse’s burden had made them crazy.
The youngest member had been reckless.
She’d run off with her mother’s necklace.
Ran across the weir, while the moon shone.
Changed into a wolf, mind not her own.
In a craze she ran, in beastly form,
not noticing her necklace was torn.
The necklace was found, loose in the marsh.
When the village knew, their fury was harsh.
The people did march, to the clan’s home.
Another beast’s light, in their eyes shone.
With pitchforks and flame, were they gather’d.
No longer was blood to be slather’d.
The whole clan was killed, son and daughter.
None but for one man, escaped slaughter.
The cunning wolf ran, eager to flee.
A hidden boat sat, ready for sea.
The sea did take him to safer shores
just in time to fight in America’s wars.
And fight the wolf did, to much acclaim.
When bodies were found, he escaped blame.
He earned a fortune, American Dream,
and each full moon’s night, victims screamed.
So you watch your backs, on this dark night.
When you hear a howl, tremble in fright.
Decide if this tale, is truth or trick,
but beware the Wolves... of Saint Patrick.”