The Shamrock Killer

Chapter Twelve: Fear

I stared at the wrapper. The crinkly foil played tricks with my eyes. I felt my breath rattle in my chest, and I gripped my desk chair in an effort not to fall off and land ungracefully on the floor.

You're next. 

You're next.

The bloody wrapper actually said you're next. 

I fell off my chair and landed in a pile on the floor. 

When I woke up a moment later, a pile of limbs and hair in front of my eyes on the floor, the wrapper was gone. As if it had manifested itself out of thin hair. I was still trembling, reeling from the shock of what had just happened. I hadn't just seen the words and read the words; I had felt them. 

A premonition.  A promise.

I had sensed someone behind me, their intentions cruel and their wit cunning. They intended to hurt me, kill me. I had smelled the rowan wood as they raised their cudgel, aiming straight for my head. And I had felt as they ruthlessly slammed their chosen instrument of death into my head. A raw, primal pain coursed through me, starting at my head, flowing to my heart, and then coursing down to my toes. No, I hadn't just read the words, I had seen them come true in my mind's eye. 

I had to get up. I was weak, defenseless, and vulnerable here on the floor. I grabbed for my desk and hauled my shaking body up, up into my chair. There I curled into a ball and rested my head on my knees, bent in towards my body, and began to silently weep. 

I felt the fear at having lived such a short life, only to come to such a horrible end. I saw my dreams for the future fly away in the wind only to become ravens that returned to peck my eyes out of my lifeless body and pull at my hair and skin. 

My mind suddenly went to the bean plants in our side garden. The ones I had been stripping of their offspring only hours before in the grim morning light. Contrary to logic, the bigger plants were almost always the most fragile, having grown too big for their britches in a way. They lay on their sides, unable to hold themselves up. Willing to get down and in the mud. They had grown too big, sprouted too many beans, to stand up straight. 

But the smaller bean plants were different. They were small, yes, a lot smaller than most others, but they provided the most beans, and most importantly, they always held themselves up. Their stems were firm and provided plenty strength for the few beans they sprouted. 

In that moment, I realized something. I had to be the smaller bean plant in this scenario. I had to conserve my energy, stay low and under the radar, and above all, not become intimidated and give up. That would truly be the end of me. 

And I had to watch for the bigger bean plant. The killer, who gloating under the impression of having gotten away with murder - twice - might be hiding in plain sight. I would catch him and end him. 

A red rage filled my eyesight, and I clenched my fists together, almost afraid that if I loosened them, my sanity might unravel as well. But the feeling of power blinked out in a second and I was alone again in my thoughts. 

I was pathetic, I thought to myself. Truly pathetic. And also possibly bipolar. In due need for therapy. One moment I was crying, the next I was dry-eyed, my soul filled with steel and grim determination. I refused to die in such a manner. I was going to find the killer.

I wiped the tear streaks off of my face with the drooping sleeves of my trusty black cardigan. I wrapped it tighter around me and felt in my pockets for a tissue. My hand found a cold tinfoil instead and I jerked my hand out fast, as if I had been stung. 

No more candies. It was time to get to work. 

--

I pushed the hair in front of my eyes back behind my ears and scooted my chair in more. I had to find out more about Morrigan. But first I had to find a reputable source, which took me a little bit. But then I found this:

Morrigan wasn't a nice deity. She was also known as "the queen of nightmares," or "the phantom queen." Most ancient Irish texts referred to her as The Morrigan, respectfully as Oisin had, in light of how much bloodshed she would incur if a necessary means to an end. She was a main character in "The Tain," the book we were reading at school, and bottom line - she didn't really have a great reputation for being chaste. 

She had a son, which I was surprised to learn about, but it didn't sound as if he was a great character either. I briefly skipped over something about him having three hearts, each with their own serpent. I wrinkled my upper lip in disgust, wanting nothing to do with that. 

I turned towards my window to give my eyes a break from the computer screen but couldn't help shivering uneasily. I didn't know how I was connected with Morrigan, but I was beginning to fear any association with her. I hadn't asked for this and now I didn't know how to get out of this. And I hated snakes. Just at the thought I hurriedly blessed myself with the sign of the cross and considered grabbing some holy water and sprinkling it all over my room. 

Ireland wasn't supposed to have any snakes though. 

I turned my attention back to what Oisin referred to as the "Promise." Again, why did it have to sound so ominous? 

I bit my lip as I read about what would happen to someone who broke an Irish promise, or oath. I had really messed up this time without knowing it. But that did seem like the way things were going, didn't it Maureen. You really screwed up. I breathed heavily from my nose. But I didn't know what my family, or I, had done to deserve this. I needed to know. 

So, I literally had to find the killer or else I would cease to exist, and "Everyone in my family would cease to exist as well." My voice trailed off as I considered the two possibilities I had. Either way, my family was dead. As well as myself. 

I ran over to my bed and buried my face in a pillow, screaming my worries away. I screamed because I felt powerless. I screamed because I hadn't wanted this. I screamed because I was afraid. There was a very good possibility that I was going to die. 

I curled my hands tighter around my pillow and found the iron cross I had laid there weeks ago, when I had my first night terror. I clasped my cold fingers around it and began to pray viciously. 

I had to do the next right thing. 

I got up. I resolved to tell Declan and Rory. I knew they could help me. They had to. 

--

We are getting closer to finding out who the Shamrock Murderer is! I just couldn't resist not giving them that name :)

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