the sweet, monotonic hum of the wind helped stifle memories that were beyond psychological control — memories that had evolved from vague apparitions into tangible, breathing, weighted beasts. with jagged tongues and thorned bodies, their mere presence would cut fresh wounds into my sanity.

A coastal Irish speaker, walking the beach at night, might have equally expected to hear stranach (the murmuring of water rushing from shore), or the whisper of caibleadh (distant spirit voices drifting in over the waves). They knew the ceist an taibhse (the question for the ghost)—a riddle used to determine if someone they met along the way was human or supernatural.

There is the town of Donegal’s mada doininne, a particular type of dark cloud lining the horizon that foretells bad weather. The word, literally translated, means “hounds of the storm.”