Irish Gothic Literature Novels & Stories

Iris is waiting for Morris near the same place where she met him. Her palms are sweaty and she is tensed. Eros explained who Morris is and to which race he belongs. She doesn't know much about the people of this world. But based on what she understood, they can be dangerous. Before knowing who Morris was, she was not this scared. But now, their mere thought makes her shiver with fear. Even though Eros wanted her to agree to go out with Morris, he was not at all willing to let her go when the time came for her to come here. She doesn't want to come either. But the lives of hundreds of Were warriors are hanging in the air. So she pretended as if she is completely fine with the idea of going on

She waited in the darkness. After a minute, when nobody came and when she didn’t hear any footsteps, she peeked out from behind the tree. Now she saw movement, over by the dancing flames, deep in the woods and far away from the road. A man. A huge man. Jesus Christ. Are you serious right now? Just my damn luck to stumble across some random giant on my escape path. Iris squinted, trying to figure out what he was doing, but the dense forest impeded her view almost completely. All she saw was a dark shape – a massive dark shape, God help me – moving back and forth between the fire and…

He didn't recognize me, which only means he didn't come for me like I thought. Gustav clenched his fist beside him, reeling with rage, but did nothing. The dread flowing out of him nauseated me. He was no match for Gustav, and he accepted without a fight. Not when I thought I'd been lucky. Magically, the auburn hair on Iris began to float, but that wasn't all. The hair glowed violet, illuminating the dimness in the dungeon like a bright florescent light in a dark room. One by one, the nails in her arms and legs shot out of her skin, as though an unseen force within her pushed them out from her body. The sound of bones repairing filled the dungeon, and she was able to stand on her feet, below

It was easy, far away from society, to let these heavy possibilities float through her head like leaves on the breeze, catching her eye but flitting away before she could reach out and register their reality. When it grew too dusky and too cool, Iris bowed to the shrine and left, seeking a hollow among the hills that would shelter her from the chill winds starting to whisk across the grass. That night, staring up at the stars and tasting approaching autumn in the air, Iris settled into a resolved peace. In the morning she would take the roundabout way home, survive whatever news Mother Hall had, and continue on with her life as a Candlemaiden. That, at least, was certain. Iris reached into h

She felt bruised and sore too, which was hardly surprising when she considered what she'd accommodated between her puffy, inflamed labia. Iris knew she'd never find the cottage, that Faolan would never been seen again, but she also knew, somehow, that in a few months’ time she would have a very physical reminder of her brief time with him. There was no doubt that she was pregnant, she knew that with perfect certainty, and what's more, she didn't care. She knew she'd been chosen specially and that's why she'd been led to this place tonight, a significant date and a significant lunar phase... and a significant meeting with a man, Faolan – Gaelic for wolf.

The ridge emerged from the rise of the hill and we stood on it and the wind came at us immediately, direct and without apology, and I turned my face into it and felt it strip away everything that was not essential. "See that ridge?" Carlisle extended his arm toward distant hills veiled in mist, the autumn sun catching in his dark hair, revealing the warm undertones I had been learning in the firelit evenings, chestnut and ember where the light found it. "On clear days, you can see the Irish Sea from there." I breathed in. Cold air and loam and the specific electric scent of approaching weather, rain somewhere on the horizon moving toward us with the patient certainty of things that do not hu

the coffee shop. We aren’t sure where the other innkeepers’ spirits are. That we suspect is part of the curse and something has happened to them. This is where everything gets weird. Traditions from Irish fairy lore and native nature spirit lore influenced this town. It has led me to believe that the spurned lover or stalker got a curse from one of these groups. There are stories about a war between the fairies and nature spirits. The war mirrored the unrest between the local native population. I need to do more research. So, we have a large land mass. An entire town whose identity revolves around various lore. History dating back over two hundred years. Now things get complicated. We found

The first few lines are an introduction to her academic paper, and about three paragraphs down I find what I'm looking for. It's widely acknowledged that the myth of the Creeslough Sea Maid is endemic to the northernmost villages of Ireland, but variations of the story can be found as far South as Kilkeel. The fable is assumed to be more than three thousand years old, and has long fascinated scholars of Celtic folklore – both for its longevity in oral tradition, and for its links to several older, more obscure mythologies. Each telling of the tale varies, but the central theme is always that of a sea witch or sorceress who finds or kidnaps a beautiful girl, and raises her until fate interven

“I figured you’d be informed about the process, what with you being a political science major and all.” “I’m not worried,” he scoffed. “They won’t find anything that will stick.” Again, I rolled my eyes. “You are seriously one self entitled moron.” “Whatever,” he said. Our professor started class, and we’d moved on from Nordic wolves to Celtic wolves. “The wolves of Ireland and Scotland were also associated with power, much like the Nordic wolves. The Celtic gods, Morrighan and Cailleach, were said to have wolves travel with them.

The last conscious thought I have is the smell of damp stone and Irish rain soaked into the walls of this gothic mansion. And then I sink. There is no gentle transition like the one Harvey taught me to induce with controlled breathing techniques. There is no sterile white blank space of a conditioned mind. There is only a free fall through layers of consciousness until I land somewhere much older, much more real. The Dublin wind cuts across my face with the specific cruelty of an Irish autumn.