Your Time Is Up by Francesca Quarto
2nd January, 1900
My name is Detective Inspector, Martin O'Mally, Cork Constabulary. This report pertains to the disappearance of one Harold Pickery, Number 8, Creek Way, New Mill , Country Cork, Ireland. My investigation reached its conclusion a fortnight ago, but I am only now, in fit enough mind, to commit my findings here. The following will illuminate, what would appear at first glance, a tale spun by a deranged mind.
Harold Pickery was prissy to a fault, in his neighbor's view. He trimmed the hedges surrounding his cottage to within an inch of their life, tended a variety of flowers like the Gardens of Versailles and kept the small stream behind his house as pure and fast running as the River Shannon, allowing no refuse to be thrown into its crystal waters.
Now, while all of this may sound terribly time consuming, consider first, the size of Harold's homestead. He owned a bungalow so tiny it looked like an over-grown doll's house to the unknowing passersby. He inherited it from his Grammy, many times removed, who, like Harold,was reportedly, one of the little people.
That particular nomenclature may seem insulting when describing a grown man, but is appropriate in this case. Harold Pickery was a Leprechaun.
No doubt, you have an urge to throw this report to the floor, but I swear, the balance of my findings will confirm this assertion beyond a doubt. I continue.
Harold lived quietly in this out-of-the-way village, his only form of industry, caring for his cottage and its beautiful grounds. The tiny house was no more than three rooms, with a large hearth filling most of it, to heat it in cold weather.
The neighbors live across the way and one on either side. None close enough to peer into two tiny windows, but near enough to hear a strange chanting coming from it in the dark of night. To a man, these neighbors swore the words were like no tongue they'd heard spoken. One very old woman was positive she heard a few old Druid incantations, she called these, "summonings." She swore that when the chanting ceased, she heard a woman's sweet voice, much laughing and then silence. This old crone was the first to speak the word, Leprechaun to me, but not the last.
Harold Pickery vanished the night of December 31st, 1899. The whole village was out in the streets celebrating this auspicious event with fireworks hosted by the village Magistrate and tables laid with food and sweets donated by every householder. All, but Harold, danced and celebrated under the cold moon that night.
Harold's absence was not noticeable until the fuzz wore off brains and his nearest neighbors woke to something truly astonishing.
The hedges around Harold's cottage were full of spider webs and bugs, the leaves blackened and brittle. The beautiful flower gardens were over-grown with noxious weeds, shoots of thorny vines, chocking the stems of the once graceful roses. The stream at the back had been transformed into a brown sludge, festering with blow flies and garbage.
Alarmed by these horrid changes of a single night, the neighbors poked their heads into the front door of the cottage. The old woman at the front of the inquisitive group, being the only one to enter.
"I 'eard dat queer chantin' en moanin' I did," she reported to the knot of curious faces that morning and to me, later.
"I eard it, loud en clear, as I were ta home ya see, bein' old en all. It went on en on, till da night exploded wit ta drat fire works! I took me a peek out ta window, 'en dats when I seen wee Harold Pickery! 'e were 'olding ta arm o'a beautiful young lass, en she leadin' 'im inta Little Shire Woods, across ta way."
When questioned by me, about hearing any conversation between the missing villager and the young lady, I swear the old woman's eyes took on an eerie light.
"Why, ta lass said, "Yer time is up 'ere, Harold. Two hundred is enough."
I conclude this report by mentioning, the little cottage occupied by Harold Pickery, suddenly vanished from sight, the very evening I as trying to investigate.
I was standing at its threshold, my hand extended to the push in the front door, when a low chanting could be heard from within. The language was foreign to me, but as I readied to confront the intruder, the small cottage disappeared from before my eyes.
I ran across the dirt road, to the old women's cottage, only to find she too had vanished. The closest neighbor swore he'd seen her only that morning heading toward Little Shire Woods with a small sack on her bent back. I'll conclude with his words to me.
"When I called out ta 'er, sir, she said, 'er time was up 'ere! Can't tink what she meant. Anyway, 'appy new year ta ye sir 'n hope yer own time runs long and free!"