The force of the scream sent Michael catapulting through the air. His eardrums ruptured under the strain of its intense vibrations, dribbling blood down the side of his face. His eyes rolled back into his skull as his head thumped into the floor, cracking against a half-buried rock. Fleeting flashes of memory flickered through his mind. A slide show of his life. He closed he eyes, and let darkness engulf him. 

*** 

A young, handsome, red-haired man awoke, and sat up in his wooden framed bed. Michael Ó Fiaich, son of a huntsman. Son of a hermit. Stood up on a pair of tired legs and stumbled his way across the room to his clothes. The early morning gave him no light. The sun had not yet risen from its slumber, but Michael’s sleep-stained eyes still found his target. He stretched. Tossed a match into the oil lamp hanging on the wall. Yawned. Dressed. Grabbed a bow and quiver off the back of his door and headed downstairs to meet his old man. 

He and his father were both early risers. Hunting was better in the wee hours. They had to get out before the game started moving. Autumn meant rutting season. Deer were plentiful. Their eyes were keen, and their bows shot true. Venison had been coming in thick and fast all season, and that day was no different.  

“I think that’s enough for today.” Michael’s father set down his bow and dragged the fourth doe of the morning back to their hiding spot. 

“There’s still plenty here da, why not keep going?” His dad’s brow folded downwards. Michael’s focus during a hunt bordered on obsession. He had plenty of talent, but he never knew when to stop. 

“We can’t take too much son.” His father warned. “Flidais won’t be happy if we pick her forest clean.” He smiled and placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Now come, thank the Goddess for giving us this bounty.” Michael rolled his eyes but nodded. They offered a prayer of thanks and headed for home. 

A rustle in the trees startled Michael. He reeled around. Behind him stood a white stag, bigger than any he’d seen before. He fumbled for his bow. The stag lifted its head. Michael knocked an arrow onto his string. The beast stared at him, unmoving. Understanding glistened in its eyes. It looked into the boy’s soul, pleading for its life. Michael didn’t notice. His father turned. Horror drained the life from his face as his son released. The stag vanished. The grass Michael was stood on turned pitch black and began to wind around his leg. His face turned white. Skin sucked in, wrapping itself tightly around his bones. His eyes sunk and his teeth sharpened. 

Michael flung himself onto the corpse of a doe. His father watched horrified as the boy tore chunks of raw flesh from the carcass and devoured them. Within moments every bone had been picked clean. Not a slither of meat remained, and Michael had moved to another deer. 

“A curse.” His father’s voice quivered. “Flidais. You angered her. She’s cursed you.” He moved forwards as his son started on a third corpse. “Please goddess, forgive my son. The boy didn’t mean any offence. He was merely lost in his passion for the hunt.” He placed his hand on Michael’s shoulder. The boys head snapped around. Thin skeletal fingers gripped on to the old man’s wrist, nearly breaking the bone. Michael pulled his father closer and sunk his teeth into the old man’s neck. 

The boy lay starving. A skeleton, every bone visible through his stretched skin. Five carcasses littered the floor around him. Bones stripped of blood, flesh and marrow. A withered hand reached out of black grass and took hold of his emaciated ankle. Michael snapped open a femur, desperately searching for a final piece of food before he was dragged below the ground.