Grandpa and the Dullahan

Eight-year-old Annie was leaning out the window when her grandfather pulled her back in with a forgettable chiding.

"I won't be around much longer," the old man added as a way of explanation.

Her mother had talked to her about this belief concerning their relative's shortening lifespan, briefed her to ignore it. But she was a curious girl, curious about this monster he believed he'd be facing soon.

"Tell me about the dullahan," Annie said, her smile a calculated sweetness.

Her grandfather had a faraway look in his eyes.

"When our ancestors left Ireland," he said, "they brought their stories with them. The dullahan is like that, but we made him real. Everyone who dies under our name, the dullahan takes. I'm next."

There was a time when he wouldn't have told his granddaughter about such things; now he spoke with the frankness of a man on his way to the gallows.

"What does he look like?" Annie asked, ceaselessly ghoulish.

The old man's eyes seemed to focus on an imagined figure.

"No head," he said, "Rides a horse, carrying a hearse. All in black."

"No head?" the girl squealed in delight.

"But," he said, pausing, "only those who are to die see him."

Annie was a bright girl.

"Then how do people know he's real?"

Her grandfather threw his hands up.

"Legends! Not just from us folk, but fairy folk, too. Why, I wonder if our stock is full of leprechaun blood! Legends are as real as their tellers."

An uncomfortable silence lingered between them.

"When are you going to see him?" Annie eventually said, "Mama says you've been saying he's coming for a long time."

He scoffed.

"Soon enough is when I'll see him. And you mustn't listen to all that your mama says, being married to a Protestant and all. I'm just--getting myself ready."

He sat back in his chair and guzzled down his glass of water. Annie knew the drill; she went to the kitchen and refilled it. When she came back, the old man was at the window. She let him notice her.

"Thank you, darling," he said, then froze.

"Of course, you wouldn't--"

Annie listened blankly.

"Never mind," he said, took a sip, and sat back down.

"You didn't see him?" she said.

He shook his head.

"Not yet."

"What does he look like again?" she asked, going to the window.

"A cloaked man with no head, riding a horse with a hearse in tow."

When the girl looked back at him, her mouth was a cave and her eyes were saucers.

"I see him!" she cried, leaning out the window. Her grandfather was too late to stop her.