The House of Dunn

"Owain Dunn, a textile factory owner and Irish immigrant, built this house in 1850," Frank explained. "He and his wife, Morgan Babs Dunn, lived here until 1876. They had four children, all of which died less than a year after their birth. On October 31st 1876 Owain and Morgan were found brutally murdered in the Dunn house's library."

A crow shrieked overhead. Frank flinched at the sudden noise on the quiet street. His friend and cameraman, Carl, paused the recording. Carl had to hold his sides as they ached with laughter.

"Frank, you almost pissed yourself," he said. "You sure you're a paranormal investigator?"

The look he gave Carl was clear. "Shut up! You couldn't have been expecting a stupid bird. Now let's finish the intro..."

After pausing the recording went through the crumbling stone and wrought iron gate. Carl pulled the keys out and tried to open the door. The key fit but the lock wouldn't turn. "The property manager gave us the right one, didn't they?" He fussed. Finally, with a click and groaning wood, the door came open.

The gloaming darkness inside was unexpected. "It's still light outside, why is it so dark in here?" Frank wondered. He pulled out a Mel Meter. The readings made his eyebrows crinkle.

He nudged his buddy. "Carl, look the EMF and Temperature. There's definitely something here I'm going to set up a X-cam. Get out the Ovulus."

While Frank was running the cables from the X-cam to the monitor, he heard the Ovulus chime out "Fàilte". What did that mean? It certainly wasn't English.

He was about to get up and look at the monitor when Carl tapped him on the shoulder. "I don't think we need an X-cam," Carl observed.

The entities approaching them were corporeal but didn't wear the expected 19th century clothes. A man with dark, hollow eyes and a woman with fierce eyes and a crow perched on her hand descended the wide, decaying, stairs.

"You guys are trespassing—"

"I'm afraid you have that backwards. I am Dunn, god of the dead. This is my wife, The Morrigan, or Badb as she is sometimes called," The man said.

The wheels in Frank's head spun out. "Wait a minute," he said. "I thought that Owain and Morgan Babs—"

"Died? Bless your little head," The Morrigan said. She and her crow let out wild cackles. "We've existed for thousands of years. Even Christianity couldn't kill us."

Her husband gave her a fond smile. "We moved to Boston during the Great Potato famine. People worked out that they were dying in Ireland. They fled here and naturally we followed. To keep our true identity a secret, Samhain seemed the ideal time to fake our deaths."

The crow on Badb's hand shifted restlessly. Frank couldn't take his eyes off them. Surely these were just homeless neopagans having a jape.

"I just Googled them, Frank," Carl said. "If they are who they say they are, this is some seriously bad news. One's a god of death and the other one is basically three terrifying goddesses in one body who have a thing for war and crows. We gotta get outta here."

Dunn's eyes widened. They looked like bottomless pits that could swallow the universe. "Oh dear," he said. "Darling, we can't have them leave now."

The Morrigan began making croaking noises that sent shivers down any mortal's amygdala. Suddenly in a cacophony of feathers, thousands of crows descended. The dark avians pecked mercilessly at Carl and Frank. Anyone listening wouldn't be able to distinguish screams from cawing.

When the feathered maelstrom cleared, two heaps of bones with only blood stains and tattered clothes were surrounded by ruined electronics.

Dunn walked over to one of the skulls and gave it a nudge. "I do wish these so called investigators would quit poking around. They leave such a mess."