When Mary O’Connor travels home to Spiddal and hears tales of a mythical sea hag, she doesn’t think much of it. That is until she starts to see things with her own eyes. Can she ignore the call of the sea?
Cailleach is the newest short story I have published and this one is extra special! Mary O’Connor from Spiddal was actually my own grandmother—although to my knowledge she didn’t have any connection to any mythical sea creatures. If you love myths and thrillers, you will love this quick-read novella.
You can read a sneak peak chapter for free below!
Chapter One
Mary pulled her gaze from the window. She knew she needed to concentrate, but the sea always stole her focus. There was something about the tide’s back-and-forth rhythm—the sway of it—that was utterly hypnotic. She probably shouldn’t have set her office up on this side of the house. But the light here was the best, and the room was the perfect size for her little hideaway.
She looked at her screen.
The writing app sat open on her laptop, the cursor blinking like a ticking clock. She had nothing. This story was meant to be her big follow-up—Mary O’Connor’s second smash hit. Her debut, The Winding Lanes, had been an instant success. The publishers had gone all in: advertising, book tours, press interviews—the whole package. Practically unheard of in traditional publishing these days.
People told her it was a sign of how much faith they had in her.
To Mary, it felt like pressure. Crushing, relentless pressure.
The advance for the second novel hung around her neck like a weight. A debt. One she hadn’t yet found a way to repay.
“Ugh, Mary,” she groaned, dragging her hands through her hair. “Come on.”
She threw her head back, eyes covered by her palms, and let out a frustrated breath.
Outside, gulls called as they wheeled over the bay. Their cries felt like an invitation—an old friend calling her out to play. To return, just for a moment, to those salt-soaked childhood days when her feet were always wet and her hair was always tangled from the breeze.
With a sigh, she slammed the laptop shut.
Pushing back from the desk, she stood and left the room. As she walked down the hallway, she pretended she could leave the stress of the novel behind, sealed up in that room with the closed laptop.
The house was all on one level, a stone bungalow her grandfather had built. It was old and simple, but it stayed cool in the summer and, more importantly, it kept her close to the sea she loved.
Mary poured boiling water over the teabag in her mug, watching the swirl of colour bloom. She’d imagined being a successful author would feel so different from this.
The royalties, once her first advance had been repaid, were just enough to sustain her simple life. But when the second novel proved far less forthcoming than the first, she’d made the decision to move back home. A quieter, more comforting place to write.
She had believed the sea, and the familiar hum of Spiddal would unlock whatever had become stuck inside her.
Instead, it only seemed to magnify the doubt.
Living in her grandfather’s old bungalow hadn’t been quite the support she had envisioned. It had only heightened her imposter syndrome. Around town, people knew her more by her family surname than her work. The O’Connors. A family that had been here for generations. Every so often someone would mention “your little book,” but rarely with any sense of what it had meant to the wider world.
No one here saw her as the award-winning author she’d once been called. She felt like such a fraud.
And worst of all—the words had stopped coming.
Cradling the mug in both hands, Mary made her way out through the back door that hung open at the end of the kitchen. She passed the old Aga on her way, blackened and rusted with age; it was the oldest piece in the house. Mary often thought of it as the home’s quiet heart.
As she walked by, she ran her fingers along its cold metal surface, grateful for its grounding presence.
The back door opened onto a small, flagged patio, bordered by a low stone wall. Beyond it lay the stony curve of the bay. Mary lowered herself onto the doorstep and let the morning air wash over her—fresh, salty, alive.
Her friends had been stunned when she announced her decision to move. They couldn’t fathom why anyone would give up the convenience of city life for this. For quiet mornings, damp craft markets, and an ancient department store that hadn’t changed its window display in years.
Her mum, however, had been thrilled and immediately offered the ancient family bungalow as a bolthole for her. Mary had only bought with her what she could fit in her beat-up Nissan X-Trail. What use would she have for high heels and dresses here?
Maybe a walk would do her good. A stroll might clear her mind and get something moving around inside her. It was worth a try at least.
She rose, putting the mug down in the kitchen as she made her way back through the cool stone building. Locking up and placing her keys safely in her pocket, Mary turned from the white building and made her way down the stony path that led away from her ancestral home.
