Write by the Cards: Day Eight
A Hard Lesson
If you’re new to The Rebel MFA Way, welcome! This is my daily work for my Write by the Cards: 30 Day Challenge that I’m hosting. Learn more here. Scroll down to the end to see my behind-the-scenes commentary and source material.
The guide taught the character an important lesson about {draw a card}.
Moira stood in the doorway of her family home, feeling the stale air settle over her like dust. The house loomed around her, the walls creaking as if they were waiting for her arrival. She had come to close this final chapter—to pack her mother’s things, sort the estate, and leave behind the house that had felt like more of a myth than a home. But the moment she stepped inside, a strange heaviness wrapped itself around her, something both familiar and foreign. She’d felt this before, in her childhood nightmares and in whispered family legends.
The old house, with its sprawling rooms and dark, polished wood, was nothing like the cozy homes of her friends. Growing up, she had always felt as though it was a place designed for secrets, with narrow staircases that seemed to twist in odd angles and walls that held memories. Her mother had called it a living thing, a place with a mind of its own.
Moira had been raised on stories. There was the one about her great-great-grandmother, Róisín, who claimed to hear voices—whispers that lingered in the corners, drifting on the edge of sleep. And her grandfather, who once swore he’d heard a wailing cry the night his sister fell ill. The Bean Sí, her mother had always said, her voice low and solemn. But Moira had brushed it off, chalking it up to old-world superstition, the kind of folklore her mother and ancestors clung to.
Yet here she was, back in the heart of it. Her mother was gone now, passed on in a way that felt too sudden, too cold. She had been the last of the elders, and now Moira stood alone, staring down the weight of her family’s legacy. She wanted to believe it was just an old house, filled with stories that had grown roots in the cracks of its stone walls. But as the wind howled through the corridors, carrying with it the faintest echo of a sob, she couldn’t shake the feeling that her mother’s warnings were more than just whispered stories to scare her.
She moved through the rooms, sifting through her mother’s belongings, feeling a strange sense of trespass. She found herself drawn to the old oak desk her mother had used for as long as she could remember, its surface covered in letters and notes. The drawers creaked open, each one baring memories, small mementos, and trinkets Moira didn’t recognize. But one drawer remained locked.
After a few minutes of searching, she found the small brass key, hidden inside her mother’s old jewelry box. She turned it in the lock, and the drawer slid open with a quiet click. Inside, a stack of letters lay bound with a faded ribbon. The top one was addressed to her in her mother’s familiar, looping handwriting. She stared, feeling a chill creep up her spine. These were letters she’d never received, letters her mother had written but never sent.
With trembling fingers, she untied the ribbon and opened the first one, her breath catching as her eyes skimmed the words.
My dearest Moira, I know you don’t believe the stories, but there are things you must understand. Our family has always been followed, watched over—some might say cursed. I’ve heard her—especially at night when the wind howls. The Bean Sí. She cries for us. She cried for your grandmother, too, the night she died.
Moira’s fingers tightened on the paper, her pulse quickening. Her mother had never spoken so plainly of the The Bean Sí before. She had mentioned her in fragments, woven into bedtime tales with just enough detail to unsettle a young child, but not enough to make Moira truly believe. Yet here, in her mother’s own words, was an admission—a truth that her mother believed in fully.
Please know that she is not just a ghost, Moira. She is part of us, bound by something older than blood.
She sat there, the words blurring as she reread them, trying to grasp their weight. The stories she had dismissed, the strange looks her mother had given her whenever she asked too many questions—all of it suddenly felt sharper, a fragmented puzzle coming together.
For a moment, she wanted to run. To leave the house, sell it, let the past decay in silence. But her mother’s words had planted something deep inside her, a compulsion she couldn’t ignore. She needed to know, to understand why The Bean Sí wailed for her family.
And so, with the letter still in hand, she resolved to stay.
• • •
The days passed slowly, each one more unsettling than the last. Moira hadn’t slept well since she found the letters. She kept them tucked under her pillow like a charm, as if her mother’s words could protect her from whatever lurked in the shadows of the old house. Every night, the wind outside seemed to grow louder, howling through the trees, sending sharp, icy drafts through the cracks in the walls. And with the wind came the sound of weeping—a low, keening cry that drifted through the rooms, touching every corner of the house. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but Moira heard it.
At first, she had told herself it was nothing more than the wind and her imagination. But strange things began to happen.
One evening, while she was in the kitchen, a cold draft swept through, extinguishing the candle she’d lit on the counter. She relit it, but the flame flickered wildly, casting strange, elongated shadows that seemed to stretch and shift with each gust. She felt a chill that seemed to sink into her bones, and for a moment, she thought she heard a whisper—soft, like a sigh, calling her name.
In the mornings, she would find objects moved from where she’d left them. A hairbrush from her suitcase placed neatly on the dresser, a closed book found lying open to a page she hadn’t read in years. The items seemed insignificant at first, but then, each felt like a message. A deliberate touch from someone watching her.
One evening, Moira decided to explore the old attic. She’d never been up there before, but something about it pulled her, as though the house itself were leading her there. Dust coated everything in a thin, gray film, and the air was thick with the scent of aged wood and time. In the far corner, half-covered by a sheet, she found an old trunk with her grandmother’s initials engraved on the lid. She opened it carefully, the hinges creaking in protest.
Inside were remnants of a life she had only known through stories: a lace handkerchief, an old leather-bound diary, and a small, polished mirror. But as she picked up the mirror, she felt the weight of it shift in her hand, and she saw a glimpse of something—a figure standing behind her, pale and blurred. She spun around, but the room was empty.
A shiver ran down her spine as she put the mirror back. She shut the trunk quickly, feeling as though she had disturbed something that should have remained hidden.
That night, the crying grew louder.
•••
In the early hours of the morning, Moira was awakened by a chill so profound it felt as if winter itself had seeped into her room. She lay in bed, her heart pounding, every instinct telling her to stay hidden under the covers. But she couldn’t ignore the sound—a soft, broken weeping, like the call of a lost soul. The cry pulled at her, twisting something deep within her chest.
Taking a shaky breath, she slipped out of bed and moved toward the door. The house was cloaked in darkness, and she wrapped her arms around herself, shivering, as she made her way down the hall.
The crying led her to the parlor, a room she rarely entered, where the portraits of her ancestors lined the walls, watching her with hollow, painted eyes. The crying abruptly stopped, but the silence was even more unsettling, thick and expectant, like a held breath. She stood there, feeling the weight of the room settle around her.
Then she saw her.
In the faint light filtering through the curtains, a figure stood by the fireplace. Her form was ghostly pale, her hair flowing like silver water down her back. She wore a tattered dress, its fabric whispering as it moved in an invisible wind, and her eyes were hollow, dark pools that seemed to hold the weight of centuries.
Moira’s breath caught in her throat, her legs frozen to the floor. She could feel The Bean Sí’s presence, as well as an overwhelming sorrow that filled the room like a impending storm.
The woman looked up, and their eyes met. There was no scream, no wail—only a silence so profound it made her heart ache.
The Bean Sí moved closer, her face inches from Moira’s. In that moment, Moira felt a rush of memories that weren’t her own—a flicker of lives long gone, loves lost, and sacrifices made in silence. She knew in that moment that her mother’s words were true. This woman was bound to her by blood, by history, by a shared pain that spanned generations.
The Bean Sí raised a trembling hand and brushed it gently across Moira’s cheek. The touch was cold, like the first frost of winter, and Moira felt tears prick at her eyes.
“You…” The Bean Sí whispered, her voice like the wind through dead leaves. “You must remember.”
Then, as quickly as she had appeared, The Bean Sí faded, her form dissolving into the darkness, leaving Moira alone with the echo of her words. Moira remained rooted in place, her body numb, her mind reeling. Her cheek still tingled where The Bean Sí’s hand had brushed against her skin, a lingering chill that seemed to sink all the way to her bones. The whisper, “You must remember,” echoed in her mind, an instruction that felt both urgent and incomprehensible.
Stumbling back, Moira sank into a chair, her pulse racing as she struggled to understand. The stories her mother had told her, the family legends she’d dismissed as superstition—they were real. Every whispered warning, every tale of a Bean Sí mourning for her family—they weren’t just folklore; they were a truth her family had carried, generation by generation, without ever understanding why.
And now, that truth had passed to her.
Moira’s gaze drifted to the letters she’d found. She had read them all, but she felt as if she were missing something, as if the key to The Bean Sí’s message was hidden between the lines, buried in her mother’s words. She pulled the letters from her pocket and unfolded them, reading with a new urgency, scanning for any detail she’d overlooked.
One phrase stood out to her now, stark and clear:
Our sorrow has bound her to us, an anchor that pulls her back, again and again. Only fire can sever the chain.
The locket wasn’t meant to be held onto or passed down; it was meant to be destroyed. Her ancestors had either misunderstood or feared the finality of it. They had clung to the locket, thinking it was a protective charm, a reminder of their heritage. They had unknowingly kept the curse alive, tethering The Bean Sí’s spirit to the family line.
Understanding settled over Moira. To truly release The Bean Sí, to free her from the family’s grief, she would have to burn the locket, severing the last thread that bound The Bean Sí to the living world. It was an irreversible act, one that would erase a piece of her family’s past—but also the only way to grant The Bean Sí peace.
• • •
Moira gathered her courage and took the locket outside. The air was cool and thick with the scent of damp earth, and the trees swayed gently as if whispering among themselves. She carried a small bundle of kindling and matches to the clearing at the edge of the forest, a place her mother had called the crossroads. It was said to be a threshold, where the world of the living brushed against the other side.
Moira knelt in the clearing, her hands steady as she placed the locket on a bed of kindling. She’d heard stories of the crossroads from her mother—a place where the veil between worlds was thin, a space where burdens could be laid down, where the departed might finally rest. She realized now that this place was meant for The Bean Sí, who had watched over her family for so long, carrying their sorrow like a shroud.
Taking a match, she struck it and touched the flame to the kindling. As the fire sparked to life, flickering and curling around the locket, she felt the weight of her family’s grief rise from the earth like smoke, swirling around her, thick and charged with emotion. The heat grew intense, the flames dancing higher, and then The Bean Sí appeared within the smoke, her face softened, her eyes gentle.
Moira watched as The Bean Sí keened—not the wail of torment she’d once feared, but a sound so raw and full that it sent a shiver down her spine. It was a sound beyond words, a release of pain, sorrow, and love all braided together. She realized, in that moment, that The Bean Sí’s cries had been not only a warning but a gift—a primal, cathartic expression of grief that her family had been afraid to acknowledge.
The Bean Sí looked at her with a bittersweet smile, as if understanding Moira’s realization.
“You have given me peace,” The Bean Sí whispered, her voice like the wind over water. “And you have seen the truth. Life ends, but it is not meant to be feared. When you hear my call, know that it is a sign that you are ready for rest.”
The Bean Sí’s words settled over Moira like a balm, and she felt a profound calm sink into her bones. In the guttural keening, she saw the power of release, of facing grief head-on, of giving voice to every hidden pain. The Bean Sí had been more than a harbinger of death—she had been a witness, carrying the family’s burdens, giving them a place to face the inevitable. But that same role had trapped her, turning the gift of release into a curse.
With a final whisper of gratitude, The Bean Sí faded, her form dissolving as the locket burned down to ash. As her presence ebbed, Moira felt a strange weight lift from her chest. It was as if the house, the forest, even her own spirit had exhaled, letting go of centuries of pent-up sorrow.
In the days that followed, Moira moved through the house with a lightness she hadn’t felt before. The silence felt different now, not ominous but peaceful, as if every room were at rest. She sorted through her family’s belongings, her mother’s letters, with a renewed perspective. Each item, each story was precious, but she was no longer bound by them. She understood now that The Bean Sí’s gift had been the understanding that life’s final call was part of a greater cycle—a moment of liberation, not fear.
She thought of The Bean Sí’s keening, the visceral release in each cry. Moira had always pushed away her own emotions, afraid they’d overwhelm her, but now she felt the urge to try it herself, to find her own voice in grief and let it out. In that sound, she understood, was freedom—a permission to feel everything without shame or constraint.
Finally, she packed her things, locking the house and walking away with a deep sense of release. She was free now, no longer tethered to the weight of her family’s curse. The Bean Sí’s cries had been a gift and a burden, but now she could carry only the gift—the peace of knowing that life was fleeting, yet beautiful, and that there was a time to let go.
As she reached her vehicle to leave, Moira paused, listening to the soft rustling of leaves in the wind. She thought she heard a faint melody, a lilting tune, neither sorrowful nor joyful but something in between—a song of life, of loss, of freedom.
And she smiled, feeling the wind carry her forward, lighter than she had ever been.
Behind-the-Scenes Commentary
HOLY SHIT. #amiright? How perfect was that card for the clusterfuck of a time we’re having right now, huh?
In my Artist’s Way class, I said that I’m in ANGRY BABA YAGA mode right now, but that was before I pulled and worked with this card. Yesterday, I said aloud, “I want to meet more myths in the moment.” I didn’t think it would happen so quickly but it did.
Today was another hard day of grief for me and leaning into The Bean Sí myth and archetypal energy today felt like a validation of these feelings. Not only that, but a way of saying, “look, tragedy and unimaginable loss will happen, but we can’t be cursed to live it as if a The Bean Sí is always watching, ready to keen for our death.
I think there’s also something important from this myth that people miss and it’s that keening is actually a very cathartic and primal way to get out our grief, anger, etc. You should try it — I did.
Anyway — I’m feeling quite proud of this little myth that could.
Source Material
Irish Fairytales & Folktales Book - brought back from Ireland