When I was very small, I remember waking up in the wee hours when all was dark and quiet, and I wandered into our living room looking for dad. I found him all right. Him and a zombie he had just raised. He was still covered in dirt and the sacrificial blood was still on his lips.

I screamed that piercing little girl scream and I ran as fast as my tiny legs could go back to the safety of my bedroom. My father’s clomping feet following me only served to freak me out even more since I thought the monster would come with him and eat me up. But it was just him coming to comfort me and hold me and assure me everything was all right.

Eventually I calmed down enough to actually hear what he was saying as he rocked me.

“Hush now luv. Don’t be scared. No worries. No worries.” He whispered over and over again, his naturally rumbling voice quiet and his Irish brogue seemed thicker. It only did that when he was worried.

“Now my darlin’,” he said to me as my crocodile tears subsided. “Come and meet my friend.”