Osgood Jones was a skeptic, 
mixing travel with his scorn;
he was sniffly and dyspeptic, 
when he journeyed from his bourn.

He exposed werewolves in Brittany —
“What a childish lie to heed!”
He mocked the Aufhock of Germany:
“Shape-changer eh? Indeed!”

Soon he toured the land of Éire;
“No fae have I’ve ever seen!
“No Irish spectres flit the air —
“no faery king or queen!”

He snorted at a tatty place
hawking “faerie lockets”:
“Lies they tell with a smiling face,
“so they can fill their pockets!”

His rental car then chose to stall, 
— simply refused to run —
And his phone demurred to make a call,
as the eve consumed the sun.

Jones spied a man by a hawthorn tree —
A thin man with a gnarled club —
Who said, “Sure and if yez follow me
“I’ll escort yez to your pub;

“A shorter way lies ‘cross this field
“And past the old stone mound …
“Your journey will be sweetly sealed
“By Ireland’s truest crown!”

Jones sighed and said, “I’m sold!”
And they trudged through clinging mist;
the grass was wet, the night was cold
and something somewhere hissed:

“Bogha do rìgh nan Sìthiche, Jones!”
cried the stones with a sibilant sound;
his very soul gave out a moan
as the mist parted for the mound.

Twas then the stranger clapped his hands —
the mound shivered, and it rumbled; 
And Osgood Jones felt quite unmanned
as granite leaped and tumbled.

Now a light came sickly pulsing
from a doorway cut through stone;
Jones beheld a cave convulsing,
With fae thumping drums of bone.

Music like a madman’s chortle,
was carved by crooked horns;
It whipped a pair of jigging mortals: 
Enslaved, emaciated — torn.

Faerie faces were stretched-out things: 
paint dripped upon white paper;
On a throne of bones sprawled the King, 
smirking as his victims capered.

The king beckoned to Osgood Jones,
with pale fingers knifeblade thin:
“Won’t you join us, Osgood Jones?
“Oh do, oh do come in!”

Feeling like an abject shrew
impaled full upon a thorn,
Jones’ courage was quite hooked through
— but he fell back upon his scorn:

“These fervid faeish features? 
“I  rubber-stamp them frauds!
“I refuse to see such creatures —
“I turn my back on these false gods!”

His will a forceful parry,
Jones turned from the dread abode 
And quite unwilling to tarry —
He sprinted toward the road.

He stepped upon it, gasping —
And suddenly he froze;
He heard a crackling-rasping —
And blood gushed from his nose …

Within the Golden Hawthorn Inn,
The pub where Jones was staying,
The tipplers saw him stagger in,
And in haste they went to praying —

For Jones stood there gibbering,
his head forever backward-turned;
Don’t turn your back on the Fairie King —
This Osgood Jones had learned. 

[John Shirley is the winner of the Bram Stoker Award for his story collection, Black Butterflies: A Flock on the Dark Side. He has been guest of honor at the World Horror Convention, and a special guest at HP Lovecraft Film Festival. His novels include Demons, Cellars, Wetbones, and Stormland. His new story collection is The Feverish Stars. His first collection of weird poetry, The Voice of the Burning House, has been nominated for the latest Elgin Award for year’s best book of weird fantasy poetry. His second book of rhyming poetry is Ghost Confessions. He will be Guest of Honor at the 2026 Stokercon.]