The Haunting of Tullabeg Castle

A failing ghost-hunting team accepts a lucrative job from Sorcha, a wealthy Irish-American who's bought the remote Tullabeg Castle in the Bog of Allen. Sorcha simply wants them to stage a paranormal show for her friends. Easy money-except no one at Tullabeg is telling the truth. Gwyn needs this payday desperately. His business partner and ex-army buddy Tristan owes him his life. And Gwyn's wife Yseult came to support her husband-not to feel what she's beginning to feel. Their car lies wrecked in the bog. The phones don't work. As they wander the castle's secret rooms and hidden corridors, Lady Sorcha and her cadaverous companion Mr Dudley seem to be watching them everywhere they go. Something is making them feel what they feel, forcing them into roles carved in stone centuries ago-the aging husband, the younger man, the woman caught between them. It feels like the story of Diarmaid and Gr?inne, the benighted lovers who fled from Fionn MacCumhail's wrath, all happening again. They came as actors, but they are not performing. They are not choosing. They are being chosen to replay an ancient story where desire means betrayal, and betrayal means blood. Outside in the mist, the howls of the ancient land rise up, and who knows who will escape, or whether they even deserve to?

A failing ghost-hunting team accepts a lucrative job from Sorcha, a wealthy Irish-American who's bought the remote Tullabeg Castle in the Bog of Allen. Sorcha simply wants them to stage a paranormal show for her friends. Easy money-except no one at Tullabeg is telling the truth. Gwyn needs this payday desperately. His business partner and ex-army buddy Tristan owes him his life. And Gwyn's wife Yseult came to support her husband-not to feel what she's beginning to feel. Their car lies wrecked in the bog. The phones don't work. As they wander the castle's secret rooms and hidden corridors, Lady Sorcha and her cadaverous companion Mr Dudley seem to be watching them everywhere they go. Something is making them feel what they feel, forcing them into roles carved in stone centuries ago-the aging husband, the younger man, the woman caught between them. It feels like the story of Diarmaid and Gr?inne, the benighted lovers who fled from Fionn MacCumhail's wrath, all happening again. They came as actors, but they are not performing. They are not choosing. They are being chosen to replay an ancient story where desire means betrayal, and betrayal means blood. Outside in the mist, the howls of the ancient land rise up, and who knows who will escape, or whether they even deserve to?