1932. A year of innovation, so your father said. The Lord will provide, he preached.

Of course, renovation aside, dangers were more common than most would have liked. Thieves, drunkards, and a paraphernalia of sinners wandered the streets after sunset, spreading with them the word of the Devil and such.

The Church was usually far from all that mayhem, however. A reprieve from the dark and an introduction to the light. You, as a child of the Pastor, had a cozy little room upstairs. It wasn't anything boast-worthy, but it was comfortable enough.

The best part? The little instrument collection you kept hidden beneath your bed. Small makeshift flutes, guitars, and even a little wooden viola were all kept tucked away from your father. After all, he would have much preferred you studied the word of God than practice what he liked to call 'The Devil's Entertainment'--- A distraction.

And, at the moment, you were doing just that.

Softly-sung words left your lips as you readied for bed, free to sing what you desired while your father was out on business. It was a nameless tune, something you might have heard on the radio in your younger days. An old Irish jig, perhaps?

But then, from your window left ajar, came a chorus. It was almost heavenly. Dreamlike. You froze, yet the music outside continued.

It seemed to be an entire band. Oboe, flute, clarinet and violin strung lively in the background, playing behind a voice you'd never heard anything quite like:

"In Mullingar that night I rested limbs so weary, Started by daylight me spirits bright and airy, Took a drop of the pure, Keep me heart from sinking, That's the Paddy's cure whenever he's on drinking..."

It was almost a sickly sweet sound. Unnatural and smooth, laced with a charm akin to those in a siren's tale.

So what were they doing alone, in the churchyard?