In the ancient city of Armagh, beneath the shadow of St Patrick’s Cathedral, lies Vicar’s Hill, home to a legend whispered with fear for generations.

The Green Lady, a spectre of malevolence had once been imprisoned within a bottle of verdant glass. But on this night, that bottle lay shattered, its binding spell fractured, and she was free to unleash her wrath upon those old, cobbled streets once more.

Father Vogue, a man of unshakable faith and steely resolve, received a summons from the highest clergy in the land. His mission: to confront the vengeful spirit, to quell her insatiable hunger for retribution, and to bring an end to her reign of terror.

Armed with nothing but his faith and a heart that dared not waver, Father Vogue set out to exorcise the entity once and for all.

As the moon ascended its throne in the ink-black sky, Vicar’s Hill loomed with an eerie stillness. The air grew cold, infused with the stench of decay. Father Vogue trod the cobblestones, his footsteps an echo in the deafening silence of the night.

He came upon the remnants of the shattered bottle, fragments gleaming with the light of the full moon. The realisation of the Green Lady's escape sent a shudder through his soul, but he pressed on, reciting prayers that seemed feeble against the encroaching darkness.

Abruptly, a vile wind howled, and the air itself shuddered with a ghastly, poisonous green light. The Green Lady emerged; her form towering high above the buildings which lined the street. Her body a vicious storm of ivy and emerald hues. Her eyes, twin hallows of hatred, locked onto Father Vogue‘s with a promise of torment.

"Father," she hissed, her voice a serpent's tongue on the night air. "You seek to deny me my freedom, but the centuries in that wretched bottle have only fanned the flames of my fury. Who are you to stand in my way?"

Father Vogue‘s heart pounded in his aged chest. He drew his crucifix from his vestments, its once-pure silver tarnished with age and despair, a feeble ward against her engulfing darkness.

"The balance must be restored," he cried out, his voice a shaky and uneasy invocation. "You were bound for a reason, for what you did all those years ago. It is my duty to see it done."

The Green Lady's visage twisted, her ghostly form contorting with rage at the sight of the silver cross. With a motion swifter than the strike of a serpent, she lunged forward, seizing the crucifix. It crumbled to dust in her grasp, its magic snuffed out like an old candle.

"Then, let it be." she spat, her voice dripping with venom.

The world convulsed as the very earth seemed to shudder in terror. The air, now bitter and frozen, stole the screams from Father Vogue’s mouth as the ground itself quaked with a dark anticipation. The Green Lady's form coalesced into a writhing tempest of fury.

In those harrowing moments, Father Vogue knew that he stood at the mercy of a force beyond mortal comprehension. The winds of Vicar’s Hill howled like damned souls begging for peace that night, and come morning nothing was to be found of old Father Vogue.

Some say that if you wonder the streets of Vicar’s Hill to this day when the moon is full, you might hear the smash of glass on the cobblestones, a dark cackle from the shadows and even the cries of old Father Vogue.