Banshee
Heather Graham
Copyright © 2020 Heather Graham
Banchee
Copyright © 2020 by Slush Pile Productions
All rights reserved. This publication may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior express written permission of the author. Unauthorized reproduction of this material, electronic or otherwise, will result in legal action.
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Banchee is a work of fiction. The people and events in Banchee are entirely fictional. The story is not a reflection of historical or current fact, nor is the story an accurate representation of past or current events. Any resemblance between the characters in this novel and any or all persons living, or dead is entirely coincidental.
A short, first-person story for Halloween! (Approximately 5,000 words.)
For Kelsey, "spooky" ran in the family. Her life was filled with crazy tales and legends, and Halloween was a beloved holiday.
It was all just fun--until one certain Halloween.
Then, it was time to wonder!
The Republic of Ireland
“Here, we be celebrating, and in all manner! Ghoulies, ghosties, monsters—oh my! And the dead! They be allowed to rise the one night, and all manner of mist and madness, mayhem and evil might be afoot!”
My great-grandmother rolled her eyes at me, serious and being playful and mischievous all at the same time.
“Now, Granny—” I protested.
I was just thirteen at the time. I loved Halloween as did most kids my age. But that year, my parents had pulled me out of my grade school in Wheaton, Illinois, for a week so we could visit Granny O’Boyle in her home, a little village just outside Dublin. I loved her—she was crazy, but crazy fun. We often came to see her during the summer. I just didn’t understand at the time why we’d had to come now.
And I seldom knew when she was telling me her tales what was true—and what was storytelling.
And I hadn’t wanted to leave my friends at Halloween.
“Don’t you be ‘now Granny-ing’ me!” She said. “I heard you talking to your mom, you’re missing your homeland and mates and the great American Halloween tradition. Well! Y’need to know the whole of it. Aye, you see, girl, the first celebration here was Samhain, and that’s before the time of our Good Christ, back even before the time when the Romans came to try to conquer all and take over. But the Romans, now, they brought with them their own festivals at first, and then a hundred or so years later, we had the Christian concept of honoring the dead. Well, lass, yes, the idea was always to honor the dead on their special night. But to our ancestors, it was the time when the earth changed, when the herds came home and the crops were brought in, and it was the night when the dead could rise. Now, there might also be evil spirits afoot! So, some wore masks and costumes to keep them away. As time went on, it all became one, the eve of All Saints Day, the Roman festival of Feralia, and the old concept of a night for the dead.”
Granny O’Boyle nodded solemnly to me, and then gave me a serious smile. “Now, mind you, as I’ve warned you, the banshees are about all the time!” She wagged a finger at Kelsey. “And if you don’t spend your time behavin’, child, they’ll be getting’ you in the outhouse!”
That had scared me once, but my cousin—older by five years—had finally decided to remind me that we didn’t have an outhouse—nor did Granny O’Boyle.
“Now, what are your plans for the night, lass?” she asked.
“Um—well—”
“Oh, right then! It won’t be an American Halloween. But there will be lovely fun in the village square.”
“Are you coming with us?” I asked her.
“Ah, girl, no, but I’ll be awaiting to hear about it. Now you be careful—Stingy Jack just might be out there.”
“Stingy Jack?”
She shook her head—saddened by my lack of any real knowledge.
“Well, you see there was this saucy fellow named Jack hundreds of years back. He was always looking for a way around something and thinking himself a smart fellow. So he got the devil to have a drink with him, and then pretended he lost his wallet. Well, he got the devil to turn himself into a coin to pay for the drinks—but instead Jack placed him in his pocket with a silver coin—the devil can’t escape silver, you know. Jack finally let the devil go with a promise that he’d not take his soul for a year. In a year, Jack talked the devil into getting something out of a tree for him—and he caught the devil up the tree and placed a big silver cross right on the tree. Well, came time and Jack, like all men, died. Now, Heaven wouldn’t have him, why would he be welcome there? And the devil was fuming furious! So he wouldn’t take old Jack either—he sent him out in the dark between worlds with nothing but a candle to light his way. Jack put the candle in a turnip—”
“Pumpkin!” I said.
She sighed deeply at my interruption.
“Turnip! And cut holes in the turnip gourd so the light would go through. And there you had ‘Jack with a lantern,’ or Jack-o-lantern.”
“But we use pumpkins.”
“It’s still a Jack-o-lantern.
She leaned close to me. Granny was a tiny woman, thin and fragile to look at. My father had once told me she was tough as nails. She lost my great-grandfather and brought her family to America when times had gotten rough, settled them all in and started them on a new life, raising my dad when his parents died soon after the move. Then, she had returned to the old country after I was born to care for her brother until his death. And here she had stayed.
My dad often told me she might look small and sweet—but she was tough as nails. Despite the charm of her tales and the wonderful way she could make me laugh, I believed him.
“You stay close to your parents, you hear?” she demanded, her voice a little rough. “You don’t always be a-listening to me. There’s evil afoot, and there’s the good, too, but there’s no guarantee there will be a leprechaun around to help if you’re in trouble.”
“I thought leprechauns were evil because men were always after their gold.”
She waved a hand in the air. For a minute, she wasn’t looking at me. Her green eyes were clouded and distant.
“No, lass, there’s evil in this world, but there’s the good, too. And sometimes, we don’t see the good for the evil. Take the banshee. She’s a cry in the darkness. She takes on our pain and our loss. She cries for us, because otherwise our pain might be greater than the human heart can take.” She seemed to give herself a shake, mentally and physically. “Banshees . . . well, they are just those lost to us already who try to warn us and help us along.” She seemed distant again. “You’ll go to the cemetery, of course. Bring gifts to those of our loved ones who are departed. Uncle Liam, now, he likes a wee bit of Guinness on his grave, and Uncle Michael, well, he’s partial to Jamison’s. Now, your parents know—only a wee bit. They’d be destressed by the waste of too much good Guinness or Jamison’s. Uncle Peter is partial to a good strong cup of tea, while Aunt Mary Kathleen prefers coffee.” She paused again, looking into the air as if she were looking into the future or the past.