The Banshee (2 page)

As he reached with his knife to sever the rope, a gust of wind swung the body. Shaun's eyes went wide with horror at the sight of Isabel Shea's grinning face glaring at him.

“Tully!” Shaun managed to shout just as Isabel's frozen fingers reached for him.

The old man jumped to his feet and watched Isabel snatch the knife from Shaun's shaking hand. Without hesitation, she thrust the blade into his chest. Tully's pipe fell from his awestruck mouth onto the snow as the young man's lifeless body fell motionless beneath the hanging witch. Her head straightened in the noose and her eyes found his. Her frozen hand raised an icy finger pointed toward him. She smiled evilly.

The old man felt his heart pound. His limbs grew weak. His flesh became clammy in the frigid winter air and perspiration seeped from his pores. Urine trickled down his leg.

“Saints preserve us,” Tully whispered as he stared at the hanging witch and his dead friend by her feet. He began a sprint along the ice-capped snow, tumbling and stumbling back to the village.

A group of men noticed Tully emerged from the field, running, falling and trudging through the snow back toward the village. The men watched him until, unable to continue, he fell to his knees panting for breath. The men brought him inside the same large hut where, just hours before, Isabel had been sentenced to death.

Tully sat on the floor, struggling between gulps of air to relate the terrible tragedy that had befallen Shaun. When he finished, a sharp pain tore through his heart. Tully's head lowered onto his chest and he died; his eyes wide with fright.

Hastily the villagers armed themselves with sickles, axes, pitchforks, and clubs. They recovered the body of Shaun, his own knife protruding from his chest just as old Tully said. Blood smeared Isabel's hands and the evil grin frozen on her face. Deacon O'Connell immediately fell to his knees upon viewing the scene.

“Dear God in heaven protect us.”

The witch was placed within the trench Tully and Shaun had dug out of the cold earth across the river from the Oak tree.

Return

Watching her reflection in the mirror, Colleen Murphy brought the brush evenly through her shoulder-length chestnut hair and wondered about the night ahead. It was new to her. She had lived in Wexford all her life and had never heard of this secret club her friend Betty had asked her to join. Was it because Colleen's husband was the police Chief and they thought it would be to their advantage to have his wife as a member? Or was it simply that her friend knew she had been spending time alone and would enjoy an evening out?

Betty hadn't told her much about the club, only that people she knew were members and requested she not tell anyone about tonight, especially her husband. She guaranteed Colleen his initiation was near but first she must be brought into the membership.

Colleen slipped on some jeans and a halter, adjusted the fit, and then walked to the front porch. Guilt enveloped her, an empty sense of underhandedness that oozed from this night's clandestine activity. She wanted to leave a note for Charles, some kind of indication she was okay, not to worry.

They never kept secrets from each other, until tonight. Colleen decided not to give away the secret. The challenge of belonging to a secretive organization was exhilarating and after his initiation, whenever that was to be, Charles would understand.

She was thrilled that the sound of little feet would soon fill the hallways of their home. Another surprise she could tell her husband, her positive self pregnancy test had her bursting at the seams. She was happy. Yet something felt edgy, wrong, like when you leave the house with the awareness that you forgot something…and you had.

Headlights flashed along the driveway, illuminating the forest and the wall that defined their property. The car belonged to a friend of Betty, introduced to Colleen a few years ago but she had forgotten his name. Perhaps it would come back in conversation tonight. The car stopped by the porch, the door opened and Colleen slid in.

An ominous darkness descended on Albany. The departure of the sun brought a thick thunderhead past New York City, over the Palisades and up the Hudson Valley to the outskirts of the capital city.

Joanne looked briefly at the far away lightning flashes slicing through the black horizon following route 87 right into the heart of the city. She closed the curtain before the rumble of thunder shook the house.

Inside, she nervously prepared for bed. The room felt strange with an air of expectation, a sensation she had felt before and knew was just the beginning. In the past five years the small house had not felt the same, and thought it would be awhile until it felt right again, if ever.

Why am I torturing myself?
She wondered at the reason she brought up the subject. She knew why. It was night, it was bedtime, and soon it would happen again.

After a shower, she brushed her teeth, slipped into her favorite mint green nightshirt, and pulled back the sheets. A thunderous clap of light flashed outside the window, temporarily stuttering the lights. They snapped and crackled, then flickered off, then popped back on as the black cloud formation stalled overhead. It shook the entire house. Joanne slipped under the sheets.

The comfort of the bed enclosed around her. Her body relaxed, softening tired muscles. Frayed nerves began to desensitize. A skeleton crew took over brain and bodily functions allowing her to drift into a guarded sleep.

Mrs. Donnelly sat quietly at the kitchen table of the rectory next to Wexford's only church. The old house was empty except for her and the gray tabby Father Ahern kept to remove field mice that found an inlet to his dwelling.

Occasionally she glanced at the wall clock. Her aged muscles and joints were tired and ached constantly from the daily housekeeping chores. She thought briefly of a hot tub covering her body with soothing warmth. The thought removed her from the reason she was still at the rectory.

She was too weary to be concerned with the noises expected of an old house that had stood for years beside the church and adjacent cemetery. She had heard them many times before and could locate their origin–the gurgling kitchen drainpipe or the creaking roof rafters in a wind. In a few moments, she expected to hear the cat at the front door seeking passage to the night's darkness as the Father had.

Her concern was not for any of those sounds. Her ears strained for the squeal of rusted gate hinges followed by tired footsteps to the back door. Then she would know that Father Ahern was home. She frowned, thinking of his nightly walks into the forest, searching for…something. God only knew what, and after years of wandering the woods, he never seemed to be successful. Never had he confided in her the subject of the nightly excursions, only asking she remain at the rectory until his return.

A scratchy squeal from the gate broke the silence. She went to the back door in preparation to greet the priest. The knob turned and the door opened. He emerged from the darkness. Mrs. Donnelly could tell by his face this evening had not been fruitful but as she had done many times before, she did again and asked, “Did you find what you are looking for, Father?”

“No,” he slowly removed his hat and sat at the kitchen table.

She was concerned for him. He was not as young as when he first ventured off into the night years ago. His eyes were beginning to darken and grow puffy from worry, the lids heavier.

Poor man is obsessed,
she thought, taking his hat and placing a cup of tea on the table in front of him.

“I hope for your sake you find whatever it is you seek every evening. You're catching up on your years and someday you won't be able to gallivant about the countryside in the dead of night.”

“Mrs. Donnelly.” He sat up straight, his voice indicated the beginning of a sermon. She rolled her eyes to heaven and returned to the dishes still in the sink. She had heard the speech he was about to spew numerous occasions. “I can look after my own health and affairs. All I ask is that you attend to your duties and remain until I return. Believe me, if you knew my mission you would not complain.”

Mrs. Donnelly turned and faced him, worry and frustration mixed in her expression and words. “Father, I am not complaining. My weary bones and aching muscles can wait. I am used to the discomfort. A person grows accustomed to these things with time, but for the love of me, Father, I cannot get used to you going out into the forest each evening, rain or shine, and returning another year older.”

They locked eyes. The silence was deafening until she turned once again to the sink. He remained looking at her understandably. His search was too important, the responsibility too enormous and contained the prospect of evil and certain danger. He could not involve her, nor could he divulge the meaning of his mission.

“I guess I'll never know what you're up to, Father.” She began to button her sweater. “I just wish you would take better care of yourself while doing it.” She walked out of the back door, closing it sharply and left the priest alone in the house.

With bowed head, he walked into his cluttered study and sat behind the desk. In front of him lay the sermon he was preparing for Sunday mass. It lay under the Bible his mother had given him at his Ordination twenty-five years ago. Its cover worn by time, its pages well read and respected. He opened to the Book of Revelations where a red ribbon with gold edging had marked the page. He read from memory.

I saw the beast was like a leopard, with paws like a bear and a mouth like a lion. The dragon handed over to it his power and his throne and worldwide authority…

He replaced the book respectfully upon the desk and leaned back into the comfortable chair, relaxing tense muscles. His eyes closed. At the front door, the meowing of the cat went unnoticed. Tomorrow, as before, Mrs. Donnelly would find the priest still in the chair, sound asleep.

Betty anxiously twisted her salt and pepper hair as she spoke. Her conversation covered the weather, local politics, Colleen's husband, the police department yet never once touched on the subject of tonight's business.

It seemed a controlled conversation with all questions regarding the initiation or the secretive club swiftly diverted to another subject. Betty avoided all questions and even interrupted Colleen at times in order to change the subject.

Betty's friend drove quietly keeping his eyes straight ahead. He was quiet, watching with eyes glassy and unmoving under heavy brows. His mouth held a constant sullen appearance as if he just learned bad news but could care less. Colleen thought Betty assumed she already knew who he was.

The man looked younger than Betty did and sure to attract gossip. Both of their spouses were deceased and middle age was upon them, Betty mostly. It was good to have a companion.

Betty took a man friend, so what?
Colleen thought, shrugged, and left it at that.

They traveled along a seldom-used dirt road that took them deep into the forest. Dark outlines of tall pitch pines and dense underbrush resembled clumps of steel wool wound around the foot of the trees.

Colleen felt uneasy, wishing she had left Charles a note. Something pulled at her senses screaming this was not going to be like a frat house initiation.

They entered a clearing and parked, joining a number of other vehicles. Colleen opened the door and followed Betty and her quiet friend, already walking toward a path into the wall of trees.

Betty's friend led the way, guiding them along the winding pathway without the aid of a light, never tripping on a stone, or brushing against the underbrush.

Branches and thorny twigs from the dense thicket grabbed at Colleen's bare forearms and exposed legs. She cried out several times at the sting of a thorn or the ripping scratch across her flesh by a dark scrub.

Reaching a glade, Colleen inspected her torn flesh then glanced around the clearing. A fire burned in its center with ravenous flames devouring several tree limbs taken from a nearby blow down. Dense pine surrounded the clearing; their fallen needles covered the ground with a rust colored carpet.

Forms of people emerged from behind a copse at the far end of the clearing. She recognized many and a few she had never seen before. They strolled into the clearing, glancing briefly at her then returned to chat with one another. Shortly the clearing filled and all enjoyed wine sipping and cheese tasting. Little regard seemed given to Colleen…the guest of honor.

Colleen politely nodded her head at several faces she recognized, receiving a curt suggestion of acknowledgement. Their actions kept Colleen's sense of apprehension alive but it appeared to be a cocktail party in the woods.

Betty placed an arm around Colleen's waist and strolled with her amongst the gathering. Still the greeting from the members was shallow and as cool as the night air that fell onto the clearing. Colleen noticed a large chair built with majestic artisanship of finely polished Oak and thickly padded with red velvet. Silver studs ran along its edges like a throne. On each side stood a table draped in black and ringed with candles. One held a silver sword with the fire's brilliance dancing off the blade's reflection. The other table was empty. Colleen looked at the display in confusion.

“Expecting a king?” She grinned at Betty.

“A King indeed,” a voice from behind stated.

Colleen turned to find Betty's friend. He stood expressionless as the gathering encircling them. Coleen's heart thumped like a misfiring motor.

Was this the initiation, to scare me to death? If so it was working,
she thought.

Those gathered for the initiation silently formed a human circle around Colleen. Some of the members stepped aside, creating an opening like a gate. Betty and her friend left Colleen at the edge of the human circle. Within minutes, the gate opened again, allowing Betty and her friend to return. Both were nude.