Shriek: Legend of the Bean Sídhe

by Jennifer M. Barry

  “Let me just get the journal,” she called as she started up the steps to the second floor. “I’ve picked it apart…”

  Her voice faded as she entered one of the rooms upstairs, and everyone in the kitchen could no longer hear her. Sara sat back and tucked her legs up under her.

  There hadn’t been enough chairs around the dining table for everyone, so Brigid had hustled around the house, dragging any seating she could behind her. Sara had lucked out with a plush armchair, while Fiona perched on a ceramic stool that had come inside from the back garden.

  “Guests first,” Brigid had admonished when Fiona had scowled.

  Remembering her first impression of Fee, the spoiled mean girl who liked watching people die, Sara had plopped into the cushy seat with relish.

  “…and half the bloody thing is written in Irish.” Brigid was on her way back down the steps, so everyone could hear her ramblings again. “I know enough to get by still, but we just don’t speak it that much anymore.”

  She carried a large, leather-bound book with her into the kitchen. From where Sara sat, she could see the journal’s yellowed pages had frayed edges. Papers stuck out from between pages haphazardly. Her fingers itched to touch the worn cover. Something about it seemed so very, very old, ancient even. And yet, Brigid couldn’t have been more than sixty-five, meaning her grandmother’s journal was no more than ninety years old. Maybe even less.

  “We still spoke a lot of Irish in the early nineteen-hundreds,” Aine explained. “Most of the country just speaks English now, but some still use only Gaelic in the west. They know English, most of them, but they refuse to use it.”

  “More tea?” Brigid asked as the kettle came to a boil.

  There was a flurry of activity as everyone stood to get their third mug of tea and another handful of biscuits. Sara opted for some water, but she did snag another custard cream from the tin.

  “Now,” Brigid started, when everyone was settled again. “Most of the stuff in here is about her daily life. I really had to dig here and there to get the information we have. Toward the end, she wrote a lot more about her nightly wanderings. The last two pages talk about Sealgair, when he found her. Then, everything stops. I guess that’s when he—”

  No one spoke for a minute, thinking only of their downed ancestor.

  “Me gran—”

  “Keeva,” Aine interjected.

  Sara assumed that was a name.

  “Yes, Keeva, was found burned on a stake when she was just twenty-two. Me mam wasn’t even a year old.”

  Sara reached for the book and slid it across the table. When it was close, she could see a word stamped on the cover. Caoimhe. She thought for a moment about the Irish words she’d learned so far, and how they hadn’t been spelled at all like she’d expected.

  “Keeva,” she said aloud, running her fingers over the indented letters.

  She opened the book and flipped toward the end, where all the action had apparently taken place. Brigid hadn’t been lying. Many of the passages were unreadable, scrawled in a whole other language. Knowing how to spell Caoimhe and Aine didn’t prepare her for the jumble of letters on the pages.

  One marking did catch her eye. At the bottom of the page, very near the end of the book—perhaps after she’d met Sealgair—was a strange symbol of sorts. One thick, black horizontal line, hashed several times with vertical and diagonal lines. Some of the lines crossed completely, while others either sat on top of or below.

  “What’s this?” She turned the book around to show everyone.

  “I haven’t a clue,” Brigid answered. “I guess it means something, since she drew it at the bottom of the page that describes Sealgair. There’s another page in here…”

  She trailed off as she pulled the book away to flip through. Tucked between the pages, several smaller notes and cards fluttered as she dug.

  “Here.” Brenna’s grandmother pulled out a wrinkled scrap with another symbol scrawled on it. She held it next to the one at the bottom of the last pages of the journal.

  “They look the same,” Fee said.

  “Well, no.” Sean scooted closer and pushed his glasses to the end of his nose. “The lines are all in different places, see? There is the long horizontal one, but the shorter ones aren’t the same.”

  “Well, it doesn’t tell us much. Who knows what it even means?”

  Sara jumped up and grabbed her bag. She dug her phone out and snapped a quick photo of both symbols. “Maybe we’ll need it later.”

  14

  Ridley shot a glance toward the little diner, locked up tight for the week while Sean and Sara went to Ireland, as he cruised in his truck toward the McDonald’s by the interstate. The fast food chain had seen more business over the past three days than it probably had in a month.

  He nodded hello to some of the guys as he walked in and made his way to the counter to order. The table his friends shared was full, so he sat down in another booth to wait for Dobbins and unwrapped his breakfast.

  A bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit just didn’t cut it, not when he’d grown accustomed to Mr. Donovan’s French toast. And the girl behind the counter who stared unabashedly while handing over his change couldn’t hold a candle to Sara.

  Ridley hadn’t been prepared for how much he’d miss her. He’d been sure having a woman in his life would change everything, and it had, but not the way he’d expected. He still got up every day and went to work, still had his breakfast with the guys, still went to sleep on a bare pillow with only a thin blanket as cover. But she was there in the in between, bringing fun, and laughter, and warmth. In her absence, the gray and hopeless he didn’t realize was gone had returned.

  “Hey there, son.” The county sheriff slid into the other side of the plastic booth without invitation.

  Ridley froze, his biscuit halfway to his mouth. The sheriff usually didn’t seek out his company for a friendly chat. This could only be about one thing.

  “Hope you don’t mind me joining you for just a sec.” John set his hat on the table next to a steaming cup of coffee.

  Ridley shrugged. He wouldn’t have said anything even if he did mind the interruption.

  “I’s just wondering if you’ve seen your dad of late,” John continued. “I wouldn’t have worried too much, but Bill over at the liquor store said he hasn’t been by in a couple of days.”

  His pulse quickened. He knew the sheriff was there about his father, but he’d expected some kind of rowdiness or violence. The opposite—a lack of Charlie—well, that was something to get anxious about.

  “Dad and I had a falling out a few weeks ago.” His voice didn’t sound like his. “I haven’t been back home since.”

  He knew. Somehow, he just knew that something had happened to Charlie. Was this how Sara felt when she was about to sing for someone? Wait… Had Sara been all the way back to sing for Charlie and didn’t tell him?

  “I thought as much,” John said. “I’m gonna take a quick trip over there this morning just to take a look-see. Do you want to go with me?”

  Ridley thought about what they’d likely find. Should he let the sheriff go alone and pick up the pieces later? He shook his head. No. He definitely didn’t want to be by himself when he faced his father again, dead or alive.

  “Yeah,” he finally answered. “Let me call my boss to let him know what’s up.”

  He looked over at the curious gazes coming from the booth filled with the guys from the road crew. They’d have stories to tell all day about Ridley getting accosted by the sheriff at breakfast. Definitely better for him to call the foreman on his own.

  He stepped outside to make the call and watched through the window as John cleared away the trash on the table. When the foreman answered, Ridley explained the situation and asked for a personal day. Normally Ridley was paid by the hour, but the boss took some pity on him and promised him pay for any time he missed.

  “Ready son?” Sheriff John donned his hat again and unlocked the doors of his cru
iser.

  “Yeah.” Ridley eyed his truck. “Should I follow?”

  “I can bring you back in a bit. Just leave it here.”

  A trip across town inside the sheriff’s car would certainly set tongues wagging. Ridley heaved a sigh and climbed into the front seat. At least he wouldn’t be handcuffed in the back.

  “I’m sorry to hear you and your dad aren’t getting along,” John started as he pulled out onto the highway.

  “Dad doesn’t get along with anyone,” Ridley muttered. “It was just a matter of time, me moving out.”

  The two rode in silence the rest of the way, giving Ridley plenty of time to image the many things he might find at his old house. Would the old man be sitting on the couch, staring at the TV in a drunk stupor, oblivious to the people who might be worried about him? Or would he be hurt somehow, stubbornly refusing to go to the hospital to get something checked out? Or worst of all…

  The cruiser dipped and shuddered as John turned into the short driveway. The house sat silent, looking even more worn and broken down than Ridley remembered. He’d tried his best to keep up with maintenance on the place between work and sleep. Since Ridley had left, his dad probably hadn’t lifted a finger to fix anything.

  Shades on the front windows hung sideways, torn and yellowed by years of tobacco smoke. The screen door slapped against the crumbling siding with every slight breeze.

  “Want me to go in first?” John climbed out of the car and reached back for his hat.

  “Nah, you might need me to let you in.”

  Ridley got out and led the way up the cracked sidewalk to the crooked porch. His ears rang, a high, shrill pitch that drowned out the crushing silence from within. The front door was locked, a small surprise. He hadn’t actually expected to need his key.

  When the door swung open, a putrid stench rushed out of the house as though it had only been waiting for someone to give it somewhere to go. Ridley stepped back and coughed before covering his nose and mouth with his free hand.

  “Oh, damn,” John muttered. “I was afraid of this.”

  Of this. The worst of all.

  Suddenly, Ridley was four years old again, terrified and hiding behind the couch. As much as he’d hated his father, he didn’t want to see what waited inside the house. He didn’t want that memory to take the place of every other bad memory he had of Charlie.

  “Mind if I, uh…”

  “Of course, son.” John took off his hat again and handed it to Ridley. “Hang onto that for me.”

  It was probably a trick he pulled with little kids, giving them something cool to marvel over while he went to check out the bad news. Somehow, it worked, even on Ridley. He looked over the tan felt hat, tracing the little braided ribbon around the brim with his gaze rather than staring after John into the house.

  “Hey, Vera, I need you to send a bus up here to Charlie O’Neill’s place. No need for the siren.”

  A bus… An ambulance? Ridley wondered. With no siren meant there was no need to hurry. He was an orphan at twenty-one. His gut clenched, and he pushed back a sob. Alone in the world at only twenty-one.

  Sara’s face appeared in his mind, her kind eyes and understanding smile reminding him he wasn’t alone, not by a long shot. And then her father, Sean, appeared, reaching out a hand to shake. Ridley stared down at his own hand, remembering the feel of a father’s love, even if it wasn’t Charlie’s. He had a family of sorts, one that had shown him more kindness and respect in a month than he’d gotten from his own dad in two decades.

  The sob shifted into burning anger. He crushed the brim of the sheriff’s hat in his fist and brushed away a tear with his free hand. Why couldn’t his father have loved him just a little bit? Why couldn’t he put down the goddamn bottle of booze long enough to be a dad? Just a few minutes a day was all he’d have had to sacrifice, enough to give Ridley something to hold onto.

  But there was nothing. And Ridley felt that now that his dad was gone.

  Nothing.

  He stood at the edge of the yard, staring sightlessly as the ambulance arrived and the EMTs carted his father away in a black bag. More police arrived to tape off the house and go through the rooms, looking for anything that might have been missed during John’s once-through.

  They wouldn’t find anything but bottles—years and years of bottles.

  His phone vibrated and startled him from his stupor. Sara. She’d just sent him a hello so he’d know she was thinking about him all the way over on the other side of the ocean. Did she know? Could she see when any O’Neill died or just the ones she sang for?

  Had she sung for Charlie that night, even though she’d been in Ireland? He couldn’t even bring himself to ask. He couldn’t find the words to tell her anything, so he just sent back a smiling emoji to hold her over until he could figure out what to say.

  “Do you have somewhere to go?”

  “Huh?” Ridley looked up from his phone and found John standing a few feet away.

  “The, uh, house is gonna need a bit of work before you should go in. Do you have somewhere to stay?”

  “Oh, uh. Yeah. I’m housesitting in Burnsville. I’ll just go back there tonight.”

  “You should get some rest. You’ll need it in the next couple of weeks.”

  He let John lead him back to the cruiser and guide him inside. He even let the sheriff protect his head, the way the cops did when they shoved someone in the back seat, even though he was sitting up front again.

  When he was back in his own truck, staring straight ahead at the nearly empty McDonald’s, Ridley remembered his boss. He pulled out his phone again and fired off a quick text, letting the foreman know he’d be missing some work for a funeral in the coming days.

  Get a lawyer. His boss answered within moments. You’ll need help sifting through insurance and everything else. And to make sure his affairs were in order.

  Ridley hadn’t even considered what would happen next, but there would need to be a funeral or burial of some sort. And what about the house? Had his father owned it outright, or would there be liens and mortgages to worry about?

  Ridley ran a hand over the top of his head, ruffling the hair there over and over, just to feel something. Anything. His eyes stung from unshed tears or exhaustion; he wasn’t sure which one. Probably both.

  He could go back to the house, start cleaning it out and get it ready to sell. Or, he could go to Burnsville, where a comfy couch filled with cats and his dog waited for him. Definitely that couch, he thought. He couldn’t think of anything he wanted more, except maybe Sara, but she was out of reach for another four days.

  “Hey, you!” Sara’s voice flowed through his phone like honey. Ridley hadn’t realized just how badly he missed her until he heard her again.

  “Hey. How’s Ireland?”

  “Oh, my God,” she gushed.

  She described the whipping wind at the Cliffs of Moher, and he could picture her in his mind, hair wild and cheeks rosy from the cold. When she talked about the music in the pubs, he felt like he was right next to her, his pint of beer next to some girly drink she’d enjoy.

  “Galway was incredible,” she continued, “but we’re back in Cork now. Going to see some of the city tomorrow and kiss the Blarney Stone. It’s supposed to give you the gift of the gab.”

  “Yeah, you need it,” Ridley teased, his heart lighter than he thought possible. She did that to him. Sara.

  “What have you been up to?” she asked.

  He couldn’t bring her down from her high. He just couldn’t. And, selfishly, he didn’t yet know how to feel about everything, so he didn’t want to have to guide her through feelings, too.

  “You know. Work. Blue. Cats.”

  She laughed. “Have they killed him yet?”

  He glanced over at the easy chair where Blue lay curled up with three of the cats and chuckled. “Killed him with kindness. They’re all best friends now. Well, except for that fluffy gray one.”

  “Luna?” Sara ventured
. “I don’t think she’s friends with anyone, not even Gran.”

  The words were right there, fighting with his tongue. He almost told her everything, about his dad and the sad old house and how he felt so alone without her there, but stopped again. The only thing he could think to say was, “Hey, do you know a lawyer?”

  “Uh, my mom, before she was mayor. Why?”

  “No reason. A friend.” No way in hell was Ridley going to ask Michelle Donovan for legal advice.

  “You could send them to her old office. Tell the receptionist I sent them. Kristen’s mom works there as a paralegal. She can help your friend if no one else can.”

  Nope. Still wasn’t going there. He’d just have to look one up and pray they didn’t know Mrs. Donovan.

  “They’re the only law office in town, right next to the courthouse,” Sara continued.

  Ridley’s heart sank. Maybe he’d just find someone in Burnsville.

  “I’ll tell him to check it out,” he said.

  “Good deal. I better run. This call probably costs Aoibhe a fortune.”

  “Yeah,” Ridley said, his chest squeezing even more. “I’ll text you again in a couple of days.”

  After she hung up and her voice was no longer there, he held the phone to his ear pretending he could still hear her. What would she have said if he’d told her? How would she have comforted him? He let those imaginary words flow through him as he drifted off into a fitful sleep, covered in cats and a dog.

  15

  “You could go to school here in the fall, you know,” Fiona said.

  Sara looked around the quad of University College Cork and allowed herself to daydream for a moment.

  “With your gran being from Ireland, you could even get your citizenship,” Fee continued. “Wouldn’t that be gas? You, me, and Bren, running this city.”

  God, wouldn’t her mother love that?

  “I’d have to leave too much behind,” Sara said.

  Her mom, her dad. Ridley. In her dreamiest of daydreams, he could come with her. Set up a wood shop and sell his tables and bookshelves out of a quaint little cottage while she got her degree. While they all tried to figure out how to beat the banshee so he could stay alive.