by Blake Croft
Then there was the girl Tara Walsh. Linda wasn’t sure how she might feature in this.
Or maybe these girls suffered from the same visions and nightmares as Linda did, and eventually they just left, too frightened to keep staying there. Among all the people who came here to recover, it made sense. Some of the customers of Blackburn Manor were probably more sensitive than average.
“Were there any other deaths in Blackburn Manor? Particularly of women?”
“Nothing traumatic,” Grady shook her head. “They were only natural deaths by old age or sickness. You suspect a woman is involved? Would make sense since a woman is singing in the messages.”
“You think the miners are haunting it?” Linda thought of her dreams, of the face in the painting and it made sense if the miners agitated souls were acting out the way they were.
“Maybe,” Grady said. “That place has always held the air of oppression about it.”
“But Stewart and Evelyn have lived there most of their lives,” Linda said, shaking her head. “Wouldn’t they have said something about the bad dreams? And as far as I know, Marisa is the only one that was driven mad by them, so maybe it isn’t something as sinister as you suggest, just a very sick girl.”
“No, Marisa wasn’t the only one who went mad. Stewart had a dog that went mad about eight months ago around the time his mother was in the hospital.”
“What?” Linda was shocked. Stewart had told her the dog had died, but he had made it sound like it had been years ago, and of natural causes.
“He kept barking around their porch then flung itself off the porch steps. Broke its neck.”
Visions of Marisa holding the banister for dear life came back to her. Her muscles tensed.
“No wonder he keeps the urn with its ashes in his apartment,” she thought aloud. “He must have been devastated.”
Grady was looking at her quizzically. “You’ve been in his apartment?”
Linda flushed. Heat radiated off of her. “I had an accident, and he was helping me out,” she stammered. “Nothing happened.”
“I didn’t say it did.” Grady held up her hands. She pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “Look, there is much I can tell you about the nature of haunting and how to prevent them, but I don’t think that will help you. The song in the recording can help us. It’s Gaelic, the language; I think. I recognized some words. She said Shaesar at one point. It’s Caesar in old Irish Gaelic so the clues all point to the miners, but I could be wrong. Here.” She handed Linda the hardcover book she had retrieved from the shelf. It was black with ornate silver lettering spelling out Lore of the Land – A Concise History of Irish Folklore, Legends, and Myth. “I picked this up on a trip to England, where I visited an old friend, a teacher who introduced me to an enlightened amateur ethnologist, one of the authors of the book. It reminded me of the mines. This might hold the information on Irish folklore and their beliefs in the occult that is relevant to us. If the miners are behind the haunting, as I suspect, they are using their Irish heritage and it can give you clues on how to combat it.”
“Won’t you help?” Linda took the book from her.
“I didn’t manage to read all of it, Miss Green,” Grady said sharply. “But I’m not the one experiencing the phenomenon, so I don’t know which track of exorcism will actually work. You must read the book and give me some insight based on your recent experiences. Then I will help you.”
Linda couldn’t argue with that logic.
She tucked the book under her arm, and finished her coffee.
“I’ll keep you posted,” she said getting up to leave.
“Hmm. And Miss Green,” Grady said. “Be careful; and if at all possible leave the manor.”
Linda paused, nodded, and then left Grady’s house.
Chapter 22
The book was heavy and oddly cool in Linda’s arms. She hugged it close. The sun was shining brightly and it made her blink a few times. Grady’s living room hadn’t been dark but it was cool and shaded compared to the raw sunlight in the middle of the road.
Linda stared at her feet. They had stopped moving of their own accord when she had reached the center, like there was an invisible wall ahead of her that she instinctively knew not to walk into.
She could feel the hateful gaze of the house bearing down on her. It was a silly thought. Houses had no souls, no personalities. They had no intent and action. Yet, Linda felt fear burn the back of her throat.
Tears prickled her eyes. The sun beat down from directly overhead plunging the porch and windows in shadows. She could hear the wind sighing through its eaves; the red geranium pots suspended from the gallery looked like two burning eyes in the terrible face of the house. Shuddering breaths escaped her, and she realized she was paralyzed. The house had her in its awful snare. It would suck her in.
This house had driven miners to jealous plotting, driven Samuel Blackburn to murder and then drove him insane from the guilt. Now, a woman was dead, and Linda couldn’t convince her sister to leave.
Her stomach rumbled as she walked up the porch steps. She pulled out the key and unlocked the front door. The living room was empty. Linda walked in and let the door close behind her. The air in here was oppressive, warm, and stank of stale things.
Linda walked into the kitchen to find Ashley, but her sister wasn’t there. Her phone was charging on the kitchen counter though, so Linda was sure Ashley was still in the house somewhere.
The fight seemed like it had happened years ago. So much had happened in the hours that had passed that Linda wasn’t sure how to go about fixing it. Deciding to wait for Ashley in the kitchen, she placed the book on the table and fixed herself lunch. Linda was anxious to read the book, but she was starving, and she needed to check something important first.
While she ate her peanut butter and apple slice sandwich, she unlocked her phone and opened Facebook. She typed in Shannon Dorothy’s name and waited for the sketchy internet to give her a boon.
After a few minutes the links began to pop up. She tapped the image tab and waited a few more minutes. She sighed at the slow speed. The pictures that finally popped up were of various women but none of them fit the description of Shannon that Grady had given her. Some were older, some younger but none fit.
Grady had mentioned Shannon was shy, so maybe that was why she hadn’t found much online.
She typed in Tara Walsh instead. The fifth profile seemed to fit the right age bracket. The pictures were grainy and of a pretty young girl with chestnut hair, styled fashionably. There was an openness about her face, even through the low resolution pictures her green eyes sparkled.
“Where did you go?” Linda asked the picture on her phone.
Sighing, she locked her phone and placed it back in her pocket. Fidgeting in her chair, she turned to the book. The print was minuscule and the illustrations were vivid ink sketches. Linda flipped through a few pages, the sheer volume of information she had to go through overwhelming her.
She let out a loud breath and started from the beginning, scanning the first few paragraphs before moving on if they didn’t meet some of the criteria of what was happening in the house. She made it through the A’s in half an hour. She was inclined to give up on the tedious task when she turned the page titled Baal. She was so shocked she dropped the rest of her sandwich back on its plate.
Words surfaced from her memories. Words that were spoken at this very table.
There was a woman… she was young and beautiful… she starts to get old before my eyes… Her skin wrinkles till she turns to dust, her bones caving in on themselves till she’s a heap at my feet… I couldn’t look away…
Like Marisa in her dreams, Linda couldn’t look away from the illustration either. The drawing was in ink like most of the illustrations in the book. A woman stood alone under a black star studded sky, her body covered in a long flowy dress that was torn in places. She was forever captured in the act of metamorphosis; thick hair turning brittle while white ch
unks fell out of her head, healthy cheeks collapsing over gums loosening teeth, big beautiful eyes entrenched with wrinkles and bags, one arm was healthy, virulent, and firm, the other a wasted stump. Wisps of smoke curled around it and flecks of dust swirled around in an invisible wind.
“Banshee – Bean Sidhe,” Linda read the title out loud.
Her throat was suddenly sticky with peanut butter. She poured herself a glass of water. She drank it in painful gulps and refilled the glass. Sitting back down at the table, she pulled the book closer and started reading.
The myth told of a manifestation that came into existence wherever there had been a violent and unfair murder. A banshee was created that exacted vengeance on its aggressor, not discriminating against innocents in its path, attacking everything and everyone with its wrath.
Linda sipped water and read on.
The Banshee is recognized by its wailing lament, a sound equally ensnaring and repulsive. Invisible to the human eye, the Banshee relies on dreams and nightmares, attacking its victims in their sleep so they wake up with no memory of the actual attack but have marks and bruises that mimic those suffered by the deceased; an endless rerun of their tragic demise.
Linda frowned and read the text again. The way the banshee used its powers was curious. Linda touched her own bruised neck, a deep frown marking her brow. The details about the dreams were accurate. Linda’s vivid nightmares had started when she had entered the house, not to mention the dirt in her bed after her nightmare of stumbling through the mine shafts. But if what this book said was true, Banshees were supposed to be invisible. Linda had seen a grey shadow; this reinforced her gut feeling that she could see more than her eyes. And why were the markings of the event strangulation marks when the miners had been shot?
This also brought into question who actually was haunting the house. If it were the Irish miners, they wouldn’t manifest as a banshee, a ghoul almost exclusively female; maybe the fact that they had been Molly Maguires could point to their return as a banshee. Rubbing her aching head, Linda flipped the page to see how long the chapter on banshee was. There were ten pages in total and most of them looked like diary entries.
A small script preceded the entries.
*The following passages were transcribed directly from the journal of Colin Prim, assigned Regional Governor near Doon, Ireland in 1651. The text has faced no changes only the spellings have been modernized for smooth reading and clearer understanding. The entries have been shortened and edited to include only that which pertains to the subject at hand.
She was about to read on when the sound of something heavy hitting the floor came from the main hall. Linda placed a toothpick between the pages as a bookmark and went to investigate. “Ashley?” she called.
There was no reply.
Linda walked out into the living room. The basement door was open again. Cold terror wafted out of that rectangle of darkness.
“Linda.”
Ashley stood at the living room door. Her hair was wet, and she looked much better than she had in days.
“Hey,” Linda said quietly.
“Hi.” Ashley hooked her thumbs in her jeans pocket. “I’m sorry about earlier.”
“Me too,” Linda nodded. “I shouldn’t have… You’re a great sister.”
“No,” Ashley shook her head, her smile bitter-sweet. “I’m not. You’re right, I was constantly thinking of myself. This place obviously isn’t working out for you.”
“What are you saying?” Linda asked, cautious not to irritate Ashley again.
“I’m saying we can live in town,” Ashley spread her hands. “We can commute to work till something better comes along.”
“Ash,” Linda swallowed the lump in her throat. “Stewart said I can’t keep my job if I don’t stay at Blackburn Manor.”
Ashley’s mouth fell open in shock and dismay but she recovered quickly. “That’s okay,” she said. “I’m sure you can find something in town. It’s not a big deal. Besides, the main reason we came here was for you to get counseling. I see no point in sticking around if that’s no longer the case.”
“You mean that?” Linda was touched.
“I even packed a bag with basics,” Ashley smiled. “We can leave today and get the rest of our stuff later.”
Linda laughed with relief. “Thank you,” she rushed over to her sister and gave her a warm hug. “Thank you, thank you!”
The further away from the house they were, the safer they would be. Marisa had been fine at the hospital; coming back had been fatal. If Grady was right and Linda’s presence had exacerbated the haunting at Blackburn, then it would go back to normal once she left.
“I called Milo,” Ashley said straightening up. “Officer Carter. I told him he needs to give us a ride to the nearest motel since his brother was fleecing me. He said his cousin owns a motel in Keystone. I swear this whole town seems to be run by one family. He’s coming in five minutes.”
Linda laughed. She felt much lighter now that she knew she was no longer going to live in this oppressive house. She picked up the book from the kitchen and followed Ashley into the main hall.
A single trolley case rested at the foot of the stairs. Linda tucked the book under her arm and ran up the stairs. The buxom woman’s portrait had no effect on her. She was too relieved to be leaving to care much about its malevolent pull.
In her room she threw a few clothes and underwear in a large handbag. She was about to leave to get her toothbrush from the bathroom when she spotted the pink pentagon Polly Pocket on top of a stack of books.
She smiled at the sweet memories she associated with the object and she swiped it into her handbag. She’d come for the books later.
Once she had finished packing, she joined Ashley in the hall and pulled the roller towards the front door. They had just managed to pull the suitcase down on the gravel when Stewart’s car turned into the drive.
“Going somewhere?” he asked as he climbed out of the car.
“Just checking into a motel for the night,” Ashley said her tone casual. “It feels weird sleeping in the house after last night.”
Stewart gave her an appraising look; it was very different from his usual cheerful attitude. Linda could see some of Samuel Blackburn in the slant of his eyes and the tightening of his jaw. “I won’t be able to guarantee Linda a job if she does not stay for counselling”.
Ashley laughed. It was a bitter sound. “After last night I’m going to need some counseling too but unfortunately you don’t have any. We’ll be back in the morning by eight to start our shifts.”
Stewart didn’t smile. His neck was red and he looked furious. “More councilors will be arriving in a few days’ time,” he stammered. “And there is a clause in her contract which penalizes her if she leaves the job before the contract is complete. I could file a law suit.”
“Frankly, Stewart, you should be glad we’re still willing to work here and not filing a suit against the retreat.” Ashley’s tone was still casual but the threat underneath it was palpable. “One of your counselors tried to strangle my sister, her client, before dying. Either the retreat didn’t vet her for mental illness, or some hazardous health risk in your retreat lead to her death. I don’t know which it is, but if it makes the national papers, it won’t be very good for your business.”
“Are you threatening me?” Stewart glowered.
A police patrol car pulled up along the curb. Officer Carter sat behind the wheel. Mrs. Grady came out on her front porch, both hands carrying bowls of food for the neighborhood cats.
“Call it what you want,” Ashley said. This time the casual tone was gone. She placed a hand on Linda’s arm communicating protection. “We’ll be at work at eight, and if our employment is terminated, I’ll call my lawyer and we’ll take you to court. Good night.”
Dragging Linda with one hand, and the suitcase with the other, Ashley walked briskly to the police car. Officer Carter didn’t get out. He popped the trunk and waited.
; Linda waved to Mrs. Grady. “I’ll return your book once I’ve read it.”
The old woman nodded.
Linda got in the back with Ashley. Stewart was still staring at them as they pulled away from the curb and drove away.
Chapter 23
The Keyring Motel was like most motels. Its pale brown walls provided the most rudimentary needs like moderately clean beds, functioning bathrooms, and mindless television. Linda and Ashley ate tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner, discussing why motel owners loved to paint the rooms varying colors of beige.
“I think the paint is cheaper in that color,” Ashley suggested, opening the Polly Pocket with one hand and closing it. Linda watched the glimpses of the miniature house within as Ashley continued to fidget with the toy.
“Because it doesn’t sell,” Linda laughed. “And the guy practically pays them to just take it off his hands.”
“It could also be a cult, you know,” Ashley sopped up the last of the soup with her sandwich. “Some secret society that wants everyone to be miserable, so they make the suckiest most depressing motels to kick people when they’re already down.”
Linda didn’t laugh this time. Because unbeknownst to Ashley she had just described Blackburn Manor.
“You know,” Ashley traced the outlines of the pink pentagon. “I can’t seem to remember what Mom looked like. I mean I can if I really concentrate, but it doesn’t come to me instantly like it used to.”
“I know what you mean,” Linda touched the back of Ashley’s hand. She wondered if the departed feared being forgotten by those they had loved when alive, which is why they returned.
“I think that’s why I took it,” Ashley twirled the toy on the table. “I wanted a solid reminder of Mom, of my childhood. I had nothing else I could pack when I left.”
