“You don’t actually believe that old story do you?” John had almost tuned out the sound, but now it seemed closer than before.
“I do, and so should you.”
“It’s nothing more than a barn owl, that’s all.”
“Barn owl. When did you ever hear a barn owl make a noise like that?” The old man looked in the direction of the window. “She’s coming for me. Wailed the last two nights she has. Time’s short now boy.”
“You should get some sleep. We can talk in the morning.” John glanced toward the door. Despite his loathing of this place the bed down the hall was a welcome friend right now.
“She won’t forget you know.”
“Who won’t?”
“The Banshee. Doesn’t matter if you run away to America. She’ll come to claim you just like she’s claimed every O’Bannon for ten generations.”
“I didn’t go to America to escape the Banshee,” John said. “I went there to escape you. Don’t you remember what you were like? How you treated me?”
“Past is past.”
“Except for the Banshee?”
“Except for her. She never forgets.” The old man broke down in another fit of coughing. “I’m tired. You can go now.”
John stood for a second. Silence filled the air. “Well then, I’ll be down the hall if you need me.”
“I’ll not need you again tonight boy.”
“Goodnight Uncle.” John pulled the door closed and turned toward his own room. Outside, beyond the thick walls of the house, the harmonious keen carried upon the wind, close now. It’s merely a barn owl out for the hunt, John told himself, but he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of apprehension as he settled back into bed and closed his eyes.
***
The scream pierced the thin veil of John’s restless sleep. He sat upright, the dying chords of the sound resonating in his ears. For a second there was silence, and then he heard a second cry, shrill and laden with terror.
John sprang up, the covers falling to the floor as he leapt from the bed. He flung the bedroom door wide, barely noticing it slam into the wall with a sharp crack. He bolted toward his uncle’s room, the source of the sound, and barged in, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight before him.
His uncle lay in the bed, but he was no longer alone. Upon the old man’s chest, straddling him like a hideous jockey, sat a withered hag of a woman, her long hair grey and wispy, her skin like curled leather. Her hands were upon his chest, the fingers little more than desiccated claws.
“Help me.” His uncle’s voice was hoarse. “For the love of God, help me.”
“Sweet Jesus.” The words escaped John’s lips before he could rein them in.
The creature swiveled and leveled her gaze upon him. A thin, mocking smile curled the corners of her mouth. The hag’s eyes, set deep within dark rimmed sockets, burned an unholy yellow as they fixed him.
He backed up a few paces, his legs like ten pounds of lead, but he could not tear his eyes from the ghastly countenance they now looked upon.
The hag crept toward the end of the bed, her gaze never leaving his, and sat there for a time, watching him, daring him to run. And then, finally, he found the will to escape that room and the impossible creature it contained, but it was too late.
She leapt, a piercing shriek upon her lips, and landed on his back as he turned. Her claws dug into his shoulders, her legs whipped around his waist in a tight embrace.
He fell forward, reaching to break his fall with his arms, and rolled over. The hag, dislodged from his back, scuttled around and positioned herself upon him before he had time to collect his wits.
She lowered her face to his and he smelled the cloying, bitter stench of death upon her breath.
“You shouldn’t have come back.” Her voice was dry and broken.
“You’re not real,” he said, because to believe otherwise would have pushed him over the edge into a dark chasm of madness. “You’re just a dream. A nightmare, that’s all.”
“How real is this?” The hag reared over him, lifting her arms, then plunged them down toward his chest. He felt her push within, finding his heart and curling her talons tight around it. Pain flared through his body. An empty blackness danced at the edge of his vision, closing in.
As the darkness ate the last shreds of his consciousness, and the agony ebbed away into the bleak nothingness of death, he heard his uncle’s maniacal laugh. “She came for you boy. How do you like that? It wasn’t me the Banshee wanted. It was you all along.”
Luck of The Irish
JACOB PULLED THE PUB DOOR WIDE, pleased to escape the rain. His umbrella had done little to save him from the torrential downpour, the wind having turned it inside out within seconds. In the end he’d given up and closed it.
A wall of sound hit him from the far side of the room where a quiz night was in full swing, the participants hooting and hollering with each answer they got right. He glanced toward the noise before turning his attention back to the bar, catching the eye of a server.
“What’ll you have?” She leaned casually on the counter.
“Guinness.”
“Coming right up.” The server collected an armful of empty glasses. She put the glasses in the sink before turning her attention to Jacob’s beer. He watched as the black liquid flowed into the glass, all froth and bubbles.
While the Guinness settled he took in his surroundings. The place was like hundreds of other Irish bars across America, a parody of the emerald Isle that packed more clichés into a thousand square feet than any building had a right to. Mirrored advertisements for Magners Cider and Harp Lager took up the back wall. A blackboard announced the food specials, Bangers and Mash, Corned Beef, fish and chips, the usual fare.
On the wall above the blackboard seven letters stood out in white against a green background. Slainte. Jacob had no idea what the word meant, but apparently it was law that all Irish bars display it prominently.
“Here’s your Guinness sweetie.” The server broke his train of thought.
“What do I owe you?”
“That’ll be six bucks.”
“This one’s on me love.” The voice belonged to a tall middle-aged man with blue eyes, dark hair and a leather jacket.
“Cheers.”
“Don’t mention it.” The stranger had a lilting Irish accent. “I haven’t seen you in here before.”
“I’m just visiting. The girl at the hotel said this place served a decent pint.”
“So you’re a stranger to these parts.”
“I suppose.”
“Well you couldn’t have found a friendlier place to spend the evening.” The stranger held his hand out. “I’m Marty.”
“Jacob.”
“Pleased to meet you Jacob. You know, if you’re hungry they have fantastic food here.”
“I saw the blackboard.”
“Best grub in town. Of course it’s the only grub in town, unless you count Thai Palace a couple of miles out on Route 6. They say the food there is excellent, if you like that sort of thing.”
“Thanks for the heads up.”
“Not me though. Give me good old meat and potatoes any day.”
“Me too.” Jacob took a swig of his beer.
“Well then, you’re lucky you ran into me, or you might never have known about the best cottage pie in the country.”
“Best in the country huh?”
“Absolutely. Say, talking of luck, why don’t you take a look at this.” Marty delved into his pocket and pulled out a small silver coin.
“What is it?”
“This here is a very special coin, a lucky coin. I got it from an old gypsy woman years ago in Ireland. It’s over 350 years old.”
“Really?”
“Sure is. I had it looked at by a professor at Harvard a few years ago. He told me so himself.”
“So what does this lucky coin do exactly?”
“It keeps me safe from harm. In the thirty years I’ve carried it
nothing bad has befallen me.”
“I see.” Jacob didn’t believe a word of it, but the guy had bought him a beer, so he stopped short of voicing his opinion.
“Not so much as a scratch. But I sense a little disbelief.”
“I’m not one for superstition.”
“Well why don’t you take it a while, maybe you’ll change your mind.”
“I couldn’t.”
“I insist. You can give it back next time we meet. By then you might be a believer.”
“I really don’t think I should.” Jacob said.
But it was too late. Marty was already pressing the coin into his hand. “There you go, just don’t lose it.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“That’s the spirit.” He glanced at Jacob’s glass. “Will you be having another?”
Jacob shook his head. “I should go. Early start tomorrow.”
“Come on, one for the road.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well now that’s a shame.”
Jacob looked at the coin. A harp adorned one side, and on the other a crown. Both sides contained words that looked like Latin. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep this? It looks valuable.“
“Now would I show it around if it was worth a bundle?”
“I suppose not, even so…”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get it back from you soon enough mate.”
“At least let me get your phone number, just in case.”
“No need. It’s fine, honestly. On my life.”
“Well, okay.” Jacob downed the last of his beer. “See you around.”
He opened the door and stepped into the night. Much to his dismay the rainstorm had grown worse. He pulled up the collar of his coat and stepped from the curb.
Two blinding white lights lit him up. A squeal of brakes split the air. There was a moment of fear before the pain came.
Jacob lay in the road. Above him, swimming across his blurred vision, a crowd formed, they shifted in and out of focus.
He heard a familiar voice.
“I’ll be taking that back now if you don’t mind.” The Irishman plucked the coin from Jacob’s bloody hand.
“What happened?” Jacob rasped.
“It seems you had a slight mishap there, young fella,” Marty said.
Jacob opened his mouth to reply but all that came out was a heavy gurgle.
Marty leaned in close. “I told you the coin was good luck. Well, for me anyway. It never fails to let me know when something bad is about to happen. All I have to do is pass it off for while and what do you know, my bad luck becomes someone else’s.” He straightened up. “Thanks for saving my bacon. You’re a good sport.” He pocketed the coin and pushed his way back through the throng of gawkers.
Jacob tried to call after him, but this time not even a gurgle escaped his lips as the blackness closed in.
The Frequent Visitor
I HAVE ALWAYS FOUND train journeys to be tedious, and particularly so at night, when not even the scenery is visible to distract the wandering mind from lapsing into a stupor.
I was finding this particular train journey, from Manchester to London, particularly uneventful. This might, perhaps, explain why I ended up making conversation with the rakish gent with whom I occupied a small first class cabin.
He was reading a book of ghost stories, one of those leather bound volumes that are so good to consume in front of an open fire on a cold winter night, which was what made me think of my own story, something that had happened to me years before, the memory of which had been rekindled by a recent newspaper article.
“Have you ever seen a ghost?” I inquired, hoping to stimulate at least a few precious minutes of conversation to save me from the awful monotony.
He peered up, his eyes examining me over his book. After a few seconds, as if deciding that I was not a lunatic, or a bore he would be obligated to entertain for the duration of the journey, he set the book aside. “No, but I have heard several supposedly true ghost stories, none of which I am inclined to believe, and some of which are so utterly predictable that they become tiresome within the first few lines.”
“Would you like to hear another,” I said. “I can guarantee that it will, at least, be interesting enough to while away a few minutes, and I can assure you that it is true.”
He looked out of the window, watching the rain lash the panes of glass. Beyond this the darkness was almost absolute, only the occasional lights from some far away town or lonely farmhouse, breaking the blackness. “Well, it is certainly the night for ghost stories.” He shifted in his seat and placed his hands neatly on his lap. “Go ahead, and we will see if your tale is as interesting as you promise.”
I closed my eyes for a second, gathering all the details of the events I was about to recount, gathering the happenings from my far flung childhood memories. At length I recounted my tale. “This occurred when I was a child, maybe nine or ten years of age. I was living in Manchester. My parents were Irish. They had come over to England like so many other poor Irish families to escape the same poverty and unemployment that sent so many Irish immigrants to the New World. I don’t remember much about my life in Ireland. I do remember how bleak and rocky County Mayo was, how the wind scoured the land until only the hardiest of vegetation could take hold. It was certainly a different world in Manchester.”
I slowly drew breath. “We lived in a three floor house on Maypole Street, which was in one of the poorest districts of Manchester. There were seven of us including my parents. I had two brothers and two sisters. I was the youngest. Due to lack of space my brothers doubled up in a room on the second floor, as did my sisters. My parents occupied a room on the first floor, between the lounge room and the parlor, which was not uncommon in those days among large families. I occupied a small attic room on the third floor. I thought myself lucky to have a room of my own, even if the walls did slope, following the line of the roof. As I recall, the room was always dark and full of long shadows. There was only one window that barely let a drop of light in even on the brightest of days. My imagination created many a demon out of those shadows during the long winter nights I can tell you.”
“It sounds like the perfect setting for a ghost story. I do hope this spirit isn’t going to turn out to be the conjuring of a small boy’s imagination,” said my companion.
“I assure you that the apparition in question was no imaginary ghost raised from my subconscious, although that is not to say that the room itself didn’t create a few imaginary monsters for me at times. No, she was real, of that I am one hundred percent sure.”
“She? So the ghost was a lady then?”
“Female yes, though not a lady, a little girl with piercing blue eyes and an adorable face. At least she had an adorable face in the beginning, but we shall come to that. As I said, at first she had an adorable face... I remember the first time I saw her as if it were yesterday. It was midweek, a Wednesday evening I believe. I was reading in bed by the light of a small gas lamp. This was before the house had electricity, at least on the upper floors. It was common in those days for houses not be fully wired. I don’t know why I looked up from my book, but something drew my attention, perhaps the room turned colder, I don’t know. They say that a ghost will create a chill in the air, but I can’t recall it any change in temperature when she appeared.”
My travelling companion shifted in his seat, eager to hear more.
I took a quick breath and continued. “The room was dark beyond the glow of the lamp. At first I didn’t see anything. Flickering shadows licked at the darkness, but one shadow seemed more intense, brighter than the others, and it seemed to be moving strangely. I was accustomed to the way the shadows moved, the way the flicker of the gas lamp made them dance over the walls, but this shadow didn’t dance. It had a fluid movement all it’s own. It glided. I watched it for several seconds, although to me the time seemed longer. My heart was beating very fast, and I remember wanting to cry out, bu
t I couldn’t, my mouth opened but no sound came out. Of course, at this point I didn’t know what the strange shadow was, but I knew it was something different, and that scared me.”
I cleared my throat, pushing back the tight knot of fear I always experienced when thinking back to that time, and the ghost. “The shadow seemed to be growing darker, and more solid, until I could make out a shape, a human shape. An arm appeared to be reaching out from the shadow, and gradually the arm became clear, it seemed to pulse into focus. The rest of the shadow became clear moments later and I saw a pretty young girl standing translucent before me, dressed in a long billowing white nightdress. I could see my wardrobe through her, or at least the outline of it. I could actually see through her! I remember she had long blond hair, locks of which curled down over her forehead. I noticed her mouth was moving, but could hear no sound. I was terrified. Then, no sooner had she appeared, than she was gone.”
“What did you do?”
“I buried myself deep under the covers and stayed that way until morning, by which time I had convinced myself that what I had seen was merely a trick of the light, maybe a bad dream, or some such thing.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“No. I saw her again several times after that, although not every night, maybe once every few weeks. After a while I got used to seeing her, and she never harmed me, so my fear disappeared. It’s amazing how easily you accept things like that when you are a child, the world hasn’t taught you that they are impossible yet.”
“Did you tell your parents what you had seen?”
“No, I thought they wouldn’t believe me, and they probably wouldn’t have. I don’t think I have ever told them anything at all about the ghost.”
“Is that all that happened? I must say, that is not the tale you promised me!” My companion reached for his book again.
“Oh, there is more. Like I have said, the apparition came to me every few weeks on average. At first she was just a sweet child. Sometimes I wished I could understand what she was trying to say, but I could never hear her words, all I could see was her mouth moving. I always thought she was trying to tell me something important, but could never make out the words.”
Fearsome Things: Five Short Tales of Horror and Suspense Page 2
