Fearsome Things: Five Short Tales of Horror and Suspense (2 page)

Cry of The Banshee

JOHN O’BANNON AWOKE, his eyes snapping open an instant before the recollection of his surroundings rushed back to meet him. From across the room, through heavy lead paned windows, fingers of silver moonlight inched across the floor. Silhouetted against this pale reflected glow stood a chair, his clothes draped across it in such a way that when his eyes settled upon it he saw, briefly, a clawing, creeping shape that made his heart quicken, before common sense vanquished the terror. He breathed deeply, relieved to be alone. Nothing was coming for him, no skulking, looming demon, just trousers and a rumpled shirt. Plain. Ordinary.

  Inside the shirt, in his breast pocket, a folded sheet of white cotton laid paper, the words upon it the instrument of bad news, a summons that had drawn him back to this bleak and dreary place.

It seemed an age ago that he had been at home in Manhattan, not merely two days. Since then he had requested a leave of absence from his lecturing position in New York, boarded a flight, and made the long car ride from Dublin to Abbeyfeale, and out past the ruined walls of Purt Castle, in the direction of Diabhal House, a place he had not seen for more than twenty years. A place he’d hoped never to see again. The last few minutes of the journey, as he rushed across the driveway to the front entrance of the building, a sodden newspaper held above his head to protect from the winter downpour, had been the longest of his life.

He lay still, listening to the sounds of the house, the groans and creaks that had so terrified him as a boy. It was just the old place settling, his mother had said, but still it had the power to strike fear in his heart. Tonight though, a new sound joined the old familiar ones, a dry wail that rose on the wind, thin and distant.

His thoughts turned to his uncle, the man who had sent him the letter recalling him to this place, laying alone down the hall. He was dying, that much was evident. Gone was the robust man with the shock of flame red hair that had made John’s life hell in the years after his parents died. Instead he’d found a pale shell of a man, his body ravaged by disease and the unforgiving grip of time.

Despite his reluctance to leave the warm cocoon of the bed, he felt compelled to check on his uncle, make sure the old man was sleeping, that he hadn’t heard the distant shrieks and decided they were the call of the ghost that had plagued the minds of his family for generations.

John slipped from between the sheets, grimacing as the cold floor met his bare feet. He drew on a robe and padded down the hallway, pausing briefly before pushing his uncle’s door open.

“Is that you boy?”

“Yes uncle.” He was forty-two years of age yet was still a boy in the older man’s eyes.

“Come in. Close the door.”

John complied, wishing the man had been asleep. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Now what sort of stupid question is that?” The words degenerated into a bout of coughing.

“Did you take your pills?”

“Of course I did. There’s no need to harass me so. You’re as bad as the nurse that comes up from Kilkinlea.”

“I just want to make sure you’re comfortable.”

“Comfortable? Bah, you’re just like all the others, out for what you can get. Like that doctor that wants to shuffle me around to all those specialists, like that solicitor who keeps hounding me to get my affairs in order. What do I care, dead is dead. Why would I give a rats ass what the living do once I’m gone.”

“They’re just trying to help you.” John wondered why he’d bothered to come. His uncle was just as mean spirited as ever. “Besides, you wrote to me, remember. You asked me here.”

“I know, I know.” His uncle’s voice lost a little of its harsh tone. “Pass me those powders?”

“These?” John followed his Uncle’s gaze toward the nightstand, to the painkillers. He picked up the sachet and poured a glass of water from the jug that stood nearby. He dropped the powdered medicine into the glass.

“Well mix it in then,” His uncle studied him with narrow black eyes. “Make sure it’s all dissolved. Use the spoon. Quickly now.”

John stirred the concoction and handed it over, watching his uncle swig the medicine laced water. “Better?”

“Not really.” He placed the empty glass on the nightstand. “I’m surprised you had the nerve to come back here.”

“You’re dying. I’m not that cold hearted.”

“I’m dying, that much is true,” the older man said. “Not too long now either. Do you hear the lament?”

“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.