The Banshee (7 page)

Nancy heard the car horn and quickly finished brushing her long hair. After taking a last glance in the bedroom mirror, she went down the stairs to the front door where her mother stood.

“Have a good time,” she said, kissing her daughters cheek.

“I should be home for dinner,” Nancy said, opening the door. “Love you.”

David sat behind the wheel of Uncle Carl's Ford parked at the curb with the motor running. He smiled, watching Nancy approach, her hair bounced and her body swayed with every step.

“Want to see Wexford from the air?” she asked, slipping onto the front seat beside him. David pulled away from the curb, wondering why he had suddenly thought of angels and the woman from his dreams again.

“You have an airplane?”

“Course not, there's a spot on the heights overlooking the town. I'll take you there,” she said.

They left for the rock-faced cliff that loomed over the town. It was not long until Nancy directed David to turn off onto a small dirt road. He had his doubts as to the wisdom of driving on such a narrow roadway. At points, the trees were mere inches from the side of the car. If they stopped, they wouldn't be able to open the doors.

They wound their way along the heights sloping ever upward. The vegetation turned thick with pine, maple, and birch until abruptly dropping off to an exposed shale and rock face that fell almost straight down to the swamp and river below.

The car worked its way along an old fire road not traveled on in some time. Weeds and small brush began to overtake the road from lack of traffic, scratching at the car's underside while they motored toward the summit. The roadway finally opened wider to a clearing where they overlooked the area below. David parked and got out.

“This is beautiful. I didn't realize the heights were so high,” he stated, looking out past the outline of the town's structures onto the spreading patchwork of farms and engulfing forest.

“They were named for Deacon O'Connell,” she explained, “the leader of Wexford's first settlers. They say he is responsible for the legend of Isabel Shea.”

“My father told me that story. Think I was ten or twelve, scared the shit out of me. She was the witch that was hung in town and vowed to come back and kill everyone?”

“The Deacon was the magistrate at her trial and pronounced the death sentence,” Nancy replied.

David silently thought of the brutal murders that had occurred over the past few days and wondered of the legend. His Uncle's findings as to the strange way the little girl and officer had died put his imagination to work.

Could it be possible?
he asked himself. No, that is ridiculous, but then again, a lot weirder things have happened.

“A penny for your thoughts,” said Nancy.

“Just day dreaming.”

“You've been dreaming a lot,” she added.

“Because I'm so relaxed here it's easy for a person to doze off, and you're right, I have been dreaming a lot.”

“About me?” she asked.

“One of the better dreams,” he grinned.

“I'm glad I'm not a nightmare,” she exclaimed.

“I've had a few of those also.” He ran his hand over his hair. “You wouldn't want to hear about it.”

“You have the same dream all the time? Tell me,” she pleaded holding her hands together as if praying.

He looked out over the view of Wexford and related his dream of the woman with a severed throat that tried to speak but could not. When he finished he turned to find Nancy's face pale.

“Are you okay?” David sat her back in the car.

“Yes…I'm fine,” Nancy said softly.

“I thought you were going to pass out.”

“Just a little upset over your dream. You're right, it is a strange one.”

“I didn't want to tell you. I didn't realize the cut throat would make you uncomfortable,” he said.

“Did you ever figure out what the woman was trying to tell you?” she asked, closing her eyes and placing her hand onto her forehead.

“I haven't a clue,” he answered.

He sat behind the wheel and gazed out at the town and Whiting field. The Oak tree stood out like a decayed sore spot, barren of the green that surrounded it. It brought his thoughts back to Isabel Shea.

He turned to Nancy, still reclined in the seat with eyes closed. “Who in town would know about the legend of that witch, I mean more than the average person?”

Nancy turned to look at a patch of wild flowers at the edge of the overlook. She seemed agitated.

“I guess if you really have to know, you could talk with Mrs. Toomey. Her husband was the town clerk years ago and sort of the unofficial town historian.”

“He's not around?” David asked.

“Yeah, he's around…in the cemetery, died about six years ago.”

“Would you mind if we visited her?” He felt as though this whole subject bothered her.

“Why are you so interested in Isabel Shea all of a sudden?” she asked, still gazing out the window.

“I have a wild hunch about those murders. I know it's only an urban legend but humor me, okay?”

“Mrs. Toomey is ninety-two,” she responded, facing him, “senile and neurotic. Keep that in mind when you speak with her.”

He smiled and started the car. They left following Nancy's directions to the Toomey residence at the edge of town.

It only took ten minutes to reach the house. It sat devoid of neighbors on a lonely road outside of the populated area of Wexford, built around the turn of the century and crying for repairs. The gutters blackened from years of rain and wind rotting the wood rendering them useless. Hardly any paint remained on the exterior. A picket fence with lopsided and missing pickets encompassed the weed-choked yard.

“I assume this Home and Garden property began its downfall after the husband passed on?” remarked David, walking with Nancy to the gate held on by one hinge. “It reminds me of the Johnson house.”

Nancy remained silent as they approached the porch. David was about to ask if she was angry when he noticed a window curtain slightly ajar revealing an aged wrinkled face, “Someone is at the -”

“I saw her,” Nancy interrupted abruptly.

The weathered door opened slowly in response to David's knock but only enough for a pair of watery eyes to peek out. They squinted with the wisdom of many years, along with the sorrow that life seems to place upon a soul.

Nancy tried to make the introductions. “My name is Nancy Flan -”

“I know who you are,” snapped the woman, closing the door a bit more. She sneered while examining Nancy from the safety of her hallway. “Who is that?” she asked, pointing with her eyes at David. The wrinkled puffs under them swayed with the movement of her head as she gave him the once over.

“I'm David Raferty,” he replied, tilting his head to ease her vision. “I'm visiting my Uncle, Doctor Carl Raferty.” She acknowledged the name.

“What do you want?”

“I understand your late husband was somewhat of a town historian and may have some information concerning the witch, Isabel Shea?” David said.

Her eyes widened and the wrinkled face shuddered. A tiny hand appeared, clutching the edge of the door. It looked almost transparent showing the blue veins running beneath the skin. The hand hesitated a moment then eased the door open.

They entered and allowed their eyes to adjust to the dimly lit foyer. The elderly woman stood in the adjacent living room, the same room David had noticed her behind the curtain. She led them past the dusty furniture and clutter into an adjoining study.

Volumes of books lined the wall, their covers dulled by layers of dust and neglect. A painting of a lighthouse on an angry coast hung from the far wall. French windows filtered sunlight through yellowed lace curtains and sooty glass, leading to what had been the garden. In front of the window stood a large desk with stacks of unread papers, pamphlets, maps, and catalogues hiding its once polished surface.

“My husband's study.” Mrs. Toomey touched the desk with reverence, looking at the chair behind it as though he were there. She motioned for them to sit on the small settee across from the desk.

“My husband collected everything concerning the history of Wexford. Whatever you seek is here.”

She watched Nancy carefully with a frown. “He collected documents and information on the original settlers and their ancestral histories. He even has the manifest from the
Emanon
, the ship that brought them here from Ireland.”

She stood and slowly walked to the wall of books and carefully produced one from its resting place. It was thick with dust upon its cracked leather binding.

“This is the journal of Deacon Jonathan O'Connell. I am not sure how my husband obtained it but I assure you it is genuine. It contains his memoirs but what will interest you is the entry of Isabel's trial and execution.”

She handed it to David. Opening it, he saw the ink was faded and smudged. Many of the words were indistinguishable from lack of good writing implements.

“Have you read this?” he asked.

“Yes, we examined many documents,” she answered.

“Were you aware that a police officer and a little girl were murdered recently?”

A glow appeared in her dulled eyes and she shuddered as David continued.

“They were torn apart by some kind of animal.”

Mrs. Toomey staggered backwards and held onto the desk, then sat quickly on the leather chair, covering her face with her hands. After a moment, she raised her head, breathing heavily.

David went to her side. “Are you all right?”

“I never believed it could happen. I prayed it wouldn't…you must open the grave.”

“Let's go, David,” Nancy said, standing. “This woman is insane. Open a grave?”

“Wait a minute,” David called out as she tried to leave.

The old woman looked up and repeated her warning. “You must open the grave and assure yourself the remains within are Isabel's. If not, then they have succeeded in raising her.”

“I'm leaving,” Nancy announced rudely. “I'll be in the car.”

David knelt beside Mrs. Toomey after hearing the front door slam.

“You will know it is her,” Mrs. Toomey continued. “She was buried with the rope around her neck.”

“Who raised her spirit?” David asked.

“Those who worship the Prince of Darkness. You must be careful young man.”

“This is insane,” he said, standing, “I really didn't think this was real. I just thought...Goddamn it, you're telling me this freaking legend is real? I must be nuts. How the hell did they raise her spirit?”

“The body of a sacrificed woman has opened the portal to hell for Isabel's spirit to return,” the aged woman said quietly.

“Let me get this straight.” David scratched his head, pacing the study. “If I was to find this grave and if I dug it up and if the body in it has no rope around the neck, you're telling me that means Isabel Shea is back ripping people apart?”

“Isabel's spirit is gathering souls, the souls of families and bloodlines reaching into the past, reaching back to her execution.”

“That young girl and the cop were related to someone that executed the witch?” he said.

“We all are–the entire town plus some who have moved away, such as you, young man. We are all in great danger. The slayings will be completed by one of Satan's familiars, a demon at Isabel's command.”

Mrs. Toomey's expression was one of serious danger. Her eyes burned with anxiety, she literally shook. “You must believe me.”

“Okay. I guess I asked for it, so tell me where this grave is and how do I destroy Isabel and this…demon?” He felt obligated for some reason.

“Across the river from the Oak tree on the field, you must find it and cover the open grave, setting the sacrificed body in it on fire. Isabel's spirit will leave along with the beast.”

David stared at her for a moment, contemplating her sanity. “How the hell do you know all this?”

She pointed to the Deacon's journal. “It's all here.”

David began to think Nancy was correct about Mrs. Toomey's mind, but somehow her insanity or knowledge of the legend had sparked his imagination and curiosity. He knew he had to find the grave.

“God be with you,” Mrs. Toomey said, closing the door behind him.

He went to the car and sat behind the steering wheel, gazing at the house and thinking of what Mrs. Toomey had just told him. He looked to Nancy, still staring angrily straight ahead.

“Would you mind if I took you home? I want to talk to the Chief about this,” he said.

“Are you serious? He'll laugh in your face, especially when you tell him where you got your hot information.” Nancy shook her head in disbelief.