The Banshee

"Of course I do."

"Well you've never done it before..."

"How do you know?"

"A woman can tell. Here, I'll help."

"What says you know so much?"

"My mother explained it all to me. She said, 'You'll have to find out someday, God knows, and the sooner you're resigned to it the better.'" Abigael frowned. "What do you think she meant by that?"

Her hands were busy beneath the makeshift blankets and Adrian jerked when her fingers came to rest down below, but he didn't pull back. He did know what to do, of course. ...mostly.

The fine mechanics of it, particularly as pertained to her anatomy, were something of a blur. His spine tensed up when they came close together, and then he felt...well, there wasn't quite a word for what he felt then, or for the sound that Abigael made then. It was a very small sound for how long her mouth stayed open. But Adrian had sense enough to know that it was good.

The next part came easily. Or, better to say, naturally. The old bed had held them both so far but he began to fear they might be taxing it a bit too hard and he considered easing up a little, since if it broke they'd hardly have an easy time finding a replacement, but certain inclinations tabled that idea. If anything, they shortly embarked on what seemed to be a race to push the old thing beyond its capacity.

The Widow Hutchinson, of course, was a widow only by virtue of having been married three days before her husband (a much older man) took his leave of her and the world, and popular rumor held that he'd married her due to being weary of life and desiring a last inclination to push him off the dock into the next world, so odds were this was the most exertion it had ever had to bear.

Adrian pushed the hair back out of his eyes (it was lank with sweat now, as was hers, though he thought hers still very pretty anyway). The lantern was on the floor, so he wished he could see her better, but something (besides the pale white coolness of her naked skin) stood out even in the gloom. "Your eyes," he said.

"What about them?"

"They're blue."

"Don't tell me you're just noticing now?"

"I always noticed. But tonight they look different. I wonder if—"

A noise came from outside. They both turned at once. They heard a thump and a crunch and the sound of footsteps.

"What was that?" Abigael said.

"Probably a fox."

Another thump.

"A big fox," Adrian added. "Huge. Biggest of all time."

There was a light in the window. Abigael held onto him tighter. Adrian sat up. Was it the ghost lights on the children's graves? Whatever it was, it was getting closer. He found his trousers and his boots, putting them on again in spite of Abigael's objections.

"Don't go out there," she said.

"I have to."

"Why?"

"So that it doesn't come in here. Just wait a second."

He peeped through the dirty window. The light was faint and silvery, and as it came closer he saw the outline of a figure within it. His heart sank when he realized it was the shape of a woman.

"Stay here," he said.

"Adrian, don't!"

But Adrian was already at the cabin door. Whatever was out there, he'd face it like a Burns. Which was to say: courageously, and for less than a minute.

He opened the door. The night air tickled him. The glowing woman was only a few feet away, and he could see the hem of her cloak flapping and the wisps of her hair floating out from beneath the riding hood. He shielded his eyes and, doing his best to keep the tremble out of his voice, he said, "What do you want?"

"Adrian," the woman said. Adrian swallowed.

"Yes," he said. And then, louder, "Yes, I'm Adrian Burns. So if I'm the one you're after then you've found me."

"Adrian?"

"I already told you—"

"Adrian, it's me."

The woman put her lantern down and took her hood off, and once the glare was out of his eyes Adrian saw her properly. "Abigael?" He blinked, confused.

"I was so worried when you didn't come to the party," she said, running up to the door. "I snuck out to come find you. Adrian, what are you doing out here? Where are all of your clothes?"

"Abigael...if you're here..."

He felt a draft on his back. A cold, cold hand touched his bare shoulder. All his hair stood up.

"Adrian?" said Abigael, trying to look over his shoulder. "Who's in there with you?"

"Adrian..." said a voice in his ear. "You promised. You held me in your arms and you promised we'd be together forever. It doesn't matter if you thought I was someone else, does it?"

Adrian swallowed. He wanted very much to scream, but he couldn't. Instead he said, "Run away, Abigael. Run as fast as you can. Now!"

And then he turned around.

She was pale, and blue about the lips, her eyes red from night after night of weeping and wailing. Her silvery-white hair blew all around her and even wrapped around him, dragging him into her icy embrace.

"Mine," said the banshee. "Forever."

Adrian opened his mouth to scream...

But they were both gone before he could, leaving behind only the petals of the white flowers, dancing in the October breeze.

***

At least, that's how the old-timers tell it.

Another story, less popular, less widely heeded, says that Adrian Burns slipped on some wet grass and cracked his head against a tombstone that night, a stone that turned out to belong to his immediate forebear, one of the first settlers in the region.

But that's not how the old-timers tell it on dark October nights, when the mountain folk lay a broomstick across their threshold and huddle around the fire.

There are certain things that the so-called reasonable explanation doesn't account for, most prominently the stories of Old Mother Williams (so she was called by everyone in town, though she was no one's actual mother, for Abigael Williams never married) about the night she went out looking for Adrian Burns, and how what she saw in the widow's cottage has loitered about her worst dreams ever since.

Nor did it account for the disappearance of the banshee, for no one had heard her chilling cry since Adrian had gone.

There was, however, a new apparition that took her place, one sighted increasingly often as the town grew and the old mountain trail became a true road and newcomers built their houses there.

It was the ghost of a young man with a blue scarf, who wanders through the woods. Sometimes he will stop at the boundary of a yard or fence and call out, asking people to open their doors and help him. So far none have dared—not even Old Mother Williams, who sees and hears him more often than anyone.

Now and then people will wake to find a bouquet of bleeding white flowers on their doorstep the next morning, wilting but still fresh. They dispose of the blossoms somewhere far away from their property, and shiver as they do, and say a thankful prayer for their blessings.

And the good fortune of their families.