The One Who Knocks

The people of Ireland understood us once. 

‘The Good People’, they called us long ago. They were afraid of us, yes, but they also respected us. Lived in tandem with us. Accepted us as part of the landscape, like the green fields, dark caves, brown bogs, and craggy mountains all around them. 

They even used to employ women to mimic us at their funerals, though their mortal wailing was a pale imitation of our own ethereal elegies. Those stuffy priests wanted to deny our very existence, of course, and so they did away with even those meagre tributes. They knew we were far older than their own gods, and that terrified them.

Now the old ways have faded like a sun-soaked tapestry. The mortals have forgotten their laments and their legends, and how they used to burn fires and barricade gates to keep us at bay. They have closed their eyes and ears and minds to the truth of this ancient land. Its ancient rhythms fall now on deaf ears. They no longer respect me. In these modern times I am feared. Dreaded. Detested. Denied. People want to believe I don't exist, that my brethren and I are just the products of nervous minds, that our screams are only those of noctivagant foxes.

They have even bastardised my name. I am a bean sí, a woman of the fairy mound, not a banshee, whatever that is. The cheek. It is not just legends that have been forgotten, but language too. They think of me now as a heartless old hag, but the truth is far more complex. I am not just a creature of night, but one of mourning. That is why I wail, or keen, or cry, or “let out a blood-curdling scream”, or whatever it is you want to call it. The way I see it, I bring comfort. At least, when I want to. My wailing serves only as a warning. I do not cause deaths. I simply foretell them. It is not my fault that my heartfelt harbinger comes too late. I am the messenger, the most ancient of all messengers, yet they yearn to shoot me nonetheless. 

Though not all families deserve comfort. Take tonight’s target, for example. I have been summoned above ground by the ancient magic to deliver a foretelling to the last vestiges of a once-great family, one I have been trailing like a shadow for so many generations. The old blood runs thick as ichor in their veins, but they have lost their way. Committed the ultimate sin. There are far worse things than forgetting, you see. They need to be reminded who and what we are. 

Rage washes over me like a wave as I emerge from the forest’s hidden gate and begin to float across the earth like a wisp of low-flying cloud, the wintry mist curling and coalescing around me. It is a wet winter’s night on the west coast, and the foxes and owls are the only living creatures who pay me any heed as I flit on through the dark woods. Other spirits and supernatural beings are afoot too, of course, for Samhain is approaching, and the veil between worlds is thinning like an old man’s hair. Yes, the air is thick with magic this night.

My task pulls me onwards towards my destination like a magnet, but I always make sure not to hurry. I have plenty of time, and such forays above ground are few and far between these days. It has been many years since I last had cause to visit this particular family. On my last visit to the previous generation, I wanted to deliver my news gently, so I presented myself accordingly, appearing as a benevolent and beautiful young woman. Smooth, flawless skin. Flowing red locks. Emerald green eyes with a dress to match. I was there to foretell tonight's target's own father’s death, but took no pleasure in it. He was a good man. They both were. My voice was melodic, my knock soft, my expression sympathetic. I was simply bracing him for what was to come, like a rooster heralding the new day. A moment’s sympathy for his own impending death clutches at my breast like a hungry child, but I shake it off.

But not tonight. No, tonight’s receptacle will see me at my worst. It’s the least he deserves. I tend to reserve the wild white-haired witch look for those I wish to torment and terrify. If you want a monster, a monster you shall have.

The forest falls away behind me, giving way to green fields and stone walls. My anger bubbles to the surface as I fly over the site of the desecration. I feel a scream rising in my chest. The fool thought it was just a hawthorn tree he was chopping down. He envisaged burning wood but not our burning anger. He’d forgotten, or not cared about, its significance to us. Four hundred years of beauty and magic undone in the ignorant swing of an axe. All that remains of our sacred fairy tree now is a twisted stump. No white flowers remain. None will ever bloom again. Our sanctuary is destroyed, our safe haven torn from its tether to this mortal world. Sacrilege. Treason. Yes, we call it treason.

All is quiet in the farmyard. A single bedroom light shines from the farmhouse. My smile twists into a snarl as I glide low across the manicured lawn before ascending to the second floor window. There is a message I must deliver in accordance with the old pacts, but the method of delivery is at my own discretion. I hover outside his window for a moment. Thankfully, the curtains are parted. He’s home alone. That's good. A bedside lamp provides the soft light I spotted from below, affording me a clear view of the bedroom. It is empty, but I am content to wait. A sliver of light escapes from a door on the far well. The bathroom, I surmise. The window pane before me offers me a pale glimpse of my own reflection. My smile widens. My lips part and I allow my lungs to fill with air. A white comb appears in my hand, and I run it through my thick white hair while I wait.

My target emerges from the en-suite wearing a pair of red pyjamas that strain to cover his considerable belly. His eyes are beady and his mouth cruel. He’s older than I expected. Then again, the lives of mayfly mortals pass by in a flash for me and my kind. He’s older than his father was when I delivered my last message. Old enough to know better. He potters around the room, readying himself for bed. He does not so much as glance in my direction. He is oblivious to my presence, as oblivious as he is to his father’s impending death. His ignorance will be remedied soon enough. He pulls back the covers with a contented sigh and climbs into his bed. I had expected him to pull the curtains, but perhaps he's too lazy. I take one more deep breath as he plugs his phone into the charger on his bedside table. He lets out a contented sigh as he switches off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. Perfect.

My hand, appearing bony and withered, is steady as I lift it to the window pane. I hesitate. To scratch, or to knock? What would frighten him most? Perhaps a combination of the two? Yes, that should work. I flex my fingernails and they extend into sharp, twisted talons. I run their tips down the pane in slow, light movements. The scratching sound, like a rabbit's claws scrabbling on wood, brings me satisfaction. Sensing rather than seeing him sit up in his bed, I rap on the glass with my knuckles. Once. Twice. Three times. The man cries out.

"Who's there?"

His voice is high. Whiny. Petrified. Pathetic. He thrashes about in his bed, reaching for his light switch. Blindly. Desperately. I scratch the glass once more. He finally grasps the light switch and light floods into the room. I wait a moment for his beady eyes to adjust. I let him see me in my full majesty, floating outside his window like his worst nightmare come to life. I smile, opening my maw wide to reveal two rows of jagged teeth. His eyes go wide. His mouth falls open. His hand flies up to his heart. He stares at me for a moment, his brain struggling to compute, his mind rebelling against the sight before him. Later, perhaps, he will convince himself this was some dream. At least, until he receives news of his father’s death.

He screams. I laugh. He screams again. I raise one crooked finger and point at him, my eyes full of malice. Then I show him how to truly scream. The blood drains from his face. He’s still screaming, but his sounds are whispers against my wails. In truth, I’m surprised the glass doesn’t shatter. Disappointing. I must be out of practice. I’m still screaming when his eyes roll up in his head and he faints backwards onto the bed.

He is out cold, so he does not hear my crazed cackles. I watch him for a moment, revelling in my performance, before I feel the tug of the fairy mound pulling me home. I turn away with a smile, and disappear into the night.

He will awake with a start tomorrow, crying out in terror. 

And then the phone will ring.