The Banshee

The Banshee

by Theresa A. Queen

€5300 fucking euros. Unbelievable. Simply unbelievable.

Patrick was supposed to be his best friend. How could he do this to him?

A destination wedding in Scotland?

Keith would need to cover all the cost himself: the flights, the hotels, the tuxedo, and the stupid, flipping kilt. €1000 for the kilt! Pretentiously handmade by a master tailor with Patrick’s family crest. Plus, brogues and belt to go with it. An eye watering €1650 all together. Just for the outfit.

On top of this, they would surely expect a wedding gift.

All for the privilege of being best man? Best man? My ass. Broke man was more like it.

It wasn’t even a real wedding. It was “an elopement with friends.” F.F.S.

Keith resists the urge to tear up the invitation with the couple’s beautiful, happy smiling faces on the back. Infuriatingly, they look like royalty. Instead, he rechecks the dates on the trip, lets out a long sigh and clicks “Purchase Itinerary” and slams his lap top shut.

Jealousy, of course, compounds Keith’s dismay at the cost. Keith and Patrick have been best friends since college but always competed: in school, in sports, in life, and once upon a time, briefly, for Moira - the bride to be.

Though, let’s be honest, Keith really didn’t have a chance there. Not when Patrick was adorable, movie-star handsome, tall, with a wide grin beneath unassuming freckles and a mop of curly, auburn hair. How can someone be sweet and manly? Hard and tender? A lumberjack and a teddybear at the same time?

And Moira, beautiful, sultry, sexy, fairy creature that she was - with her own freckles and her soft auburn curls, her poise, and her perfect ballerina body. She looked like she was going to pirouette into the room. A Goddess. A flipping Goddess.

Those dirt bags got together the very first time they met. They snuck off hand in hand from the collegiate keg party to which Keith had invited Moira. Keith brought her a red cup for the keg, on the remote off chance that she might like him back, but, once her gaze met Patrick’s - that was the end of it. It grossed Keith out slightly that Patrick and Moira looked like siblings.

Keith would’ve declined, except how could he miss seeing Moira all decked out on her wedding day? Even to see her marry another man. Even Patrick. Nor could he give Patrick the satisfaction of ducking - no matter the expense, no matter the heart break. He was not broken. Keith understood she wouldn’t have him. He’d gotten used to that. But he could fucking watch couldn’t he? He’d take it like a man. Like a warrior. And then he would drown his sorrows in premium Scotch whiskey.

Besides, aside from stealing his fantasy Pixie Dream Girl, Patrick had been a good friend otherwise. For example, Patrick never told anyone that Keith failed the bar exam. He stuck with his friend’s story that Keith went into finance because he had a change of heart. He had even put “Esquire” on his invitation. They’d also gone to so many games, to so many parties, so many concerts, to so many bars, for so many runs and later, with Moira, on so many hikes and bike rides.

Keith had never been out of the country. Scotland seemed like a good place to start.

There would also be a Stag Party. (Keith had arranged all that himself, of course, at additional expense.) And there should be single girls at the wedding. Maybe one of them would take a fancy to him. Even though Keith was short, stocky, and unremarkable looking, he still had a good job. Ya’ never know, right?

The first hotel in Edinburgh, the Witchery, was fabulous. It sits at the gothic center of the City just steps from Edinburg Castle. So Keith had time to explore the Royal Mile, visit the castle (really a fortress) and admire the architecture and the uniqueness of the city before the party. The Witchery was over the top luxurious and within stumbling distance of Deacon Brodie’s Tavern, named after the famous burglar who inspired Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and was hung just up the street in 1788.

After a night of drunken revelry, and a special whiskey tasting with cigars, the small party of groomsmen decided to tumble down the cobblestone street to see the place of the public executions. Truthfully, other than gothic architecture, at this late hour, there is not much to see. No scaffoldings. Just an old square. Though, they did pause to take a series of drunken photographs in a red phone booth. So they stumbled back up the hill to the hotel.

Above them, there is a flicker of movement. A large bird with a white, heart shaped face and deep set black eyes, an owl, lands on a street lamp. It shrieks - a guttural, piercing, strange raspy cry. It reminds Keith of a record being played backwards. It feels almost satanic. His heart nearly flips out of his chest at the sound.

“You sound like a fucking Demon.” He tells it aloud as it screeches again.

“It’s fucking Hedwig! Patrick yells. “It’s Hedwig! We’ve got mail.”

“That’s not a snowy owl, that’s a barn owl.” One of the other groomsmen chimes in. In Patrick's state of intoxication, they must carry the groom-to-be soldier-style the rest of the way back. He inquires as to what Harry Potter house he belongs, “I think I’m Gryffindor.”

Keith knows he’s right. “You definitely are, buddy. You definitely are.”

After Keith drops Patrick in his room to the mild but anticipated disapproval of the bride, he steps out into the street to finish his cigar. A diffuse, light-blue fog has settled over the town. At the end of the street, his eye catches movement. A rat. Dang. No. A cat. No. No. Not a cat. Too long. A fox. It’s a frigging fox. A vixen. She is red with a gray tail. She makes an eerie, drawn out scream that sounds not unlike a woman in distress. If he hadn’t seen it, he would be wondering whether he should call the police. It lets out another series of terrifying cries, barks, and disappears into the fog.

Keith turns and is surprised to see a woman standing on the corner. She is deathly thin and wears a long gray, gauzy dress. The edges look partially burned. Her skin shines silver under the street lamp. Her hair hangs in stringy, tangled clumps. Keith wondered what kind of weird cosplay event must be going on at the hotel. Is there a Scottish Comic Con? Maybe an actor from the ghost tour. Except. Except. Except. It’s two am. And why did she look so dirty? Filthy. Damp even. Nice touch, he thinks. That shit is creepy.

She turns her gaze towards him. She is too far away for him to guess her age. Aghast, he realizes that her eye sockets are empty but glow bright white. She points at him, not with hands but long skinny, black outstretched talons. Crow’s feet. Quite literally.

She lets out an otherworldly shriek, a piercing indescribable wail. Keith cups his hands involuntarily over his ears. Her deafening howl cuts through him like an arctic wind and rattles him to the bone. The shriek reminds him of the horrifying cries of the owl and the fox but is even more unnerving.

He ducks back into the hotel, punches the elevator buttons, runs up to his room and slams the door. In his drunken state, he gets into bed fully dressed with his shoes on and pulls the covers up to his chin.

Jet lag. He tells himself. A waking dream. He lies apprehensive for hours before his intoxication gets the better of him and, somehow, at last, he manages to drift off to a fitful sleep as the world around him spins.

Still shaky and a little nauseous from the drinking, at check out he ask the desk clerk:

“Is there an event happening in town? Like a convention or - ?”

“Nothing that I’m aware of, Sir. ”

“Ok. Than- ”

“Out of curiosity, why do you ask?”

"I saw a woman in a costume last night, and, er, I wondered what -”

“A costume?”

“Yeah, some kind of gray ghost get up.”

“Like a Banshee? You saw a Banshee!” His accent is thick, and the tall man with pale skin lights up, gleeful.

“Just some weirdo in a gray dress.” Keith leaves out the bit about the glowing eye sockets and the talons.

“Well, you don’t needn’t worry ’bout that Lad. You’re a Yank.” The man laughs.

“Banshees only bring home the dead of their Clan.”

The clerk hands him his receipt and adds, “You should be safe enough then.”

The man smirks and stifles a giggle, and Keith can tell the man thinks he’s a nut job.

***

Scotland was beautiful. Amazing. Incredible. Green. Pastoral. Perfect. The drive through the countryside took Keith’s breath away. And he got to sit behind Moira in the car, and she smelled good. Sheep, stone cottages, the famous Shetland ponies and horses peppered the countryside. They pulled over to take photographs of the ponies and also some cute, fluffy, orange cows and to admire the incredible scenic vistas of land, sea and sky.

A suit of armor. There was a literal suit of armor at the entrance of the castle where the nuptials were to occur. That was cool. It also made Keith feel cool, because he was taller than that guy. The Castle itself was in the middle of nowhere - surrounded by hills and valleys and out of sight of the nearest village. It was also old, mainly a large cylinder of ancient stones, connected to a chapel and had accommodations for up to ten guests plus a bar and a restaurant. There was even a small moat and a drawbridge. Tapestries hang from the walls. The chandelier is made of antlers. A giant fireplace roars at the end of the hall.

The couple is blissful at the rehearsal dinner. Glasses clink. Toast are made. It feels quite medieval. Moira looks like a princess with small white flowers braided into her hair. She wears a champagne dress with a metallic silver accents and peplum sleeves. Just a touch of make up. She never wore much. She pouts at Patrick with glossy lips. A flipping Goddess. Patrick, dapper in a suit, slaps Keith on the back.

“How does it feel to be home, son?”

“Home?”

“Yes, Scotland.” He raises his glass. “Our ancestral home.”

“I’m from Kentucky.” Keith says bewildered.

“No, Keith.” Moira and Patrick burst into hysterics.

“You are not from Kentucky.”

It is a long conversation.

“Wasn’t your Mom’s maiden name O’Neill?” Moira adds with a giggle. “That’s Scott- ”

“Dude.” Patrick elbows him. “Your Grandfather’s name was Hamish.”

Patrick and Moira can’t stop laughing. It’s the joke of the night, which leaves Keith sheepish and, privately, worried.

Keith is also sour about the guest list. There are only nine in the group. Two traditional married couples, a gay couple, a lesbian couple and lonesome Keith. There isn’t even a single romantic prospect for him once he finally accepts that the lesbians are not down for a threesome. He drinks too much and stumbles up the precarious stone stairs to his chilly room alone.

As he looks out the window over the breathtaking view of the Scottish highlands, Keith sees her again: a woman in a gray dress picking her way along the craggy ground. It can’t be.

“No way.” He mutters out loud and busies himself with trying to figure out how the shutters work. He closes one before the ghostly screams begin. He peers out the window as he bolts the other shut and sees only a red fox running across the hill.

He convinces himself that it is his imagination but sleeps again in his clothes. He dreams that the woman enters his room like a vapor and floats above the bed, eye sockets glowing white, talons reaching for him, wailing. When he wakes, with a start, the sun is bright. Everything is where he left it, but the shutters are, strangely, open.

Housekeeping. He tells himself. But even he knows, that doesn’t quite make sense.

***

Moira looks even more beautiful, if that’s possible, on her wedding day. She wears a simple white, boho maxi dress and carries a bouquet of red roses. The whole perfect affair looks like a feature in a magazine. Keith swallows hard. Patrick cries. It’s a fairytale celebration.

Bagpipes. Really? Just when Keith thought that nothing could add to his gloom - they found a way. Bagpipes. It sounded like someone was choking a god damn goose. Loudly. When he can’t take it any more, he begins to sneak out of the reception into the adjacent bar, but, before he can leave, Moira grabs him.

“I can’t tell you how much it means to us that you came.” She says, her eyes misting over with tears.

“You know, we’re both estranged from, um, our families, and, (she sniffles) you’ve just been, well, you’ve been family.” Patrick joins her and leans over her shoulder.

He sways from side to side, but he manages to add. “Totally. Totally.”

Keith looks at her. This beautiful creature, at them, this handsome couple, and he realizes his role: the protector. He’s always been there - since college, making sure she got home safe, breaking up the fight at the bar before it got ugly, stepping in when they had an argument. The ride, the counterpart. He helped her through the abortion she never told Patrick about, and he stopped Patrick from cheating once, “Hey, I think you might regret this…. If Moira were mine….” He understood the work it took, the sacrifices they made for one another, and, although he was intensely jealous of what they had; he also revered it - just for the beauty of the thing.

Moira pours her champagne into the fireplace.

“Shhhh.” She whispers. “Shhh. It’s our little secret.”

Keith manages to say, “I’m so incredibly happy for the two of you.”

And to his great surprise, he found, that he meant it. After hugs, more hugs and sloppy tears, he sneaks into the adjacent bar where he slumps onto a barstool, an awkward maneuver in a kilt, eyes still misty.

“Enjoying your stay, Lad?” The Bartender ask cheerfully.

“The castle is amazing.” He says, “Except for the lunatic shrieking outside my window.”

The bartender’s face is suddenly serious. Grim. He looks Keith dead in the eyes.

“Have you seen the Caoineag, then? The Weeper?” He asks in hushed tones.

“I don’t know what I saw. Something. A woman. A woman in gray.”

“Did she weep?”

“Weep? No, the bitch fucking howled. He takes a giant swig from his pint and wipes the froth from his lip.

“She fucking howled, man.”

The man is quiet. He looks down and struggles to find words. He looks up with a slight twinkle in his blue eyes, resolved.

“Well, drink up, then, Lad. Be merry. Your time has come.”

“Oh, you’re funny. That’s rich. Real fucking funny.”

The barkeeper rings a bell.

“Drinks on the house! The Caoineag walks tonight. Make merry, while you can.”

Keith expected it to be like a movie. He expected a round of cheers and applause and drunken revelry well into the night, but the man on the stool next to him simply put €20 down and left after taking one last swift gulp of his pint. The patrons at other tables quickly followed, and both the coat rack by the door, and the bar were suddenly empty.

The barkeep puts a fresh pint in front of him. “It's on the house - as many as you like.” That, that felt ominous. Even more ominous when he places a shot of whisky and offers,

“Here, ’ave some of the good stuff, son.”

At least it was good stuff. Really good stuff.

Dizzy after three rounds, Keith leaves to head back to his room, but he sees a shade pass just outside the cobbled entranceway across the bridge - a woman in a gray shroud. She walks away from castle across the fields towards the hills. Barefoot. Fucking barefoot!

Well, that’s it, Bitch. He thinks. We’re gonna get some answers. What. The. Actual. Fuck.

An urn full of umbrellas sits by the door. He grabs a large golf umbrella. He stumbles outside and trots after her, slipping on the wet grass in his brogues.

Angry flashes of orange light the sky. They rise above purple clouds and mix with light yellow flashes in the distance. Low rumblings echo across the hills. It is just starting to rain. A faint, gentle sprinkle.

He accelerates as she disappears over the hill crest, panting, holding the umbrella awkwardly angled now against the biting Scottish wind. The sky opens up, and the rain pours down, heavy, slanted. He trips on a rock. The wind pushes the umbrella closed. He is drenched. He can barely see but can hear the soul-curdling cries. He steels himself. He’s gonna get to the bottom of this.

The lightening bolt came out of nowhere. A giant jagged spark across the sky that flashed three times, followed by a deafening clap of thunder. Keith wasn’t alive to hear it. His heart stopped more or less instantly.

They found his body the next morning, still dressed in a kilt, lying in the middle of the putting green, clutching the umbrella like a sword: a Scottish warrior come home to rest.

Patrick and Moira would name their first born son after their beloved friend and protector, Keith.

In the tree above, a lone barn owl flapped its wings, shrieked, hissed and flew away.