The Banshee (Short Story)

Never sail out to the Old Fortress. That’s the number one rule whenever I go stay with my Aunt Robin in England. I’ve always been able to resist the temptation before.

But not now, not after I’ve just been sent to live with her permanently, with the police officer’s words still throbbing through my head, “I don’t think your parents are coming back.”

Not now that I can’t keep my mind from making a beeline back to the last day I saw them.

Not now, when I have to keep my hands and body busy every single second, so I don’t have time to process what’s happened and I can’t have a panic attack.

I have to do something. I can’t just sit around in my warmly lit new bedroom. I’ll fall apart before I ever fall asleep. I growl in frustration, setting my phone down, and start to pack.

Knives, climbing gear, energy bars. A fully stocked first aid kit. A compass, a flashlight, a backup flashlight. Extra clothes in case I get soaking wet.

Chemical-activated hot packs, since you can’t do much with frozen fingers. I debate whether to bring the phone, but decide against it. I don’t need it when I’m away from civilization, which is where I’d rather be half the time.

I yank on my toughest clothes: layered T-shirts, jeans with rain pants over the top, woolly socks and a matching sweater and hat. And a good coat, obviously. It’s before dawn in British spring.

Tiptoeing out into the hall with my backpack slung over one shoulder, I pause to let my eyes adjust to the darkness before heading downstairs. It’s more dim than actually dark, because the sun’s starting to rise and Aunt Robin is staunchly anti-curtains. I turn a corner into the kitchen and very quietly fix myself a big thermos of hot chai. Being British, and also the best cook I know, Aunt Robin is a tea snob. I've been spoiled by the good tea at her house for years now. I scribble a note onto a scrap of paper.

Couldn’t sleep, went sailing. I’ll be back for breakfast, don’t kill me.

She won’t be exactly happy, but she won’t ground me either. She never does. Well, she might if she knew where I’m planning to go. But what Aunt Robin doesn’t know won’t hurt her. I weight the note down to the dining table with one of the little stone statues she collects.

I’ve never noticed this particular one before, actually. It’s a slender, elegant cat, carved out of white rock. Out of habit, I try to identify the type of stone like my dad taught me, and catch myself just in time as my eyes start to sting.

“No.” I snap out loud. “Bad Jay. Don’t think about it.”

I shake thoughts of my parents out of my head, tamping them down until there’s nothing left on the surface to make me scream. Then I head to the front door and tug on my boots, stepping outside. The cold sea wind hits me like a solid thing and I gasp a little, my breath steaming in the frigid air.

Aunt Robin’s house is a good few miles from any town, right up on some cliffs that drop down to a scrappy little pebble beach. I hike along the edge of those cliffs, admiring the sunrise on my landward side and the dark, heaving Atlantic Ocean on the other. Finally, I get to what I like to call the Staircase of Doom.

Honestly, the term “staircase” is stretching it a bit. It’s more like a steeply sloped trail with the occasional stairstep, carved right out of the cliffs and zigzagging down. There are rickety driftwood railings near the top, but as you get further down, those disappear. There’s nothing to help you keep your balance, nothing to stop you from stepping off the edge into the gloom below and breaking your neck on the rocks.

In short, it’s perfect.

I head down, and I’m about halfway when I see the cat following me. It looks a lot like Aunt Robin’s cat statue. Lean, huge for a housecat, pure white and just about dripping with arrogance. It saunters around my moving feet and plops down directly in front of me. The path is narrow enough here that I can’t just walk around it. I stop, hands on hips.

“Excuse me.”

The cat cocks its head at me. Blinks a pair of startlingly blue eyes. Then settles down and starts licking its butt. A boy cat, I notice.

“You, sir, are a jerk.” I inform him. “Move or I’ll move you.”

He doesn’t even look up. Typical cat. I sigh and scoop him up, wincing as his claws dig into my shoulders.

“Chill, bud, it’s just for a minute.”

I walk until the trail widens, then put the cat down. He gives me a glare, then walks off ahead of me, tail at a jaunty angle as if to say, “Just because I let you hold me doesn’t mean I like you.”

I break into a run as the trail peters out onto the pebbled beach. The cat follows. The sun is mostly up now, and I can see the little dock where my sailboat, the Guinevere, is tied up. She’s bobbing on her moorings as the tide comes in. The rocks shift and scrape under my feet as I head over. I toss my backpack into the boat, then jump in myself. I’m about to untie her when the cat jumps into the boat.

I raise an eyebrow. “I think you’re going to regret this decision in a minute once you start getting wet.”

He heads belowdecks and curls up on the little padded bench that I store things under. I shrug. “Okay, Your Majesty. But I’m not turning around.”

I cast off the ropes and start the motor. I could probably make it to Old Fortress Island on wind power alone, but I don’t want to deal with it while I’m sleepy and distracted. I keep a steady hand on the tiller and steer us through the waves. Cold sea spray gets in my face. I stick my tongue out and catch some, immediately regretting it as the briny, fishy taste fills my mouth. I really should know better than to do that by now. But it’s me, so of course I don’t.

Soon enough, I see the island, looming up out of the mist like some fossilized giant beast. The Old Fortress isn’t visible yet, but it will be soon. I give a little involuntary shiver. Nobody who isn’t from around here knows about the place, it isn’t even on most maps. Some people say it’s from the Dark Ages, some say it’s earlier. A lot of people say it’s cursed. All we know for sure is that anyone who goes there doesn’t come back quite the same. In my opinion, that’s probably because they were drunk at the time. I have nothing to worry about. I’m sane, I’m sober, and I know how to handle myself.

At least, that’s what I tell myself as I toss my anchor into the water and hop out. The bitter cold seeps into my shoes as I slosh through the weedy shallows and tie the boat’s ropes to a nearby boulder. I climb back aboard, grab my backpack, and turn to the cat. “You coming?”

In one smooth motion, he jumps into my arms. I snort.

“Don’t want to get your feet wet, huh?”

I walk along the beach searching for a usable path up the cliffs. Eventually, I settle for one that looks the least like it’s going to kill me, stuff the protesting cat into my backpack and start climbing. When I reach the top, I’m greeted by a breathtaking view. I pause for a moment, taking in the pale blue-gray sky and a few soft, peachy clouds, the last remnants of the earlier sunrise. I can see for miles now that I’m higher and the fog is starting to burn off.

There’s the house on the cliffs. The lights are on now, which means Aunt Robin is up and ought to have found my note. I’d better hurry if I want to see much of this place before breakfast.

Mentally composing a good excuse for later, I wrestle the cat out of my backpack and plunk him down on the scrubby wet grass and heather. He gives me a look of such betrayal that I can’t help but giggle.

“What, did you think I was going to cart you around the whole time?”

I unwrap one of the energy bars I packed and eat as I walk, heading into a small stand of wind-gnarled trees. It’s eerily quiet up here except for the distant crash of waves. No calls of seabirds, no little skittery things rustling in the undergrowth. Just my own footsteps as I shuffle through a pile of rotten leaves and the cat’s occasional dissatisfied murp.

And that’s when I finally see it.

The Old Fortress is even more of a ruin that I expected. The stones that form the enormous outer wall are falling out of place as their mortar rots away, revealing the dirt and rubble at the walls’ center. The ones that are still standing are a few feet above my head at their highest point. They’re also covered in fungus, bird poop, and moss. I walk around the perimeter, looking for a way in. Soon enough, I find a spot where I can clamber over the lowest bit of wall. The cat follows me. Hold it. Are his eyes glowing?

“You magic or something?” I joke.

I lean in closer, and he looks up at me, all innocent like he has no idea what I’m talking about. Yeah, his eyes are definitely glowing, and not in the normal cat-in-the-dark way. More like there’s shifting, flickering fire inside them, only it’s bright sapphire blue. Well, it’s not like he’s actually magic. That’s impossible.

I shrug. “If you’re bioluminescent, that’s your problem not mine, bud.”

I turn away and keep walking. Inside the walls, things are in even worse shape. In most places, there’s barely a single stone on top of another. I can clearly see that things were well-laid-out here, though. The walls, what’s left of them, are ruler-straight, and the cobblestones are still mostly there, even though there’s weeds climbing up between them. I pick up a piece of worn red pottery. It looks like part of a roof tile or something.

“I wonder if this place is Roman.” I mutter.

I’ve binge-watched enough Time Team with Aunt Robin to know a fair bit about British archaeology and history. The Old Fortress seems to check out with what I’ve learned about Romano-British architecture.

“What you see now is Roman.”

I scream and jump. There’s a boy standing next to me. Like, right next to me. How did he get so close without me noticing? I glare at him.

“Okay, creep, what the Hell are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Same as you. Getting away from my regular life.”

He’s got a Scottish accent, not unusual considering how close we are to the border. He’s also the picture of handsome insolence, with dark messy hair and a smirk that could be either playful or taunting, depending on the angle. The cat, like the traitor he is, rubs up against the boy’s legs, purring like a chainsaw.

“I didn’t see another boat.”

“I came from a different direction.” He says.

“Kay. Well, feel free to go back that direction and quit stalking me.”

“I’m hurt.” The boy says overdramatically. “So hurt. I was not stalking you, merely trying to make your acquaintance!”

I snort. I can’t help it. I’m a sucker for goofy people, always have been. The boy smiles. Not a smirk, just a regular smile this time.

“See, I’m not that bad. My name’s Brendan, by the way.”

“Okay, fine.” I relent. “I’m Jay. How do you know it’s Roman?”

“Dad’s an archaeologist. I picked up a lot from him. But this site’s a lot older than just Roman. There’s activity here going back to prehistoric times. It’s always been an important place.”

“You should give tours.” I joke.

He shakes his head. “It’s not safe for most people to come here.” Brendan pauses. “Come to think of it, why are you here? And why are you using Robin’s boat?”

“You know my Aunt?” I blurt out. “Don’t tell her I was here. Please? She’ll ground me.”

“Well that answers that question.” Brendan says with a chuckle. “She mentioned she had family in America. I didn’t know you were staying with her currently, though.”

“Well, I am.” I say flatly.

I really, really don’t want him asking more questions about why I’m here right now. I don’t want to be fighting that knot in my throat for the rest of the day. So in time-honored awkward-person fashion, I try to change the subject. Brendan beats me to it. “That cat, is he yours?”

“Nah. I think he’s a stray. He’s been following me since I came down to the boat.”

We chat a bit longer as we walk. I learn that Brendan has two older sisters who are away at college right now, and his Mom is a historian working at a big museum in Glasgow, where they live most of the time. They’re down here visiting some friend of hers who just had a baby. He’s never been to America and is pretty curious. I’m right in the thick of explaining how Halloween works, because boy is this kid missing out, when the cat starts hissing and arching his back.

In unison, we look at the direction he’s facing. There’s nothing there but an old stone circle. Brendan sighs. “This is where you should leave.”

“No.”

He laughs nervously. “Thought you’d say that.”

“Are you gonna explain to me why the cat is freaking out? Or how you know my Aunt Robin? Or why this stone circle is supposedly dangerous?”

Brendan gives the circle a wary look. The morning shadows seem to darken around the stones.

“In a minute, yes. For now, do you have anything we can use to make fire?”

I nod, already digging around in my backpack for the little lighter I carry. He frowns. “That’s it?”

“Sorry, I left my flamethrower at home.” I snap.

Fear of the unknown is making me tense and jittery. It always does. My anxiety is stupid like that. If I’m ever in a situation where I don’t have all the info, my ridiculous brain starts filling in the blanks with everything that could conceivably go wrong. It’s happening now.

I dig my fingernails into my palms, trying to breathe deeply, trying to tell myself that I’m going to be okay. It doesn’t work. I start shaking, and my fear must show on my face. What’s worse is that Brendan doesn’t try to reassure me. He looks just as terrified as I feel. That means I might have good reason to be scared. My brain latches onto this thought with vicious claws and runs with it.

I draw my largest pocketknife and flip it open, pointing it at the stones. “Brendan. I need to know what’s happening, or I’m going to have a panic attack. Now, please.”

He blinks in shock, then nods. “Okay. The long version is too long for right now, so I’m sorry. Magic is real, monsters come to this island sometimes, and I think one is trying to break through and eat us. Having a panic attack right now is perfectly natural. Though it would be more helpful if you could avoid it.”

I glare at him. “Now you tell me?!”

“I thought you already knew!”

We’re interrupted by a long, low wail. It’s coming from a ragged gray shape that’s just appeared in the middle of the stone circle. It turns, and I can see it’s an emaciated, deathly-pale woman. She’s dressed in old-fashioned clothes faded away to threadbare scraps. Her stringy white hair and the skin of her hands is flecked with what looks like dried blood. The strangest part, though, is her face. Her wrinkled skin is stretched tight over her skull, making her look like an Egyptian mummy with a better nose. Her mouth is wide open revealing toothless gums, and it seems to be stuck that way. And the creepiest thing? She’s crying. The front of her dress is nearly soaked with tears, and her hollow chest convulses with the raspy, wailing sobs.

Brendan curses. “Banshee. Got any earplugs?”

“Earbuds, two pairs.” I toss him my spare pair. “Here. Hope you don’t mind my earwax.”

“It’s preferable to being dead, at least.” He says, putting them in.

I follow suit and scoop up the hissing cat. He flails and scratches until I put him back down.

“Ungrateful little bastard.” I mutter.

The banshee hears me and starts stumbling in our direction. I shudder just watching her. The way she moves reminds me of a zombie from some cheesy old horror movie. Only, I usually think those zombies are ridiculous. There’s nothing funny about the figure shambling towards us now.

I can’t hear her properly through the earbuds, but judging by the little scraps I can hear, that’s a good thing. Her crying is rising in pitch to something like an ambulance siren. Brendan draws a knife of his own. It’s a full-blown medieval dagger, the big kind I’m pretty sure is called a dirk.

“Are we fighting it?!” I holler.

“No choice!” Brendan yells back.

“Great.” I grumble.

And then we don’t have time to talk more, because she’s right there. Weirdly, she takes a lunge at the cat first. He jumps up on his hind legs and seems to grow, white fur glowing, until he’s the size of a panther. One claw swipe and her crying turns to a painfully high shriek as she’s thrown to one side, landing in the heather near my feet. The banshee picks herself up faster than I can get away and digs ragged nails into my arm. I yell in pain and yank away, but that withered hand is way stronger than it looks. She grabs my neck with the other one. I stab her.

By some miracle, my knife actually hits, sinking into one of her eyes. A mix of blood and weird gray goo spurts out. She screams again, and I’m pretty sure one of my eardrums just burst, but her grip loosens enough that I can pull away and stab her again. I miss this time, but she’s already hurt. The banshee stumbles, then stumbles again, backwards into Brendan. He grabs her hair and drags his knife across her throat. Finally, it’s over. We’re both covered in blood and other, less pleasant stuff, and my arm feels like it’s on fire, but we’re alive.

The cat, back to his normal size now, walks over. He’s got a little blood dripping from a scratch on one ear, stark against his white fur. After a minute, he yacks up a big, gross hairball onto the dead banshee.

“You and me both.” I say as a wave of nausea comes over me.

Brendan pulls his earbuds out. I do the same.

“This is why you should have left.” He says softly.

“I’m fine.” I snap.

“No, you’re not. You’re shaking, you’re white as a sheet, and your eyes look like they’ll pop out any minute.”

He comes over and looks at my arm. “Take your coat off, we need to clean this. Cat, you too.”

Surprisingly, the cat walks right over to him. 

Suddenly, the full implications of everything that’s just happened hit me. I start shaking harder, heart pounding so hard it hurts, and the nausea hits me full force as I curl up, trying to wipe what I’ve just done from my memory.

Brendan pulls me into a hug. Normally I’d punch a stranger if they hugged me without permission, but right now the contact is exactly what I need to ground me in reality. I lean on his shoulder, trying to get myself under control.

“First kill is usually the hardest.” Brendan says. “I’m really sorry that happened how it did. But we do need to tell your Aunt Robin. She’s the one in charge of protecting this area from monsters, I just work for her. A banshee’s the most powerful thing that’s shown up here in years.”

I nod. “Yeah. Being grounded is better than being dead, I guess.”

“You guess?” He teases. “You need to work out your priorities, Jay.”

I swat at him. I can hardly believe I’ve just met this boy today. It feels like we’ve known each other for much longer. I guess fighting monsters together is a good bonding experience.

I take my coat off and roll up my shirt sleeve, biting my lip to keep quiet as Brendan cleans and bandages the jagged scratches. Then we pack up and head back down to the beach, get in the boat, and set off for the mainland. Aunt Robin has some serious explaining to do. Also, I’m starving. I can almost smell the full English Breakfast.

(Photo by Keith Sykes on Pexels)