Scary Stories

The Banshee - Anonymous

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Duration:: 33m
Broadcast on:: 02 Jul 2024
Audio Format:: mp3

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Of all the superstitions prevalent amongst the natives of Ireland at any period, past or present, there is none so grand or fanciful, none which has been so universally assented to or so cordially cherished as the belief in the existence of the Banshee. There are very few, however remotely acquainted with Irish life or Irish history, but must have heard a read of the Irish Banshee. Still, as there are different stories and different opinions of float respecting this strange being, I think a little explanation concerning her appearance, functions, and habits will not be unacceptable to my readers. The Banshee, then, is said to be an immaterial and immortal being attached, time out of mind, to various respectable and ancient families of Irish, and is said always to appear to announce by cries and lamentations the death of any member of that family, to which she belongs. She always comes at night, a short time previous to the death of the faded one, and takes her stand outside, convenient to the house. And there are others the most plaintive cries and lamentations, generally in some unknown language and in a tone of voice resembling a human female. She continues her visits night after night's vexed or annoyed until the mourned object dies, and sometimes she is said to continue about the halls for several nights after. Sometimes she is said to appear in the shape of a most beautiful young damsel, and dressed in the most elegant and fantastic garments. But her general appearance is in the likeness of a very old woman of small stature and bending and decrepit form enveloped in a winding sheet of grave dress and her long white hoary hair waving over her shoulders and descending to her feet. At other time, she is dressed in the costume of the Middle Ages, the different articles of her clothing being of the richest material and of a sable hue. She is very shy and easily irritated, and when once annoyed or vexed she flies away and never returns during the same generation. When the death of the person whom she mourns is contingent or to occur by unforeseen accident, she is particularly agitated and troubled in her appearance and usually loud and mournful in her lamentations. Some would feign have it that this strange being is actuated by a feeling quite inimical of the interests of the family which she arms. And that she comes with joy and triumph to announce their misfortunes. This opinion, however, is rejected by most people who imagine her their most devoted friend, and that she was at some remote period of member of the family and once existed on the earth and life and loveliness. It is not every Irish family can claim the honor of an attendant banche. They must be respectively descended in a ancient title to have any just pretensions to a warning spirit. However, she does not appear to be influenced by the difference of creed or climb, provided there be no impediment as several Protestant families of Norman and Anglo-Saxon origin, most of their own banche. And to this hour several noble and distinguished families in the country feel proud of the surveillance of that mysterious being, neither is she influenced by the circumstances of ring or fortune, as she is often found frequenting the cabin of the peasant than the baronial mansion of the lord of thousands. Even the humble family of which the writer of this tale belongs has long claimed the honor of appendage of a banche, and it may perhaps excite an additional interest in my readers when I inform them that my present story is associated with her last visit to that family. Some years ago there dwelt in the vicinity of Mount Wrath in the queen's county of farmer, whose name for obvious reasons we shall not at present disclose. He never was married, and his only domestics were a servant boy and an old woman, a housekeeper, who had long been a follower or dependent of the family. He was born and educated in the Roman Catholic Church, but on arriving at manhood for reasons best known to himself. He have cured the tenants of that creed and conformed to the doctrines of Protestantism; however, in after years he seemed to waver and refused going to church, and by his manner of living seemed to favor the dogmas of infidelity and atheism. He was rather dark and reserved in his manner, and oftentimes sully and gloomy in his temper, and this, joined with his well-known disregard of religion, served to render him somewhat unpopular among his neighbors and acquaintances. However, he was in general respected and was never insulted or annoyed. He was considered as an honest, inoffensive man, and as he was well supplied with firearms and munitions, in the use of which he was well practiced, having in his early days served several years in the elementary court. Few liked to disturb him, even had they been so disposed. He was well-educated and decidedly hostile to every species of superstition, and was constantly jeering his old housekeeper, who was extremely superstitious, and pretended to be entirely conversant with every matter connected with witchcraft in the fairy world. He seldom darkened a neighbor's door and scarcely ever asked anyone to enter his. He generally spent his leisure hours in reading, of which he was extremely fond, or of furbishing his firearms to which he was still more attached, or in listening to and laughing at the wild and blood-cardling stories of old Moya, with which her memory abounded. Thus he spent his time until the period at which our tale commences. When he was about fifty years of age and old, Moya the housekeeper had become extremely feeble, stooped, and a very ugly and forbidding exterior. One morning in the month of November, A.D. 1818, this man arose before daylight and on coming out of the apartment where he slept. He was surprised to find an old Moya in the kitchen, sitting over the raked-up fire, and smoking her tobacco pipe in a very serious and meditative mood. "Hara! Moya!" said he. "What brings you out of your bed so early?" "Ach, Masha. I don't know," replied the old woman. "I was so uneasy all night that I could not sleep awake, and I got up to smoke a blast, thinking that it might drive away the weight that's on my heart. And what else, Moya, are you sick? Or what came over you?" "No, the Lord be praised. I'm not sick, but my heart is sore, and there's a load on my spirit that would kill a hundred." "Maybe you were dreaming, or something that way," said the man in a bantering tone, in suspecting from the old woman's grave manner that she was laboring under some mental delusion. "Dreaming!" reechoed Moya, with a bitter sneer. "I dreamy. Ach, I wish to God that I was only dreaming, but I'm very much afraid it is worse than that, and that there is trouble and misfortune hanging over us." "What makes you think so, Moya?" asked Steve with a half-suppressed smile. Moya, aware of his well-known hostility to every species of superstition, remains silent, biting her lips, and shaking her grey head prophetically. "Why don't you answer me, Moya?" again asked the man. "Ach," said Moya. "I am hurt scolded to have it to tell you, and I know you will laugh at me. But say what you will, there is something bad over us, for the banshee was about the house all night, and she has me almost frightened out of my wits with her shouting and bawling." The man was aware of the banshees having been long supposed to haunt his family, but often scouted that supposition. Yet, since it was some years since he had last heard of her visiting the place, he was not prepared for the freezing announcement of old Moya. He turned his pale as a corpse, and trembled excessively. At last, recollecting himself, he said with a first smile, "And how do you know it was the banshee, Moya?" "How do I know?" reiterated Moya tauntingly. "Didn't I see and hear her several times during the night? And more than that, didn't I hear the dead coach rattling through the house, and through the yard, every night and midnight this week back, as if it would tear the house out of the foundation?" The man smiled faintly. He was frightened, yet was ashamed to appear so. He said again, "And did you hear the banshee before, Moya?" "Yes," replied Moya, often. "Didn't I see her when your mother died?" "Didn't I see her when your brother was drowned?" "And sure, there wasn't one of the family that went these sixty years that I did not both see and hear her. And where did you see her? And what way did she look tonight? I saw her at the little window over my bed, a kind of reddish light shone round the house. I looked up, and there I saw her old pale face in glassy eyes looking in, and she rocking herself to and fro, clapping her little withered hand, and crying as if her very heart would break. "Well, Moya, it's all imagination. Go now and prepare my breakfast as I want to get to marry Burl today, and I must be home early." Moya trembled. She looked at him imploringly and said, "For heaven's sake, John, don't go today. Stay till some other day, and God bless you. For if you go today, I would give my oath there will something cross you that's bad." "Nonsense, woman," said he, "make haste and get me my breakfast." Moya, with tears in her eyes, said about getting the breakfast ready, and while she was so employed, John was engaged in making preparations for his journey. Having now completed his other arrangements, he sat down to breakfast, and having concluded it, he arose to depart. Moya ran to the door, crying loudly. She flung herself on her knees and said, "John, John, be advised. Don't go today. Take my advice. I know more of the world than you do, and I see plainly that if you go, you will never enter this door again with your life. A shame to be influenced by the drivelings of an old Cura. He pushed her away with his hand, and going out to the stable, mounted his horse and departed. Moya followed him with her eyes whilst in sight, and when she could no longer see him, she sat down at the fire and wept bitterly. It was a bitter cold day in the farmer, having finished his business in town, feeling himself chilly, went into a public house to have a tumbler of punch and feed his horse. There he met an old friend who would not part with him until he would have another glass with him and a little conversation. As it was many years since he had met before, one glass brought another, and it was almost duskish. Air John thought of returning, and having nearly ten miles to travel, it would be dark night before he would get home. Still, his friend would not permit him to go, but called for more liquor, and it was far advanced in the night before they departed. John, however, had a good horse, and having had him well fed, he did not spare whip or spur, but dashed along at a rapid pace through the gloom and silence of the winter's night, and had already distanced the town upward of five miles when, on arriving at a very desolate part of the road, a gunshot fired from behind the bushes, putting in to his mortal existence. Two strange men who had been at the same public house had married Burl drinking, observing that he had money, and learning the road that he was to travel, conspired to rob and murder him, and we laid him in this lonely spot for that horrid purpose. poor Moya did not go to bed that night, but sat at the fire every moment impatiently expecting his return. Often did she listen at the door to try if she could hear the tramp of the horse's footsteps approaching, but in vain. No sound met her ear except a sad whale of the night went, moaning fitfully through the tall bushes which surrounded the ancient dwelling, or the sullen roar of a little dark river which wound its way through the lowlands at a small distance from where she stood. Tired with watching and legs she fell asleep on the hearth stone, but that sleep was disturbed and broken, and frightful in appalling dreams incessantly haunted her imagination. At length the dark some morning appeared struggling through the wintry clouds, and Moya again opened the door to look out. But what was heard as may when she found the horse standing at the stable door without his rider, and the saddle all be smeared with clotted blood. She raised the death cry. The neighbors thronged round, and it was at once declared that the hapless man was robbed and murdered. A party on horseback immediately set forward to seek him, and arriving at the fatal spot he was found stretched on his back in the ditch. His head perforated the shot and slug, and his body literally immersed in a pool of blood. On examining him it was found that his money was gone and a valuable gold walk, and appendages extracted from his pocket. His remains were conveyed home, and after having been awake the customary time were committed to the grave of his ancestors in the little green church yard of the village. Having no legitimate children, the nearest heir to his property was a brother, a cabinet maker, who resided in London. A letter was accordingly dispatched to the brother, announcing the sad catastrophe, and calling on him to come and take possession of the property, and two men were appointed to guard the place until he should arrive. The two men delegated to act as guardians, or, as they were technically termed, keepers, were old friends and comrades of the deceased, and it served him in the same human record. Jack O'Malley was a Roman Catholic. The square, stout, built, and handsome fellow, with a pleasant word for everywhere, full of that gaiety, vivacity, and nonchalance, for which the Roman Catholic peasantry of Ireland are so particularly distinguished. He was now about forty-five years of age, sternly attached to the dogmas of his religion, and always remarkable for his revolutionary and anti-British principles. He was brave as a lion, and never quailed before a man. But, though carrying so little for a living man, he was extremely afraid of a dead one, and would go ten miles out of his road at night to avoid passing a wrath, or haunted bush. Harry Taylor, on the other hand, was a staunch Protestant, tall, gentile-looking man, of proud and imperious aspect, hill of reserve and hotter, the natural consequence of a consciousness of political and religious ascendancy and superiority of intelligence and education, which so conspicuously marked the demeanor of the Protestant peasantry of those days. Harry, too, loved his class as well as Jack, but was of a more peaceful disposition, and, as he was well educated and intelligent, he was utterly opposed to superstition, and laughed to scorn the mere idea of ghosts, goblins, and fairies. Thus Jack and Harry were diametrically opposed to each other in every point except their love of the crewed scheme. Yet they never failed to seize every opportunity of being together, and although they often blackened each other's eyes in their political and religious disputes, yet their quarrels were always amicably settled, and they never found themselves happy but in each other's society. It was now the sixth or seventh night that Jack and Harry, as usual, kept their lonely watch in the kitchen of the murdered man. A large turf-fire bleised brightly on the hearth, and on a bed of straw in the ample chimney-corner was stretched old moia in a profound sleep. On the hearth-thorn, beneath the two friends stood a small old table, on which was placed a large decanter of whiskey, a jug of boiled water, and a bowl of sugar, and, as if to add an idea of security to that of comfort, on one end of the table were placed in saltier, a formidable-looking, blunderbliss, and a brace of large brass pistons. Jack and his comrade perpetually renewed their acquaintance with the whiskey-bottle, and laughed and chatted, and recounted the adventures of their young days with as much hilarity as if the house which now witnessed their mirth never echo to the cry of death, or blood. In the course of conversation, Jack mentioned the incident of the strange appearance of the banshee, and expressed a hope that she would not come that night to disturb their corrals. "Banshee the devil!" shouted Harry. "How superstitious you papers are!" "I would like to see the fizz of any man, dead or alive, who dare make his appearance here tonight, and seizing the blunderbliss and looking wickedly at Jack, he vociferated. By Hercules, I would drive the contents of this through their souls who dare annoy us. Better for you to shoot your mother than fire at the banshee, anyhow remarked Jack." "Beshah!" said Harry, looking contemptuously at his companion. "I would think no more riddling the old jade's eye than I would have thrown off this tumbler, and to soothe the action to the word he drained off another bumper of whiskey-punch." "Jack!" says Harry. "Now that we are in such prime humor, will you give us a song?" "With all the beans in my heart!" says Jack. "What will it be?" "Anything you please, your will must be my pleasure," answered Harry. Jack, after coughing and clearing his pipes, chanted forth in a bold and musical voice, a rude rigmarole called the royal blackbird, which, although of no intrinsic merit, yet as it expressed sentiments hostile to British connection and British government, unfavorable to the house of Stuart, was very popular among the Catholic peasantry of Ireland, voused on the contrary, who was looked upon by the Protestants' highly offensive and disloyal. Harry, however, wished his companion too well to oppose the song, and he quietly awaited its conclusion. "Bravo, Jack!" said Harry, as soon as the song was ended, "that you may never lose your win. In the king's name now I board you for another song," says Jack. Harry, without hesitation, recognized his friend's right to demand a return, and he instantly trod forth in a deep, sweet and sonorous voice the following song. "Oh, boys, I have a song divine. Come, let us now in concert join, and toast the bony banks of boing the boing of glorious memory. On boings famed banks are father's blood. Boing searches with their blood-bred red, and from the boing are full men fled in tolerance, chain, and slavery. Dark superstitions, blood-stained songs, pressed on the crack went William's guns, and soon the gloomy monster runs, fell hydra-headed bigotry. Then fill your glasses high and fair, let's shout of triumph for in the air, lost yours fills the regal chair, we'll never bow to potpourri." Jack, whose countenance had from the commencement of the song, indicated his aversion to the statements it expressed, now lost all patience at hearing his darling potpourri impugned. And seizing one of the pistols which lay on the table and whirling it over his comrade's head, swore vehemently that he would fracture his skull if he did not instantly draw that black-eared orange lampoon. "Easy, Avic," said Harry, quietly pushing away the upraised arm, "I did not oppose your bit of treason a while ago, and besides the latter end of my song is more calculated to please you, than to irritate your feelings." Jack seemed pacified, and Harry continued his strain. "And fill a bumper to the brim, a flowing one and drink to him who would let the world go sink or swim and would arm for Britain's liberty, no matter what may be his hue or black or white or green or blue or paper's peen and more Hindu will drink to him right cordially." Jack was so pleased with the friendly turn which the latter part of Harry's song took that he joyfully stretched out his hand and even joined in chorus to the concluding stanza. The fire was now decayed on the hearth. The whiskey bottle was almost emptied and the two sentinels, getting drowsy, put out the candle and laid down their heads to slumber. The song and the laugh and the jest were now hushed, and no sound was to be heard but the incessant click-click of the clock in the inner room in the deep, heavy breathing of old Moya in the chimney corner. The hit slept they knew not how long when the old hag awakened with a wild shriek. She jumped out of bed and crouched between the men. They started up and asked her what had happened. "Oh!" she exclaimed the banshee, "the banshee! Lord, have mercy on us! She is come again, and I never heard her so wild and outrageous before." Jack O'Malley readily believed old Moya's tale, so did Harry, but he thought it might be someone who was committing some depredation on the premises. They both listened attentively but could hear nothing. They opened the kitchen door, but all was still. They looked abroad. It was a fine, calm night, and myriads of twinkling stars were burning in the deep blue heavens. They proceeded around the yard and hay-yard, but all was calm and lonely, and no sound saluted their ears, but the shrill barking of some neighboring cur, or the sluggish murmuring of the little torturous river in the distance. Satisfied that all was right, they again went to him, replenished the expiring fire, and sat down to finish whatever still remained in the whiskey-bottom. They had not sat many minutes when a wild, unearthly cry was heard without. "The banshee again!" said Moya, faintly. Jack O'Malley's soul sank within him. Harry started up and seized the blender-bus. Jack caught his arm. "No, no, Harry. You should not. Sit down. There is no fear. Nothing will happen us." Harry sat down, but still gripped the blender-bus, and Jack lit his tobacco pipe. While the old woman was on her knees, striking her breast and repeating her prayers with great demons. The sad cry was again heard, louder and fiercer than before. It now seemed to proceed from the window, and again it appeared as if issuing from the door. At times it would seem as if coming from afar, whilst again it would appear as if coming down the chimney or springing from the ground beneath her feet. Sometimes the pry resembled the low, plaintive wail of a female in distress. And in a moment it was raised to a prolonged yell, loud and ferocious, and as if coming from a thousand throats. Now the sound resembled a low melancholy chant, and then was quickly changed to a loud, broken, demoniaced laugh, continued thus with little intermission for about a quarter of an hour, when it died away and succeeded by a heavy, creaking sound, as if of some large wagon, amidst which the loud tramp of horses' footsteps might be distinguished, accompanied with a strong, rushing wind. This strange noise proceeded round and round the house two or three times, then went down the lane which led to the road, and was heard no more. Jack O'Malley stood aghast, and Harry Taylor, with all his philosophy and skepticism, was astonished and frightened. "Dreadful night this, Moyer," said Jack. "Yes," said she, "that is the dead coach. I often heard it before, and have sometimes seen it. Seen it, did you," said Harry, "pray describe it." "Why," replied the old crone, "it's like any other coach, but twice as big, and hung over with black cloth, and a black coffin on the top of it, and drawn by headless, black horses. Heaven protect us," ejaculated Jack. "It is very strange," remarked Harry. But continued Moyer, "it always comes before the death of a person, and I wonder what brought it now, unless it came with the banshee." "He is coming for you," said Harry, with an arch yet subdued smile. "No, no," she said, "I am none of that family at all, at all." The solemn silence now ensued for a few minutes, and they thought all was vanished, when again the dreadful cries truck heavily on their ears. "Open the door," Jack said Harry, and put out Hector. Hector was a large, very ferocious, master, belonging to Jack O'Malley, and always accompanied him wherever he went. Jack opened the door and attempted to put out the dog, but the poor animal refused to go, and, as his master attempted to force him, hold and allowed in mournful tone. "You must go," said Jack, and he caught him in his arms and flung him over the half-door. The poor dog was scarcely on the ground when he was whirled aloft into the air by some invisible power, and he fell again to earth lifeless. The pavement was besmeared with his entrails and blood. Harry now lost all patient, and again seized his blunder-bus. He exclaimed, "Come, Jack, my boy. Take your pistol and follow me. I have but one life to lose him, and I will venture it to have a crack at this infernal demon. I will follow you to death's doors," said Jack, "but I would not fire at the banshee for a million of worlds." Moya seized Harry by the skirt. "Don't go out, she cried. Let her alone while she lets you alone, for an hour's luck never sown on anyone that ever molested the banshee." "Cha!" woman said Harry, and he pushed away poor Moya contemptuously. The two men now sallied for it, the wild cries, still continued, and it seemed to issue from amongst some stacks in the hay-yard behind the house. They went round and paused. Again, they heard the cry, and Harry elevated his blunder-bus. "Don't fire," said Jack. Harry replied not. He looked scornfully at Jack, then put his finger on the trigger, and "BANG!" a way it exploded with a thundering sound. An extraordinary scream was now heard, ten times louder and more terrific than they heard before. Their hair stood erect on their heads, and huge round drops of sweat ran down their faces in quick succession. A glare of reddish-blue fight shone around the stacks. The rumbling of the dead coach was again heard coming. It drove up to the house, drawn by six headless sable horses, and the figure of a withered old hag encircled with blue faint was seen running nimbly across the hay-yard. She entered the ominous carriage, and it drove away with a horrible sound. It swept through the tall bushes which surrounded the house, and as it disappeared, the old hay cast a thrilling skull at the two men and waved her fleshless arms at them vengefully. It was soon lost to sight, but the earthly creaking of the wheels, the tramping of the horses, and the appalling cries of the banshee continued to assail their ears for a considerable time after all had vanished. The brave fellows now returned to the house. They again made fast the door and reloaded their arms. Nothing, however, came to disturb them that night, nor from that time forward, and the arrival of the dead man's brother from London in a few days after we leave them from their irksome task. Old Moya did not live long after. She declined from that remarkable night, and her remains were decently interred in the churchyard adjoining the last earthly tenement of the loved family to which she had been so long and so faithfully attached. The insulted banshee has never since returned, and although several members of that family have since closed their mortal career, still the warning cry was never given. And it is supposed that the injured spirit will never visit her ancient haunts until every one of the existing generation shall have slept with their fathers. Jack O'Malley and his friend Harry lived some years after. Their friendship still continued undiminished, like Tam will shanter and suitor Johnny. They still continue to love each other like a very brother. And like that jovial pair also, our two comrades were often foul for weeks together, and often over their crook skiing would they laugh at their strange adventure with the banshee. It is now, however, all over with them too. 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