Strange Occurrences at Banshee Creek. He published it in 1896 and it was enormously popular. It pretty much cemented the town's reputation." She shrugged. "We've been terminally haunted ever since."
"Well, this house doesn't help."
"No, it doesn't." She giggled. "Someone came up with the geomagnetic fault explanation in the seventies. That didn't help either."
He glanced at the long line of costumed partygoers stretching behind them. "It seems to attract tourists, though."
He felt very conspicuous in his military fatigues, which were, after all, not a costume. But Abby hadn't allowed him to change. They needed all the warm, oddly-dressed bodies they could find and his fatigues would, she claimed, meet the world record requirements.
He wasn't sure about that, but she'd insisted, which was why they were now standing in line waiting for the Guinness approval. The certification process was not going smoothly.
"They ran out of wristbands," the girl in front of them said. " Again ."
She was dressed in a Japanese kimono, an intricate piece with peach silk fabric decorated with cherry blossoms. A pair of katanas was strapped to her back. She looked like a person one did not want to cross.
But the party organizers had done just that.
Mike stifled a sigh. Of course they ran out of wristbands. Abby's friends meant well, but they weren't exactly well organized. He assumed a rest position, hands behind his back and prepared for a long wait. After many years in a combat zone, he was used to long waits. Deployment meant long stretches of abject boredom and sudden bursts of sheer panic.
At least the line seemed to be pretty peaceful. Abby and Katana Girl were exchanging makeup tips and the orc patrol in front was practicing its choreography. An elf girl clad in a purple gossamer fabric picked up her flute and started to play "Carry on Wayward Son." He hummed along as they waited. The elf girl was a talented flutist. Her version of the song was sweet and eerie at the same time.
The melody broke off as a ghostly shriek pierced the quiet of the evening.
Mike looked around, startled. What the hell was going on? The partygoers looked up to the sky, and many held up cameras and recording devices. A few made high-pitched hooting sounds, as if calling out to the...whatever the hell that thing was.
Another shriek rang out and, in spite of himself, Mike shuddered. Man, that sounded sinister.
Abby patted his arm. "It's just the barn owls."
"That's an owl?" Mike's voice was thick with disbelief. "It sounds like a screeching harpy."
She laughed. "Yes, it does. They're also known as banshee owls and we have tons of them. They're one of the reasons the place is called Banshee Creek. The other one is the story about the farmer who meet a ghost when he was returning home from the pub."
"Right," he said with heavy skepticism. "The pub, that sounds like a credible story."
The poor guy probably heard one of the owls and ran away in fright. Mike looked around one last time, still a bit spooked from the creepy screeching, but he saw nothing, just a bunch of people in costumes comparing owl recordings.
"So, speaking of unbearable caterwauling." He turned toward Abby. "How's your singing going?"
"Ha, ha," she said in a voice devoid of humor. "Very funny."
The response surprised him. He'd just been teasing, after all.
"No, seriously," he said, concerned. "How's it going?"
She avoided looking at him, and his worry deepened. Abby worked as a waitress but she was a dedicated singer and she worked tirelessly at her craft. She wrote, composed, and toured constantly.
At least she used to.
He knew that she was still waiting for her lucky break and he waited impatiently for an answer, ready to provide comfort and encouragement. He didn't want Abby to lose her dream.
She'd lost so much already.
"It's going okay, I guess." She leaned to the side, looking at the line. "Will they hurry with those wristbands?"
"Just okay?"
She
"Well, this house doesn't help."
"No, it doesn't." She giggled. "Someone came up with the geomagnetic fault explanation in the seventies. That didn't help either."
He glanced at the long line of costumed partygoers stretching behind them. "It seems to attract tourists, though."
He felt very conspicuous in his military fatigues, which were, after all, not a costume. But Abby hadn't allowed him to change. They needed all the warm, oddly-dressed bodies they could find and his fatigues would, she claimed, meet the world record requirements.
He wasn't sure about that, but she'd insisted, which was why they were now standing in line waiting for the Guinness approval. The certification process was not going smoothly.
"They ran out of wristbands," the girl in front of them said. " Again ."
She was dressed in a Japanese kimono, an intricate piece with peach silk fabric decorated with cherry blossoms. A pair of katanas was strapped to her back. She looked like a person one did not want to cross.
But the party organizers had done just that.
Mike stifled a sigh. Of course they ran out of wristbands. Abby's friends meant well, but they weren't exactly well organized. He assumed a rest position, hands behind his back and prepared for a long wait. After many years in a combat zone, he was used to long waits. Deployment meant long stretches of abject boredom and sudden bursts of sheer panic.
At least the line seemed to be pretty peaceful. Abby and Katana Girl were exchanging makeup tips and the orc patrol in front was practicing its choreography. An elf girl clad in a purple gossamer fabric picked up her flute and started to play "Carry on Wayward Son." He hummed along as they waited. The elf girl was a talented flutist. Her version of the song was sweet and eerie at the same time.
The melody broke off as a ghostly shriek pierced the quiet of the evening.
Mike looked around, startled. What the hell was going on? The partygoers looked up to the sky, and many held up cameras and recording devices. A few made high-pitched hooting sounds, as if calling out to the...whatever the hell that thing was.
Another shriek rang out and, in spite of himself, Mike shuddered. Man, that sounded sinister.
Abby patted his arm. "It's just the barn owls."
"That's an owl?" Mike's voice was thick with disbelief. "It sounds like a screeching harpy."
She laughed. "Yes, it does. They're also known as banshee owls and we have tons of them. They're one of the reasons the place is called Banshee Creek. The other one is the story about the farmer who meet a ghost when he was returning home from the pub."
"Right," he said with heavy skepticism. "The pub, that sounds like a credible story."
The poor guy probably heard one of the owls and ran away in fright. Mike looked around one last time, still a bit spooked from the creepy screeching, but he saw nothing, just a bunch of people in costumes comparing owl recordings.
"So, speaking of unbearable caterwauling." He turned toward Abby. "How's your singing going?"
"Ha, ha," she said in a voice devoid of humor. "Very funny."
The response surprised him. He'd just been teasing, after all.
"No, seriously," he said, concerned. "How's it going?"
She avoided looking at him, and his worry deepened. Abby worked as a waitress but she was a dedicated singer and she worked tirelessly at her craft. She wrote, composed, and toured constantly.
At least she used to.
He knew that she was still waiting for her lucky break and he waited impatiently for an answer, ready to provide comfort and encouragement. He didn't want Abby to lose her dream.
She'd lost so much already.
"It's going okay, I guess." She leaned to the side, looking at the line. "Will they hurry with those wristbands?"
"Just okay?"
She
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