The Banshee Read Free Page A

kitchen table of the rectory next to Wexford’s only church. The old house was empty except for her and the gray tabby Father Ahern kept to remove field mice that found an inlet to his dwelling.
    Occasionally she glanced at the wall clock. Her aged muscles and joints were tired and ached constantly from the daily housekeeping chores. She thought briefly of a hot tub covering her body with soothing warmth. The thought removed her from the reason she was still at the rectory.
    She was too weary to be concerned with the noises expected of an old house that had stood for years beside the church and adjacent cemetery. She had heard them many times before and could locate their origin–the gurgling kitchen drainpipe or the creaking roof rafters in a wind. In a few moments, she expected to hear the cat at the front door seeking passage to the night’s darkness as the Father had.
    Her concern was not for any of those sounds. Her ears strained for the squeal of rusted gate hinges followed by tired footsteps to the back door. Then she would know that Father Ahern was home. She frowned, thinking of his nightly walks into the forest, searching for…something. God only knew what, and after years of wandering the woods, he never seemed to be successful. Never had he confided in her the subject of the nightly excursions, only asking she remain at the rectory until his return.
    A scratchy squeal from the gate broke the silence. She went to the back door in preparation to greet the priest. The knob turned and the door opened. He emerged from the darkness. Mrs. Donnelly could tell by his face this evening had not been fruitful but as she had done many times before, she did again and asked, “Did you find what you are looking for, Father?”
    â€œNo,” he slowly removed his hat and sat at the kitchen table.
    She was concerned for him. He was not as young as when he first ventured off into the night years ago. His eyes were beginning to darken and grow puffy from worry, the lids heavier.
    Poor man is obsessed,
she thought, taking his hat and placing a cup of tea on the table in front of him.
    â€œI hope for your sake you find whatever it is you seek every evening. You’re catching up on your years and someday you won’t be able to gallivant about the countryside in the dead of night.”
    â€œMrs. Donnelly.” He sat up straight, his voice indicated the beginning of a sermon. She rolled her eyes to heaven and returned to the dishes still in the sink. She had heard the speech he was about to spew numerous occasions. “I can look after my own health and affairs. All I ask is that you attend to your duties and remain until I return. Believe me, if you knew my mission you would not complain.”
    Mrs. Donnelly turned and faced him, worry and frustration mixed in her expression and words. “Father, I am not complaining. My weary bones and aching muscles can wait. I am used to the discomfort. A person grows accustomed to these things with time, but for the love of me, Father, I cannot get used to you going out into the forest each evening, rain or shine, and returning another year older.”
    They locked eyes. The silence was deafening until she turned once again to the sink. He remained looking at her understandably. His search was too important, the responsibility too enormous and contained the prospect of evil and certain danger. He could not involve her, nor could he divulge the meaning of his mission.
    â€œI guess I’ll never know what you’re up to, Father.” She began to button her sweater. “I just wish you would take better care of yourself while doing it.” She walked out of the back door, closing it sharply and left the priest alone in the house.
    With bowed head, he walked into his cluttered study and sat behind the desk. In front of him lay the sermon he was preparing for Sunday mass. It lay under the Bible his mother had given him at his Ordination twenty-five