Page 30

Cathy

In October, night falls early, and I’ve never hated that so fiercely as I do tonight.

Wicklow Heritage Church stands like a tombstone in the semicircle clearing, the forest rising in a tangle of thatched limbs behind it.

In the watery light of the lamps flanking the entrance, the greeters look sallow, sickly.

They’re dressed in black, and they don’t smile as they usually do.

This is no pleasant Sunday morning worship service, where we dress in our best and don our pretty, pious masks. The masks are off now, shredded by the claws of the monster we guard. The darkness can’t be denied, and the shadow of death is with us.

I hang behind Dad as we enter the church. The greeters don’t say anything as we pass between them; they only stare. The church lobby is crowded with black-clad worshippers, and it feels like a gauntlet of muttering mouths and accusing eyes.

Suddenly Edgar is there, wearing a black suit and a red tie. He grips Dad’s hand firmly and gives him a sympathetic smile. “You came. I’m glad.” He turns to me, blue eyes gleaming. “Cathy. I thought we could have a private chat, you and I, before the prayer time begins.”

“Um…” I scramble for a reason not to, but he’s already taking my hand and leading me through the bodies, away from the eyes and the mouths, hustling me into one side of a confessional booth while he takes the other.

The booths are soundproof, mostly, and for a moment I’m relieved by the abrupt silencing of the low conversations outside and the absence of all those malevolent eyes.

Slowly I settle onto the narrow bench seat. I’ll sit here and deal with Edgar if it means I can hide from the congregation a little longer.

“It’s time to come clean, Cathy,” says Edgar from the other side of the wooden screen that divides the booth. “You’ve been lying for so long. Trust me, it will feel amazing to let the deception go.”

“I thought you said we were going to chat.”

“We can do that, too. In fact, there was something I wanted to tell you, and I hope you’ll hear it in the spirit in which it’s intended.”

It’s never good when someone prefaces a speech with those words.

“Leadership is my spiritual gift,” says Edgar. “I’ve led dozens of bible studies and mission teams. I’ve led prayer groups and class presentations and preaching teams. But last night, on the beach, I lost control. And I’ve been trying to figure out why.”

“Beer,” I suggest.

“It was more than that. You see, I can lead groups that include both believers and the lost—as long as the lost are open-minded. As long as they have an interest in the things of God. But there are people who aren’t just lost , Cathy.

They are the damned, the reprobates, like Cliff, the guy Isabella brought along.

Elements like that should never be allowed in a gathering of the faithful.

They’re disruptive, unhinged, and problematic. ”

“So just because Cliff was there, you couldn’t control the event like you planned, and it veered in a different direction. Is that what you’re saying?”

“It’s a bit more nuanced than that—”

“Honestly, I think it’s more primal than that. You were the alpha of the pack until Hea—until Cliff showed up, and then he naturally became the alpha. It’s basic animal behavior.”

Edgar blows out a frustrated breath. “That’s a very pagan way of looking at it, Cathy.”

“Is it, though?”

“The point is, I’ve figured out how to rectify that failure in leadership. Eliminate the dissenters, the rebels, the problematic elements, and you’re left with a flock that’s ready to follow.”

That sounds way too much like dictator-speak, but I don’t mention it. Best not to antagonize him until I figure out exactly what he wants.

“Let’s talk about you,” he continues. “About that scream. That’s when I figured it out, you know.

Dad and I had some pieces of the puzzle, but that was the clue we needed to determine what kind of supernatural you were.

A banshee. Your father confirmed it this morning.

He told me how it works when he gave me his confession. ”

“Good. Saves me time.” My fingers curl around the edge of the bench seat, white-knuckled, my nails scraping the wood.

“Cathy, I have to ask—do you feel any remorse at all for hiding your nature from us? For being the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing?”

“Wolf?” I exclaim. “I’m not a predator, Edgar. This isn’t something I can prevent or control. The most I can do is choose where I wander, and even that takes a huge effort. But I’m not hurting anyone. I never have.”

“Your very existence is a threat to this church and our mission.” Edgar’s tone is gentle, soothing. “And we have to figure out how to deal with it, especially after the horrible deaths that occurred last night.”

“I’m not linked to those deaths in any way.

” A frustrated panic is rising in me, swirling higher and higher inside my chest, quickening my heartbeat.

“Who put you in charge? Seriously, Edgar, you’re not my pastor.

I’m not even sure your dad is my pastor.

You don’t call the shots, not here at church and not in my life, okay?

You and I have known each other since we were kids.

I like you well enough—I went on a date with you, for goodness’ sake—but I’ll be damned if I’m going to confess anything to you. ”

I rise from the bench and open the door to my side of the booth, intending to charge right out of the church, no matter what Dad said.

But I stop at the sight of a cluster of women and children moving up the aisle. They’re all dressed in black and several of them are sobbing openly.

I hadn’t forgotten about the dead men, but I was too worried about myself to really grasp what their loss has done to this church. Five deacons, gone. Whole families shattered in just a few hours. And these people don’t even have bodies to bury.

The organ drones mournfully as the families file along the first two rows of pews. The rest of the worshippers fill in the seats behind them. My father stands in the third row, his stern gaze fixed on me. He points to the spot beside him, right at the end of the pew. My seat.

“They’re looking for someone to blame.” Edgar’s voice is low and soft by my ear. “Run out of here now, and they won’t believe you had nothing to do with this. Stay, and perhaps I can persuade them you’re harmless.”

He takes my upper arm. A light hold, not restrictive, so I don’t pull away as he guides me up the aisle to the seat Dad has saved for me.

Pastor Linton isn’t here, and for some reason that scares me.

I never liked him, exactly, but he was familiar, routine, predictable.

Edgar is anything but predictable. Last night on the beach did something to him, flipped a switch.

Or maybe it tore away his mask, too, and the person he’s always been is stepping forward.

Maybe the god of death isn’t the only dangerous thing being resurrected.

The service begins with hymns. Too many hymns. Then a passage about “weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth.” I wonder who selected those verses. They seem wildly inappropriate given all the death, and yet their poetry sings to the banshee inside me.

Weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth…

What does gnashing mean? I think it’s grinding…yes, that makes sense…grinding of teeth. I’ve done that before, in the paroxysms of grief, in my wanderings.

My attention snaps back to the service. Edgar is expressing condolences to the families of the dead. He calls them heroes of the faith. Martyrs.

And then he’s looking at me. Talking about me.

“…one who lives among us but isn’t truly one of us…

” And he’s telling them what I am. Banshee.

He doesn’t go into detail, just offers a general explanation.

“Supernatural,” he calls me, “descended from Cernunnos, the demon beneath.” He doesn’t say monster or threat , but I can sense both those words in the rigid stances of the people around me, in the glares thrown my way and the whispers traveling the air beneath the current of Edgar’s words… so many useless words.

“Robert Earnshaw has confessed his sin in keeping this secret from us,” Edgar says. “He did it out of love, in the hope that faith might purge the evil from his daughter.”

Where did Edgar learn to talk like this? I guess this pompous style of speech comes from reading too many old sermons and commentaries from the 1800s. Does he even hear himself? How much he sounds like a cult leader more than his dad ever did?

But he looks like an angel, slim and blue-eyed, with that cloud of curly, blond hair, with that delicate, earnest, beautiful face.

There’s a hectic light in his eyes, a fervent energy in the movements of his slender hands as he reads passages about purging the unworthy and taking the sin offerings “outside the camp,” whatever that means.

“Brethren,” he continues, lifting both hands.

“We must now decide what path to take. Make no mistake—this is not simply a tragedy. This is war. Spiritual warfare, more potent and physical than ever before in our lifetimes. Are we ready for the challenge? Will we stand against this great evil that threatens to rise and consume us all? The demon killed Macauley and Quinn first. Then last night, he came for Coffey and Heffernan. He took Gainey, Donaghy, and Ward, but he will not be satisfied with them. No, he will come for us. For you, and for you.” He jabs a long, pale finger at a couple of church members.

“He will come for your children. He will come for the elderly. He will come for the world . What are you willing to sacrifice to stop him? To keep this ancient horror from rising up once again?”

“We must ask God to defend us,” a woman quavers from the pew behind me.

“Yes.” Edgar steps around the pulpit and walks to the edge of the platform, lips pursed, nodding thoughtfully. “Yes, we must do that. But God will defend those who fight for Him. There’s a time for prayer, my friends, and there’s a time for action. Can anyone deny that this is the time for action?”

“We must cast out the evil from among us,” someone calls. “Reject the polluted creature! Otherwise God can’t bless us!”

“Now, now.” Edgar raises a pacifying hand, gives a gentle smile. “I’m not sure calling Cathy Earnshaw a ‘polluted creature’ is helpful. She is wild, yes…a child of demons and not of God.”

“But she is my daughter.” My father stands up, his face brick red above the bristling beard. “And she’s willing to repent.”

“I hope so.” Edgar’s innocent blue eyes fix on me, his gaze flooded with beneficent concern. “For her sake, I truly hope so.”

“This is a matter for the church leadership,” Dad continues. “For the pastor and the deacons—”

“Pastor Linton, my father, is in no state to make decisions,” Edgar cuts in. “He is grieving the loss of his brothers, his friends, his flock. And as for deacons…we have so few left. I think this question is too big for a few men to answer. We must all come together and find a solution.”

Aunt Nellie rises suddenly from her seat. “Bob, have you ever tried curing Cathy?”

My dad stares at her, frowning. “She’s a banshee. That’s not something anyone can cure.”

“But have you ever tried?”

“I… No.”

With a triumphant nod, Aunt Nellie turns to face the congregation. “Cathy can come and live with me. We’ll see what can be done about her condition. Perhaps the evil spirit can be driven out.”

There’s a murmur of relieved assent among the church members. Aunt Nellie is well-known and respected. If there’s anyone they’ll trust with my “rehabilitation,” it’s her.

I’ve thought of begging Aunt Nellie to let me live with her—I’ve even hinted to her about it. But I always got the feeling she wasn’t thrilled with the idea of taking me in. And I’m definitely not interested in living with her now, when she’s talking about driving an evil out of me.

An impulse I’ve had since I stepped inside the church is growing stronger. It’s not the horrible crawling sensation I get before an episode, but it’s almost as urgent. An instinct, a voice in my brain, repeating one word over and over. Run. Run run run run run…

But run where ? Where could I go? Heathcliff said his family is dangerous, too, and besides, I’m not sure where he lives.

Voices surge around me, some in support of Aunt Nellie’s plan, others suggesting alternatives. But the voice in my mind cuts through all the noise.

Run run run run run RUN RUN RUN!

I step out of the pew and head down the aisle toward the lobby.

Behind me, the voices rise in pitch and volume, and I quicken my pace. Two ushers get up from the rear pews and step in front of the doors leading to the lobby, blocking my path.

There’s a side door. An emergency exit. I take a sharp left and head for it, but three women in black head me off.

Panic sets my nerves on fire. I’ve always been able to find an exit, an escape route, somewhere to flee. But this time I’m trapped, hemmed in by women I’ve known all my life—placid-looking Southern ladies who now remind me of harpies, or Fates, or something dreadful out of mythology.

But I am something dreadful out of mythology. And I’m not helpless. I’ve survived this thing inside me, and I can survive them, too.

And what’s more…this isn’t just “a thing inside me.” Sometimes I create that mental separation out of shame or denial…but the banshee isn’t some hitchhiker in my body.

I am the banshee, and the banshee is me.

So I let myself be whole, and I release one scream of pure, defiant freedom.

The force of the sound wave throws the three women out of my way. Everyone in the church cringes and crouches down, covering their ears. In that moment of confusion and chaos, I yank open the emergency door and rush out, heedless of the alarm that shrills at my exit.

Cold wind in my face, the scent of damp leaves. There’s a concrete step. I jump off it and start running the second I hit grass.

One second, the stretch of grass between me and the forest is clear. The next second, a figure stands between me and the woods. He’s tall, with shoulder-length dark hair, sharp features, a chiseled jaw, and a short, neat beard. He reminds me a little of Viggo Mortensen…

His hand lifts. Is that a gun?

Pain explodes through my body, making me jerk and shudder.

Not a gun. Taser.

Fuck.