Chapter 2
1820words
The Irish west coast sky hung like a sodden gray blanket. Fine rain fell sideways, tapping gently against our rental car's hood. When I pushed open the door, the air that rushed in felt ancient—sea salt, damp earth, and something else I couldn't name.
"Welcome to Banshee village." Declan killed the engine, his voice thick with emotions I hadn't heard before.
I stood at the village entrance, staring up at the massive stone monument. Over ten feet tall, covered in dark green moss, yet its ancient runes remained clearly visible. These weren't the Celtic patterns I'd studied—they were more complex, more... alive. Yes, alive. Absurd as it sounds, the runes seemed to pulse slightly beneath the moss.
"This monument is at least fifteen hundred years old," I said, pulling my camera from my backpack. "The rune style suggests it's from when Christianity first merged with Celtic traditions."
Mark busied himself unloading equipment, his sonic analyzer beeping steadily. "Emily, check this out."
I walked toward him but froze mid-step. That feeling again—that strange intuition I'd had since childhood. Something invisible flowed around the stone, an energy I couldn't see but could definitely feel. Goosebumps rippled across my skin, and the hair on my neck stood up.
"Interesting readings," Mark said, tapping his display screen. "I'm picking up low-frequency vibrations around 18 hertz. Pretty common in geologically active areas."
I nodded and returned to the stone, camera at chest level. As I approached, that strange feeling intensified.
"What do these runes say?" Declan asked from behind me, his camera's red recording light pulsing in the gloom.
"Some kind of ritual text," I replied, tracing a spiral-shaped rune with my finger. "This pattern represents the cycle of life and death. But this one... I've never seen anything like it."
The instant my finger touched the stone, the world went silent.
Not quiet—silent. No wind. No rain. No equipment hum. Not even my heartbeat. I tried to speak but couldn't. Panic bloomed in my chest as I opened my mouth, pushed air from my lungs, but produced nothing.
Just when I thought I'd be trapped in this soundless hell forever, everything rushed back. Mark's analyzer screamed, numbers flashing wildly on its display.
"What happened?" Declan dropped his camera and rushed to my side.
"I...I just..." I touched my throat, my voice raspy, "I couldn't make a sound."
Mark checked his readings, eyes gleaming with excitement. "Just recorded an abnormal low-frequency peak—17.8 hertz for about fifteen seconds. Probably infrasound from underground rock movement. Human ears can't detect it, but it can affect the body physically."
"Let's find a spot to set up camp," I said, struggling to sound normal. "It's getting dark."
Back in the car, I glanced at the stone monument in the rearview mirror. In the fading light, the runes seemed to emit a faint glow. I blinked, and they returned to ordinary gray stone.
Just an optical illusion, I told myself.
[Recording time: October 16, 1977 Evening 20:45]
We set up camp in an open field east of the village. Three tents in a triangle, campfire and equipment station at the center. Mark buzzed around like a kid with new toys, connecting devices into a complex network—sound analyzers, infrared imagers, EMF detectors, and gadgets I couldn't even identify.
"If anything weird happens tonight," Mark said, fine-tuning his equipment, "we'll catch it all."
Declan wandered toward the village entrance, portable camera in hand. He'd been distracted since afternoon, his eyes carrying something I couldn't quite read.
"Where's he going?" I asked Mark.
"Said he wanted 'atmosphere footage,'" Mark shrugged. "Artists, right? Always chasing that perfect mood shot."
I nodded but couldn't shake my unease. After the stone tablet incident, everything felt heightened. Evening mist wrapped around the village, distant waves crashed against rocks in a steady rhythm.
Half an hour later, Declan returned. His face was pale, knuckles white around his camera.
"How'd it go?" I asked.
He didn't answer right away, just sat by the fire, staring into the flames. "Equipment issues," he finally muttered. "Camera wouldn't focus. Tons of audio static."
"Let me see." Mark took the camera, examining it. "Probably humidity affecting the circuits."
But when Mark played the footage, we saw more than focus problems. The image was blurry, yes, but bright spots moved through the frame—like tiny light sources floating before the lens. They followed no pattern, gathering then scattering in ways that made no sense.
"Probably raindrops reflecting light," Mark suggested. "Or water on the lens."
The audio was stranger still. Beyond Declan's footsteps and breathing, persistent static filled the background. But listening closely, I heard rhythms in the noise—irregular but definitely there, like some forgotten language.
"Just technical glitches," Mark said, a bit too quickly. "Electronics act up in environments like this all the time."
Declan's face said he wasn't buying it. When he looked toward the stone monument, I recognized his expression—that mix of fear and fascination when facing something beyond understanding.
That night, sleep eluded me. Each time I drifted off, distant sounds pulled me back—maybe sea wind, maybe night birds. But sometimes... sometimes it sounded like someone crying.
[Recording time: October 17, 1977, 9:30 AM]
Next morning, we started our formal fieldwork. The O'Briens lived in a stone house at the village center—a building at least two centuries old. Mr. O'Brien, eighty-three, had a full head of silver hair and keen eyes. His wife, somewhat younger, spent her days in a rocking chair by the fireplace, her mobility limited.
"The Banshee's cry?" The old man echoed my question, his expression guarded. "Child, why do you ask about such things?"
"We're researching local folklore," I explained. "Trying to understand what these stories mean to the community."
The old woman turned from her chair, fixing me with a penetrating stare. "We've been hearing her lately."
"It's just the wind," the old man said softly, patting his wife's hand. "Or seabirds calling."
The old woman shook her head firmly. "No, Patrick. It's her. The Banshee is warning us."
Declan filmed quietly nearby, his hands visibly shaking. Mark scribbled notes furiously, occasionally glancing at his sonic detector.
"Warning about what?" I asked.
The old woman's eyes darkened. "Death," she whispered. "Or something worse."
The room fell silent except for the crackling fire. Goosebumps prickled the back of my neck as that familiar sensitivity kicked in again.
"Can you describe what you heard?" I pressed.
"Like a woman crying," she replied. "But deeper than normal tears... more ancient. It sounds distant yet right beside your ear at the same time. When you hear it, a sadness fills you that has no name."
As we left, the old woman called after me. "Young lady," she said, "you have the sight about you. The Banshee will notice you especially."
My heart hammered in my chest, and I struggled to breathe.
[Recording time: October 17, 1977, 14:15]
That afternoon, we visited the ancient cemetery behind the village. Villagers had been buried here for centuries, with the oldest graves dating to the 1500s. A low stone wall surrounded the grounds, and at the center stood a massive Celtic cross covered in intricate carvings.
"These symbols are fascinating," I said, snapping photos. "They blend Christian imagery with older Celtic traditions. This spiral represents the eternal cycle, and these interwoven lines..."
I stopped mid-sentence, noticing a symbol I'd never seen before. Unlike the time-worn carvings, this one looked relatively recent—maybe a few decades old. It was a complex geometric pattern of overlapping circles and lines that created an almost hypnotic effect.
"Declan," I called, "have you seen this symbol before?"
Declan came over, his face draining of color. "I... I think I've seen it before, but I can't quite place it."
Mark busied himself scanning the cemetery with his arsenal of equipment—sonic analyzers, EMF detectors, infrared imagers—all collecting data simultaneously.
"Getting some fascinating readings," Mark said excitedly. "The rock formation underneath creates unique acoustic properties. And there are strange electromagnetic fluctuations too."
Just as he finished speaking, every piece of equipment shrieked in unison. Numbers jumped wildly across displays before all screens dissolved into static.
"Damn it!" Mark smacked his equipment. "What the hell?"
Minutes later, the equipment returned to normal, but all recorded data had vanished. The files were corrupted beyond recovery.
Mark's face had gone ashen. For the first time, I saw genuine fear behind his scientific facade.
[Recording time: October 18, 1977, 2:33 AM]
What happened in the early hours of our third day changed everything.
A sound woke me. At first, I thought I was dreaming, but as consciousness returned, I realized it was real. A cry unlike anything I'd ever heard—deep, mournful, ancient in its pain. It seemed to come from miles away yet right outside my tent simultaneously.
I quietly unzipped my tent and peered out. The campfire had died down to faint embers. Mark's equipment still ran, green and red lights blinking in the darkness.
Then, I blacked out.
The crying continued for about thirty seconds before abruptly stopping.
Meanwhile, Mark's devices erupted with piercing noise like radios picking up dead air. He burst from his tent in rumpled pajamas, hair wild.
"What's happening?" Declan stumbled from his tent.
Mark checked his equipment, his expression morphing from confusion to shock. "All sensors are detecting signals beyond their measurement limits. That's technically impossible."
"Where's Emily?" Declan suddenly asked.
They turned toward my tent and found it empty.
Panic erupted. They split up to search the village, calling my name. Twenty minutes later, Declan found me two kilometers northeast of camp.
According to Declan, I was sitting beneath a massive oak tree, leaning against its trunk, staring vacantly into space. When he called my name, I blinked as if waking from a trance.
"Emily, are you okay? How did you get all the way out here?"
I struggled to piece together what had happened. "I... I heard crying, and then... I think I followed it."
"Do you remember walking out of camp?"
I shook my head. "No. I just remember... a woman. Silver hair, white dress. She stood in the forest, beckoning to me."
Declan and Mark exchanged worried glances.
"Are you sure it wasn't a dream?" Mark asked.
Fear gripped me. "She was real. And... she knew my name. She called me Emily." My voice shook. "What do we do, Mark? She's coming... the Banshee is coming..."
Back at camp, Mark analyzed the recorded data. His expression darkened as he showed us the spectrogram.
"This audio was recorded at 2:33:15 AM," he pointed to a waveform. "Frequency range between 16 and 20 hertz, consistent with human crying. But there's something wrong..."
He pulled up another chart. "Here's a wolf howl for comparison. See the difference? Human and animal vocalizations have distinct wave structures. But what we recorded tonight..."
Mark paused, searching for words. "It's neither human nor animal. It's... something in between."
