Excerpt from Bob Sloan’s story “The Cry of the Banshee”
My road takes me alongside the buryin’ ground at the outskirts of town. ‘Tis a path I’m used to, mind you, its loneliness is no stranger to me. In truth, if I were afraid of ghosts, there’s not an Irish road I would travel by moonlight. All the same, the gravestones stood before me stark and cold, and I longed for the comforts of the hearth. Then came the long, anguished cry. Mournful it was, like the lament of an old woman who knew all the grief that life and death had to offer. That’s when it came back to me; it was said that the Banshee always cries for the Sloan’s at the end.
Copyright © Bob Sloan