Shriek: Legend of the Bean Sídhe

by Jennifer M. Barry

  “He-hello?” Sara couldn’t handle the frigid stream any longer. Before the man could answer, she scrambled over the pebbles and stones to where her sandals waited on the bank.

  She chanced a look back in his direction, sure that he’d be twenty steps closer, and she’d have no way to get back to her car before he could catch her.

  The man in black hadn’t moved, not a single muscle except for the lifting of thick, dark brows. Crinkles at the edges of his eyes and mouth hinted at amusement, but definitely not friendliness. Or maybe they did. He’d still not spoken a word.

  “Are you from here?” she tried again. Without waiting for an answer, she began fumbling with her shoes, snapping the first over her heel with a pop.

  Should she even bother with her other shoe, or just make a break for the car? No wonder the villain in horror movies could always catch up to the scream queen while only walking. Not even the sound of a snapping branch or crunching leaves announced his approach. If she hadn’t seen him, watched him move one foot in front of the other, she’d never have known he was after her.

  And he was after her. She had no doubt about that. Maybe he still hadn’t spoken. Maybe he wore something that looked like a smile. But he had some bad plans for her. She knew that the same way she knew who Richard Ryan was. The same way she’d known Fiona was a banshee, too. She felt that recognition all the way down to the base of her spine, into her stomach, and right through her racing, stuttering heart.

  “Who are you?” she asked, only a slight tremolo betraying her fear.

  “Hello, Sara.” He spoke. He knew her name!

  “Shit, shit, shit.” Sara willed her feet to move, to run, to kick. Anything except root to the ground as they seemed to have done.

  Leaves rustled through the trees. Somewhere, a bird called, nasal and squawking, like a crow. A whoosh of wings just over hear head sent her heart through her throat.

  Sara ducked, sure she’d just been shot. Another flap of wings sounded, followed by the rustling of leaves and cracking of branches. The man was on the move.

  Thump, thump, thump.

  Sara jumped again, and looked toward the sound. Blood rushed in her head, squeezing at her temples and roaring in her ears.

  When the rapping started again, she realized someone was hitting the window at the back of the diner. A quick glance showed her father, waving and smiling. Didn’t he see the guy in black?

  She pointed in the direction of the man, ready to scream. Her vocal cords had unlocked; tension drained from her jaws and neck. Dad to the rescue. But when she looked back, the man was gone. The pounding feet against the forest floor had been in retreat.

  Her father knocked on the window again. This time, concern was evident in his furrowed brow and frown. His gaze flicked toward the place she’d pointed, but there was nothing for him to see.

  What could she tell him? She had a stalker? She shrugged up at her dad and mouthed the word, “Sorry.” Maybe he’d think she had mistaken a tree stump for a bear.

  The moment had already faded to a dull terror in her stomach, the adrenaline dump seeping away and leaving her exhausted. And she didn’t know anything about the guy, even if he knew her name. Maybe they’d gone to school together when she was younger. He could know who she was without her recognizing him.

  Not true.

  He was Sealgair; she knew in her blood and bones. And he’d have killed her if her dad hadn’t accidentally saved the day.

  She didn’t remember the climb back up the hill to her car. She barely remembered fumbling with the keys to get the door open.

  6

  Ridley supposed he should have been happy for the half day. The foreman had over-scheduled his workers, which wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was that everyone had shown up. With one too many guys on the job, someone had to go. It was just… He needed the money for a new place to live.

  When the foreman had called him over and given him the news, the first thing Ridley thought of was the diner. Not Sara, of course. Just a good burger and a quiet place to think.

  And maybe Sara. Her little flowery skirt had swished through his memory all morning. Had crooked its finger and called him back the moment he was free. How stupid was he?

  Would she think he was encouraging her? Showing up twice in one day might be considered an invitation, right? Except she’d been distracted and curt. She’d even whispered some other guy’s name when she dropped off the sweet tea. At least, Ridley thought she had. She’d said, “Ryan.” He was sure of it.

  And all the while, her eyes had been wide and focused on something in the distance. If she hadn’t looked terrified, Ridley would have wondered if she’d managed to move on.

  That would have been better for both of them. Wouldn’t it?

  So why did his chest hollow out when she’d walked right out the door at the end of her shift without a backward glance at him?

  Ridley settled onto his bike and straightened the straps on his helmet. Just before he lifted it over his head, a flash of floral caught his eye. Sara emerged from around the corner of the diner, wet from head to toe and trembling.

  She must have taken a dip in the creek. Even under the punishing sun, the mountain stream would freeze a body to the bone. Except her eyes were still wide and unfocused. Her fingers shook—no, her arms, all the way up to her shoulders. Keys tumbled to the ground, and Sara couldn’t manage to grasp them again for several seconds.

  If he had to guess, he’d say she was terrified of something…or someone. Ridley settled his helmet back on the handle and swung his left leg back over to stand. He didn’t know what he’d say to her, but he had to offer something. Anything.

  Before he could turn, she’d started her car, slammed it into reverse, and squealed tires pulling out of the parking lot. He stared after her, rubbing his chest and wondering if he should follow.

  Should he go back inside and talk to Mr. Donovan? The older man had always been polite, but maybe that would change if he thought Ridley was sniffing around after his daughter. Still, she’d looked as though she’d seen a ghost or an axe murderer. Had someone threatened her while she swam in the creek?

  That didn’t make sense, either. She’d been pale and distracted earlier, too.

  After another moment of indecision, stepping first toward the diner and then back to his bike, Ridley finally muttered a curse and jammed his helmet down onto his head.

  It wasn’t his place. Unless he saw Sara in actual danger, it wasn’t his place to say or do anything.

  But it could be.

  Sara’s eyes flew open and struggled to focus on the clock next to her bed. Almost midnight. She’d only been asleep for half an hour. Had something startled her awake?

  She tried to shut out the rushing blood in her ears—the thrumming that told her to be terrified, even if she didn’t yet know why. There wasn’t a sound in the house, and only the faint song of tree frogs outside.

  Her eyes drifted closed, only to be jerked back open without her permission. She struggled for a second, the pounding in her ears getting louder and louder, but she had lost all control of her eyelids. When she was pulled upright on her bed and then into a standing position, she realized she was no longer in command of her arms and legs, either.

  Movies and TV shows had shown murder victims that had been paralyzed but were still aware of everything going on around them. That’s what she felt like, except she was moving. And she could feel pain, as evidenced by the sharp jolt through her head as the ceiling fan clipped her on the temple.

  If she called out, her dad would come running. He’d know what was going on. Maybe he could hold her down and keep her from flying off to some abandoned forest where Richard Ryan was probably waiting to die.

  She just had to scream. Just open her mouth. Unlock her jaw. Push air from her lungs. Scream. Shriek holy hell down around her.

  But nothing happened. If she couldn’t control her arms and legs and eyelids, why did she think she’d be able to use her own voi
ce?

  No, any sound that came out of her mouth tonight would be someone else’s.

  Her only hope was that her mother or father would hear her disabling the house alarm and come to rescue her. No sooner than the thought had crossed her mind, she lifted from the floor and began to drift toward her bedroom window. Jesus. Whatever held her in its grip had thought of everything.

  Is this what happened every time she shrieked? The first two times, she’d awoken only after she’d reached the destination. It made sense that something else had controlled her from the moment she awoke. Only, now that something had decided that Sara could be awake for the whole show.

  Without permission, her hand reached for the lock on the window. Only the tiniest snick announced her impending escape. The pane rose without a sound, and Sara was forced through the opening one arm and leg at a time. She hovered outside just long enough to pull the window closed again. As soon as she was clear of the house, Sara shot toward the sky.

  Wind battered her face, tangled her hair, and slapped against the skin of her arms and legs. Before she cleared the trees, the unseen force dragged her forward into the foliage.

  Jesus, she thought. Did she have to fly through the branches every time? Just another ten feet and she’d have emerged above the treetops.

  Fully awake now, Sara took a moment to appreciate the sensation of flying. The stars flickered overhead, the tree frogs sang below, and the punishing wind had slowed to a gentle breeze.

  She could almost get used to this. The moment she had the thought, she remembered Fiona’s words: It’s a gas.

  The euphoria drained away and terror took its place. This wasn’t a fun frolic through the night sky. Someone would die very soon.

  Richard Ryan.

  Tonight was his night.

  A few moments later, she drifted to the ground in front of a roadside motel. The finest Cedar City offered, apparently. Poor guy was going to kick the bucket in a run-down motor lodge in the middle of the mountains, no family or friends nearby to mourn the loss.

  Without warning, her mouth dropped and silvery screams began to escape. In a way, they were almost beautiful, Sara thought. Like the singers her Gran had played during Sara’s last visit. Beautiful, terrifying, deeply sad, and also…amused. The notes took turns laughing and crying, then building in crescendo to a shriek so intense that her throat caught fire.

  She expected something to happen. A light in the window, a shifting of the curtains. But when her song ended, the little hotel room stayed dark. Silent. If Richard Ryan had heard her announce his death, he hadn’t been concerned.

  Maybe he wasn’t there. Maybe he’d escaped death by spending too long at the casino over in Cherokee. Had a few too many drinks and decided to check into the resort. Sara thought about testing the doorknob, doing a welfare check, but her body was still paralyzed, under someone else’s control.

  All she could do was hope, as the hotel disappeared into blackness. She’d sleep for the flight back home, thank God.

  Her mom would start screaming soon for her to wake up and get moving, but Sara took a moment to open her laptop anyway. She hadn’t heard anything from Fiona since her sharp rebuke, but now she wished she’d kept her thoughts to herself.

  Who else could she talk to? Her dad and Gran knew what was going on, but they weren’t living it.

  A cough racked her body, bringing up fluid. She wrinkled her nose and ran to her bathroom to spit in the sink.

  Blood. She’d shrieked so hard for Richard Ryan that her throat was bleeding. She opened her mouth wide and studied her reflection in the mirror. Another swallow felt like razorblades, but everything looked fine.

  Sara brushed her teeth, swished some mouthwash, and studied the basin after she spit for more blood, but everything looked clear. She flipped off the light and returned to her desk.

  A message from Fiona waited, and Sara let out a deep breath as she sat. Maybe they could get along after all.

  sara, was just talking to bren and we reckon the ould bitch has to rest up between screams. bren n I’ve not been screaming she said she’s probs there w u so. Sealgair isnt here atm either. u in luv wit him yet? let us know.

  Sara blinked and read through the email again. Was Fiona’s sentence structure better than last time, or was Sara just crazy? She could almost hear the Irish accent in every word.

  The ould bitch. Gran had called it the spirit. Was there only one spirit thingy that had the power over all of them? That could make sense. Maybe Sara was possessed or something every time she shrieked. And if she was possessed by some spirit, then she absolutely wasn’t responsible for anyone dying, was she?

  Maybe; maybe not. She still felt some of the weight lift from her shoulders at the possibility.

  Hey Fee,

  Hell no I’m not in love with him. He scares the shit out of me. He’s actually been here for about a couple of weeks, I’d guess, so you’ve been safe for a while.

  Tell me about the “ould bitch.” Do you know what it is? And what am I supposed to do about Sealgair?

  She clicked send and drummed her fingers on the desk for a minute. Would Fiona even still be awake? Ireland was five hours ahead of North Carolina, which meant it was probably after one in the morning. Sara would definitely be asleep at that time of night, but Fiona didn’t seem like a girl who went to bed at a decent hour.

  The ding of a new message arrival proved Sara right. She eagerly clicked the message and blinked. Then laughed out loud.

  don’t get dead

  Thanks, Fee, she thought with another chuckle. Very helpful. And not another world about the “ould bitch.”

  Did she have time to get to her grandmother’s? If she left that moment, she’d probably get there by nine. Old people went to bed early, didn’t they? A groan slipped through Sara’s lips as she slapped her laptop shut. Another night of TV with her mom. At least she had something to look forward to the next day.

  “You know you can stay as long as you need to.” Dobbins pulled down a second mug and filled with the sludge he called coffee.

  Ridley looked up from the ancient desktop computer and accepted the drink gratefully. Sundays without coffee from the diner had always been a killer. Even as undrinkable as the cheap brown water was, it beat the whiskey and beer his dad always had on hand for breakfast.

  “Thanks.” He let the word cover the offer and the coffee. “I don’t know how easy it will be to find something. I don’t have much stuff, and no one really rents out places with beds here, unless it’s one of the vacation cabins. I need something that’s closer to three hundred a month, not a night.”

  Dobbins grunted in understanding. “Well, don’t worry about rushing it.”

  “I have a few places over in Burnsville to go see.”

  His host plopped down into the next chair and huffed a chuckle. “Why all the way over there? Nothing in Cedar City meet your expectations?”

  Ridley shrugged. There was no way he’d admit he was running away from an eighteen-year-old girl, so he gave the only other reason he had.

  “Just keeping my options open. It’s farther from my father, for one thing. And still close enough to keep working with you guys.” He thought for a second, wondering if these reasons were enough to placate Dobbins. “And since it’s also farther from the casino, there’s maybe fewer tourists. Might be cheaper. I’m just looking, you know?”

  “Hell, if it’s cheaper, maybe I’ll just move over there, too.” Dobbins looked around his tiny house with a sigh.

  Ridley didn’t think there was anything wrong with his friend’s place. Sure, it was small, but Dobbins kept it neat. The wood paneled walls made the rooms look dark, casting shadows that looked like dirt over the white shag carpet. Still, it was a cool respite from the soupy summer, a soft couch void of stale bread crumbs and lumps from old beer bottles.

  “I just hope I can find something half as nice as this.” He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Dobbins looked around again with a raised
eyebrow.

  “Yeah, keep those expectations low. Then you can’t be disappointed.”

  Ridley shot a glance out of the corner of his eye and then hit the print button. A sluggish printer grudgingly handed over two pages. On each was a potential rental that fell somewhere in his budget, he hoped.

  Ridley hadn’t really considered how much his own place would cost. The utilities weren’t a mystery. He’d been keeping the lights on at his dad’s house for years. Adding rent on top of that was the kicker. He didn’t make much pouring concrete and asphalt.

  “Guess I’ll go spend my Sunday looking at houses. Cross your fingers for me that they don’t know who my father is.”

  Dobbins lifted his head in acknowledgment and then drained the last of his coffee. “Good luck.”

  “I have more questions.”

  “Of course you do,” Gran said. “Come in. Let’s have some tea.”

  Sara had announced to her parents that she’d visit with Audrey on her day off, but instead had driven the hour over to Burnsville to see her grandmother.

  When she was settled at the little table in the kitchen, she took a sip of the offered tea.

  “The last time I went to shriek, I knew who was going to die. That morning, I woke with his face in my mind and whispered his name.”

  “And that didn’t happen the first few times?” Gran slid the plate of biscuits across the table.

  “No. I just woke up wherever I was going and started to shriek. But this last time, I woke up before I even left the house, and I knew exactly where I was going.”

  Gran was quiet as she chewed and then set her teacup down with a sigh. “I wish I knew more to help you. We only had guesses for so long, and then I left before getting more answers. Did you find anything with that letter I gave you?”