“No!” she screamed as the men bound her hands behind her back. Betty stared hard at Colleen, her eyes wide in madness.
“You will watch our dance of praise and glorification to our master then you will become the vehicle needed to fulfill his desires.”
“What are you talking about? Let me go!” Colleen struggled to free her bonds. Betty ignored her and watched the circles break apart and the members dance wildly about the fire. One by one, they approached the goat headed man, knelt, and kissed his feet.
“Homage to our God,” Betty explained to Colleen. “They are paying their respects to their master whose spirit will soon arrive and fulfill his desires through him.” Betty pointed to her strange animal looking friend.
Colleen’s head spun from screaming and the struggle to free her. She closed her eyes as the group participated in intercourse with each other, moving from partner to partner, the partner’s sex not mattering. She wished it were over so she could return to her husband. She knew he would not want to be a part of something as crazy as this and would arrest Betty and the rest of them.
Then she realized the truth. It came to her tired mind that she was not going to return home, never. She was not there for initiation. Betty’s statement of their God wanting her for his desires and the silver sword brought a terrifying image to Colleen.
“Oh, my God. Please help me!” she screamed.
The goat headed man once again raised his arms. The worshippers disengaged from each other. The orgy ceased and the human wall again encircled Colleen. Three men lifted her to her feet and began to tear away her clothing, ripping the halter from her torso followed by the jeans. She burst into hysterical screams as her panties were removed, leaving her nude in the cool night air.
Colleen, upon the table, hands and feet tied to each corner, helpless and shivering, weak and exhausted, lay sobbing. Betty’s friend left the throne and came to her. Watching through tear-soaked eyes, the goat headed man positioned himself between her opened legs, his member thrust painfully into her. The sound of pain and fear emerged from deep within Colleen as she filled the clearing with a hideous scream.
Colleen realized she was at the mercy of this goat headed figure but something was wrong, terribly wrong. His eyes were black like polished coal and shone brightly from the fire’s reflection. Looking quickly at the neck she could not see where the goat head mask ended and the man’s body began.
It was one, one face, one body, that of a demonic animal. Decayed teeth lined its jaw, inhuman squeals grunted from its throat and a decayed odor permeated its body. The pain between her legs grew until she felt his grotesque warmth explode inside her with such ferocity she was able to collapse, freeing herself temporarily from the horror within.
* * * *
When Colleen awoke, the nightmare invading her was gone. She could not see anything but could hear undertones by the fire behind her. Twisting her neck and body, she was able to see the man who raped her in the name of Satan holding the silver sword over the fire, whispering a chant. She noticed the fire was no longer there and bluish white flame shot out of the earth, bright and hot.
The chant ended and the worshippers returned to her with the goat headed man. He stood by her side with the silver sword. Colleen’s eyes opened wide in absolute terror as he placed the razor edge of the sword under her right ear. She could not move, cry, or scream only whisper.
“Our father, who art in heaven…”
Her words stopped as the blade was drawn under her ear across the throat and up under the left ear, cutting deep as it traveled. Betty took the sword and wiped it clean with a piece of the torn halter, completing the initiation of Colleen Murphy with the dead.
* * * *
Charles Murphy enjoyed being the newly appointed Police Chief of Wexford but wished there were more time for his wife. It amazed him how the position seemed to be a never-ending job. The force consisted of two officers and him; enough he thought to provide public safety to a small town of three hundred.
It was taking more of his time than he had anticipated and was not sure if it had anything to do with Colleen’s unexplained absence. He loved her and did not enjoy leaving her home alone; he sensed how it bothered her.
Memories of their first meeting entered his thoughts. He was a patrol officer with the Boston Police and Colleen a studious student at Northeastern University when introduced by well-meaning friends at his grandparent’s fifty-fifth wedding anniversary held in Wexford, Colleen’s hometown.
Before long, they were dating and visiting family and relatives on weekends and holidays. Within a year, they had become man and wife. Their mutual love of Wexford and the surrounding countryside sealed his decision to seek the Chief of Police position. They were elated when the call came announcing the selectman’s decision to hire Charles.
It was like a whirlwind of changes in both their lives, moving to a new colonial on two acres, surrounded by a fieldstone wall that edged the forest. Now Charles sat alone in the living room, running his fingers through his brushed back hair. His watch showed it was seven-thirty. The sun was setting under the tips of the tall trees to the west. Thoughts of her whereabouts constantly ran through his mind.
She left no message at the office or on the home bulletin board where shopping lists and love notes hung. Relatives and neighbors had not seen nor heard from Colleen, and Charles’ concern was growing, making an uneasy quivering inside his intestines. Almost twenty-four hours since he last saw Colleen, he knew something was wrong.
Charles tried to convince himself it was nothing, nothing more than her leaving him. That in itself would be a disaster, but at least he would know she was safe and alive.
Maybe she did leave me, he thought while lifting his six-foot-two frame from the chair, pacing the floor. Only the other night she told him how happy she was and wanted him to think about starting a family. He looked back into the house from the front door and noted the silence. He sighed heavily, wishing he knew.
Chapter Seven
Bright sunshine filtered across David’s face as he stretched his thin frame across the rear seat of the empty bus. The interior was plushy, like a charter service and it seemed familiar. So did the hilly pastured landscape, even the driver–a black man near retirement age who occasionally peered into the oversized rear view mirror at his only passenger.
David’s mind ached trying to recall when he boarded the bus but could only recall the sensation that shot through his being, an urge, a craving that morphed into a longing to visit his Uncle. It became a passion, he had to go, had to leave for Wexford but he could not recall why.
Running his hand through his dark brown hair, he found a tight muscle along the side of his neck and massaged it. Forget everything, all of it and just leave, why? Funny thing was…he did.
The driver’s eyes reflected in the mirror, his voice called out, “Next stop Wexford.”
David’s fingers searched his pockets for a ticket stub but found nothing.
“Did you collect my ticket?” he asked the driver.
The driver’s eyes returned to the mirror as though anticipating the question. “One way to Wexford already collected, son.”
David leaned back against the cushioned chair, wondering of the journey to the small town along the southern coast of Massachusetts.
Why am I on a bus headed for Wexford?
He returned to gazing at the passing countryside. The imagery became déjà vu. The sensation of recall rang throughout his memory but it felt blocked, like when he knew someone’s face but just could not put a name to it even though it was at the tip of his tongue.
He was sure he had been here recently, he was sure of that. Propping his forehead against the open window, he let the rushing airflow past his face. His eyes grew heavy again. The warm air caressed his hair, twisting and twirling it like a woman’s flirtati
ous touch, and the hum of the motor soon lulled him to sleep again.
Images whirled through his mind of a woman, an unknown woman. She was there in his dream as though he had known her all his twenty-six years. She wore a sheer white gown, clinging loosely at the shoulders, hiding her hourglass figure. She approached slowly, like a leaf gently cascading to earth.
She was attractive, in her early thirties with a small nose and full lips outlined by milk white cheeks. Thick chestnut hair spun from her scalp flowing freely over the shoulders and breast. She floated near, like an angel moving in ripples of motion.
He envisioned himself afloat near her. His arms outstretched as he sailed smoothly over the town of Wexford like a hawk. The land below resembled a large brown, blue, and green quilt, a patchwork design encompassing the countryside. Below a rocky ledge stood his Uncle, arms waving wildly as he shouted up to him. Hello.
David waved and resumed his flight smiling, enjoying the cool air sweeping past. Suddenly he was unable to control his glide and began a rapid descent to the rocks below. They grew larger as he fell. The angelic apparition of the woman lay on the jagged stone below.
Blood from her torn throat oozed onto the rocks. Her dull and lifeless eyes appeared urgent. Her lips formed words David could not hear nor reason; they became silent screams as she pulled back her long hair exposing a wound running from ear to ear, her windpipe dangled like a broken water hose.
David was about to make contact with certain death when his eyes opened. He sighed heavily realizing his split-second flying experience was the bus traveling through a dip in the roadway. His heart raced, perspiration puddled on his brow. The dream was frightening and bizarre; surreal.
Was she trying to tell me something?
His mind continued to wander between reality and fantasy like a butterfly caught in a typhoon. He collected his senses, thinking if dreams were measured on a seismograph this one would have registered high.
The woman was another quandary to ponder along with the mystery of boarding the bus. What was she trying to say, who was she? Had they met before? Maybe he held a door for her or they shared a cab or rode an elevator at some point?
David shook off the nightmare and sat back in his seat. The bus turned onto a smaller road running past a forest of pitch pine, elm, and birch where trees stood as silent sentinels guarding secrets of the dark woods.
At the edge of Wexford, the road ran parallel to the Adams River, a tributary of the larger Agawam River flowing north to south through Plymouth County. It eventually flushed into the Atlantic via marshes and inlets near the Cape Cod Canal. It was almost as wide and swift as the Agawam but many areas were narrow especially near the swamp at the base of Deacon Heights.
The town never seemed to change, as if frozen in time. No matter how long you were away, it seemed only yesterday you left. David still carried that sensation as the bus entered the town. Turning onto Phillips Street the bus passed Whiting Field, named in honor of Major Thomas Whiting, a Wexford citizen who served with the 28th Massachusetts Infantry’s volunteer Irish Brigade.
The field and maintained ballpark was the pride and joy of Wexford, with walkways, picnic tables and a baseball diamond with bleachers. At the corner of the field, facing the row of storefronts that lined Phillips Street stood the statue of Major Whiting, complete with pigeons.
The bus pulled to the curb adjacent to the Major Whiting statue where the driver opened the luggage storage compartment on the underside of the bus. He removed a canvas travel bag and handed it to David as he stepped groggily from the bus onto the sidewalk. David cautiously took hold of the bag.
“What’s this?”
“Your belongings,” the driver said, smiling.
David held the bag with one hand and opened it with the other. He peered inside, moved a few articles of clothing and toiletries, and asked the driver, “Are you sure this is mine?”
The driver directed David’s attention to the inside of the empty compartment. “It’s the bag you brought on board and the only one in there.”
David’s emotions were flooded with confusion as he looked back into the bag.
“Are you all right?” asked the driver.
“Yeah, I’m fine, just fine,” David said filtering through the meager amount of clothing.
When did I pack this?
“Have a nice day and enjoy your stay.” The driver looked back then stepped back into the bus. David quickly went to the bus door and knocked to attract the driver’s attention.
“Wait, where did this trip originate?” he called out over the hissing from the released air brakes. The door remained closed. The driver mouthed the location of the bus’s origin but his voice was unheard over the accelerating vehicle. It disappeared in a cloud of fumes and dust.
David visualized the driver’s lips, attempting to recall the name of the city where the trip began, a clue to his forgotten past.
“Lo…lo…what location contains lo…Buffalo, Chicago, Ohio…Idaho?”
It did not bring any recollection. He shook his head in amazement at the depth of his amnesia, if that was what it was. It seemed total but selective. Obscure items surfaced at will, not on command.
He glanced up and down the street, hoping something would stir a piece of memory. The place stood the test of time and looked the same as when he visited his Uncle as a child, or was it just yesterday?
On the riverbank was the famous, or notorious, ancient chestnut Oak, bent from weather and aged from time with several limbs fallen or sawed off as a safety measure by the park caretakers. It stood alone. Grass and vegetation shunned taking root near it.
An unsolicited remembrance filtered into his mind, another glimpse of the past. He envisioned himself as a young boy with his dad enjoying a warm day skimming flat stones across the river. They spoke of small things that bond fathers and sons.
His dad told him of the Oak and its history, of Isabel Shea and her vow to destroy the relatives of those who executed her. David listened, not because the curse of Isabel intrigued him, but because he wanted to hear his father’s voice. It made the bond tighter.
The tale of Isabel became a campfire story, an urban legend for Wexford and a story that kept youngsters awake and frightened through dark nights. It certainly did for David, for a long time. He remembered that.
The pigeons on the statue scattered and flew to the roof of the building next to him. On the field, a group of boys gathered for a game of baseball while another flew a kite. It sailed high into the clear sky, almost disappearing. A young girl sat near the kite flyer, brushing her doll’s hair.
The theme from All in the Family spilled out from the television inside Kelly’s Pub. David walked toward the sound, watching the kite sail peacefully over the field. It hovered, dashed, and circled as though suspended in the afternoon sky by invisible strings.
The sun’s radiance reflected off the aluminum foil wound around the kite’s tail like silver bow ties stirring the air with an ease of motion. The birds sang, children played, and the fresh air invigorated him. He had reached his destination.
Chapter Eight
Unleashed
The boy lay on the thicker grass of the field away from the groomed ball diamond. He tightly held a balled quantity of string wrapped around a piece of wood. At its other end, a kite sailed high in the blue sky. The boy gazed dreamingly at the diamond-shaped paper and balsa wood aerobic flyer watching it climb ever higher.
Occasionally he glanced in the direction of younger sister Cathy, whom he was baby-sitting. She sat nearby under the canopy of a tree near the river. Cathy combed the hair of a doll almost the spitting image of her while chatting motherly to it. The boy turned, shaking his head, wondering how girls could have fun playing with a dumb doll.
“Hey, Mark,” a voice from the other side of the field called out to him, “W
anna play ball?”
Mark sat up and noticed a group of his friends gathered at the ball diamond ready to choose sides. A few tossed a baseball between them while several others swung bats.
“Sure,” he yelled, reeling in the kite “Come on, Cathy.”
Clinging to her doll Cathy ran across the field to join her brother.
The teams were picked and the game begun. Cathy and her doll took a seat along the deserted cement bleachers where she resumed styling the doll’s stiff hair. After the first three outs Mark’s teams was at bat. The leadoff batter took his position in the batter’s box and prepared for the first pitch. Suddenly a loud strange shriek came from behind the field at the river. All the players looked to the sound.
“What was that?” the boy at bat wondered.
“I don’t know,” replied the catcher, tossing the ball back and forth into his glove, “sounded like a dog got hit by a car.”
“There are no cars over there,” Mark replied, “let’s take a look.”
Curiosity took over and the boys walked to the edge of the water. They lined the bank and peered down river following the slow current until it disappeared around a bend at the far side of the town. In unison, they all turned up river to where they could see the water seeped from the swampy land at the base of the heights.
“No dog, no car, no nothing,” Mark’s friend Bobby said, “Some stupid dog got himself stung by a hornet and yelped, is all,” another of the players declared.
“You’re probably right,” said the boy with the bat, “let’s get back to the game.”
A feeling that something was missing settled on Mark, like when he left for school without his homework. Then he remembered Cathy. He looked to the bleachers. She was gone.
“Wait a minute, fellas,” Mark’s eyes scanned the bleachers, the closed snack stand behind the fenced backstop, the entire field. He asked, “anyone see Cathy?” The boys looked in different directions but none answered. “I have to find her.”
The Banshee Page 3