“I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t realize the cut throat would make you uncomfortable,” he said.
“Did you ever figure out what the woman was trying to tell you?” she asked, closing her eyes and placing her hand onto her forehead.
“I haven’t a clue,” he answered.
He sat behind the wheel and gazed out at the town and Whiting field. The Oak tree stood out like a decayed sore spot, barren of the green that surrounded it. It brought his thoughts back to Isabel Shea.
He turned to Nancy, still reclined in the seat with eyes closed. “Who in town would know about the legend of that witch, I mean more than the average person?”
Nancy turned to look at a patch of wild flowers at the edge of the overlook. She seemed agitated.
“I guess if you really have to know, you could talk with Mrs. Toomey. Her husband was the town clerk years ago and sort of the unofficial town historian.”
“He’s not around?” David asked.
“Yeah, he’s around…in the cemetery, died about six years ago.”
“Would you mind if we visited her?” He felt as though this whole subject bothered her.
“Why are you so interested in Isabel Shea all of a sudden?” she asked, still gazing out the window.
“I have a wild hunch about those murders. I know it’s only an urban legend but humor me, okay?”
“Mrs. Toomey is ninety-two,” she responded, facing him, “senile and neurotic. Keep that in mind when you speak with her.”
He smiled and started the car. They left following Nancy’s directions to the Toomey residence at the edge of town.
It only took ten minutes to reach the house. It sat devoid of neighbors on a lonely road outside of the populated area of Wexford, built around the turn of the century and crying for repairs. The gutters blackened from years of rain and wind rotting the wood rendering them useless. Hardly any paint remained on the exterior. A picket fence with lopsided and missing pickets encompassed the weed-choked yard.
“I assume this Home and Garden property began its downfall after the husband passed on?” remarked David, walking with Nancy to the gate held on by one hinge. “It reminds me of the Johnson house.”
Nancy remained silent as they approached the porch. David was about to ask if she was angry when he noticed a window curtain slightly ajar revealing an aged wrinkled face, “Someone is at the -”
“I saw her,” Nancy interrupted abruptly.
The weathered door opened slowly in response to David’s knock but only enough for a pair of watery eyes to peek out. They squinted with the wisdom of many years, along with the sorrow that life seems to place upon a soul.
Nancy tried to make the introductions. “My name is Nancy Flan -”
“I know who you are,” snapped the woman, closing the door a bit more. She sneered while examining Nancy from the safety of her hallway. “Who is that?” she asked, pointing with her eyes at David. The wrinkled puffs under them swayed with the movement of her head as she gave him the once over.
“I’m David Raferty,” he replied, tilting his head to ease her vision. “I’m visiting my Uncle, Doctor Carl Raferty.” She acknowledged the name.
“What do you want?”
“I understand your late husband was somewhat of a town historian and may have some information concerning the witch, Isabel Shea?” David said.
Her eyes widened and the wrinkled face shuddered. A tiny hand appeared, clutching the edge of the door. It looked almost transparent showing the blue veins running beneath the skin. The hand hesitated a moment then eased the door open.
They entered and allowed their eyes to adjust to the dimly lit foyer. The elderly woman stood in the adjacent living room, the same room David had noticed her behind the curtain. She led them past the dusty furniture and clutter into an adjoining study.
Volumes of books lined the wall, their covers dulled by layers of dust and neglect. A painting of a lighthouse on an angry coast hung from the far wall. French windows filtered sunlight through yellowed lace curtains and sooty glass, leading to what had been the garden. In front of the window stood a large desk with stacks of unread papers, pamphlets, maps, and catalogues hiding its once polished surface.
“My husband’s study.” Mrs. Toomey touched the desk with reverence, looking at the chair behind it as though he were there. She motioned for them to sit on the small settee across from the desk.
“My husband collected everything concerning the history of Wexford. Whatever you seek is here.”
She watched Nancy carefully with a frown. “He collected documents and information on the original settlers and their ancestral histories. He even has the manifest from the Emanon, the ship that brought them here from Ireland.”
She stood and slowly walked to the wall of books and carefully produced one from its resting place. It was thick with dust upon its cracked leather binding.
“This is the journal of Deacon Jonathan O’Connell. I am not sure how my husband obtained it but I assure you it is genuine. It contains his memoirs but what will interest you is the entry of Isabel’s trial and execution.”
She handed it to David. Opening it, he saw the ink was faded and smudged. Many of the words were indistinguishable from lack of good writing implements.
“Have you read this?” he asked.
“Yes, we examined many documents,” she answered.
“Were you aware that a police officer and a little girl were murdered recently?”
A glow appeared in her dulled eyes and she shuddered as David continued.
“They were torn apart by some kind of animal.”
Mrs. Toomey staggered backwards and held onto the desk, then sat quickly on the leather chair, covering her face with her hands. After a moment, she raised her head, breathing heavily.
David went to her side. “Are you all right?”
“I never believed it could happen. I prayed it wouldn’t…you must open the grave.”
“Let’s go, David,” Nancy said, standing. “This woman is insane. Open a grave?”
“Wait a minute,” David called out as she tried to leave.
The old woman looked up and repeated her warning. “You must open the grave and assure yourself the remains within are Isabel’s. If not, then they have succeeded in raising her.”
“I’m leaving,” Nancy announced rudely. “I’ll be in the car.”
David knelt beside Mrs. Toomey after hearing the front door slam.
“You will know it is her,” Mrs. Toomey continued. “She was buried with the rope around her neck.”
“Who raised her spirit?” David asked.
“Those who worship the Prince of Darkness. You must be careful young man.”
“This is insane,” he said, standing, “I really didn’t think this was real. I just thought...Goddamn it, you’re telling me this freaking legend is real? I must be nuts. How the hell did they raise her spirit?”
“The body of a sacrificed woman has opened the portal to hell for Isabel’s spirit to return,” the aged woman said quietly.
“Let me get this straight.” David scratched his head, pacing the study. “If I was to find this grave and if I dug it up and if the body in it has no rope around the neck, you’re telling me that means Isabel Shea is back ripping people apart?”
“Isabel’s spirit is gathering souls, the souls of families and bloodlines reaching into the past, reaching back to her execution.”
“That young girl and the cop were related to someone that executed the witch?” he said.
“We all are–the entire town plus some who have moved away, such as you, young man. We are all in great danger. The slayings will be completed by one of Satan’s familiars, a demon at Isabel’s command.”
Mrs. Toomey’s expression was one of se
rious danger. Her eyes burned with anxiety, she literally shook. “You must believe me.”
“Okay. I guess I asked for it, so tell me where this grave is and how do I destroy Isabel and this…demon?” He felt obligated for some reason.
“Across the river from the Oak tree on the field, you must find it and cover the open grave, setting the sacrificed body in it on fire. Isabel’s spirit will leave along with the beast.”
David stared at her for a moment, contemplating her sanity. “How the hell do you know all this?”
She pointed to the Deacon’s journal. “It’s all here.”
David began to think Nancy was correct about Mrs. Toomey’s mind, but somehow her insanity or knowledge of the legend had sparked his imagination and curiosity. He knew he had to find the grave.
“God be with you,” Mrs. Toomey said, closing the door behind him.
He went to the car and sat behind the steering wheel, gazing at the house and thinking of what Mrs. Toomey had just told him. He looked to Nancy, still staring angrily straight ahead.
“Would you mind if I took you home? I want to talk to the Chief about this,” he said.
“Are you serious? He’ll laugh in your face, especially when you tell him where you got your hot information.” Nancy shook her head in disbelief.
David started the car. “Maybe you’re right but I should tell him anyway. I don’t think he has any other leads.”
“He’s going to lock you up as an insane hysteric,” she said, facing him. “It’s only a story, a legend, a stupid horror tale. Why don’t you drop it?”
“Why are you so upset?”
She returned to peering straight ahead. “I’m sorry. I just think you’ll make a fool of yourself and get in trouble digging up graves because an old senile woman tells you it’s the thing to do.”
“Let’s leave it up to the Chief,” David offered. “If he thinks I’m crazy I’ll drop it, okay? I just feel this is a real danger, not some neurotic threat from a senile woman’s imagination.”
She placed her hand into his hair and shook his head, smiling. “Okay, crazy man, take me home. Will I see you tonight at Kelly’s or will you need bail money?”
“Ha, ha, very funny,” he said.
Chapter Fifteen
Discovery
When David entered the office, Keith was at his desk reading the doctor’s official death reports. He held them up. “Your Uncle’s preliminary reports…ugly business.”
David nodded in agreement. “Is the Chief around? I’d like a word with him.”
“He’s at the cemetery attending Cathy Collins’s funeral.” Keith exhaled deeply. “Andy’s is tomorrow.”
“You and Andy were close?” David asked.
“He was a good pal, there when you needed him. Wish I could have been there for him.”
There was an uneasy silence for a moment as Keith reflected over his friendship with Andy. He sighed heavily again. “You can wait for the Chief here if you like?”
David knew he was pretending to search for a file to hide the tear rolling across his cheek.
“I’ll drive out to the cemetery and see if I can catch him there,” David replied, knowing what he had to say was ridiculous and he would rather just have the Chief laughing at him.
“Suit yourself,” answered Keith, not looking as David closed the door quietly behind him.
David was nervous driving toward the cemetery. He kept repeating the scenario over in his mind, the strange explanation he was going to use for the murders caused by a three hundred year old witch.
He hoped the Chief would at least allow him to finish before ordering him to go home and sleep it off. If his theory were true, he would feel terrible if more deaths happened and he had not said anything, no matter how it made him look.
He turned onto a short paved driveway leading to the parking area next to the white church. The lot was full to capacity with vehicles. The horrible death of a young child brought out the town to say goodbye. The service was nearing an end as David parked alongside the church.
He walked past the rectory and an area where old headstones, chipped and cracked, some tipped or split in half were contained; an ancient burial ground of citizens past. A large stone near the rear had the impression of a crucifix etched into it, and the faint inscription denoting the resting place of Deacon Jonathan O’Connell.
Cathy Collins’s service was in the newer area, on the opposite side of the rectory. David walked along the crushed stone walkway lined with weeds and entered the new section just as the service ended. Mike Collins stood with his arm around his wife, consoling her. Tears flowed freely from their eyes. Mark stood by their side, watching the progress of the funeral with a far away stare. He took his mother’s hand and cried uncontrollably when Father Ahern sprinkled a handful of dirt onto the casket.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Let us pray…”
A low murmur filtered over the burial ground as the gathered group prayed in whispered unison. David found the Chief and stood beside him. He noticed how pale and tired Murphy was and began to have second thoughts about bothering this man with his foolishness.
The prayer ended. An electric motor hummed as it slowly lowered the coffin into the grave. Father Ahern continued to whisper prayers and sprinkle the coffin with holy water. He then escorted the family to their car, holding Mrs. Collins’s arm, explaining how God works in mysterious ways.
Cathy was now safe away from evil on earth.
The service was over. The crowd solemnly began to leave; some looked one last time at the coffin, others tossed flowers onto it. Many wept, some shook their heads in disbelief. Chief Murphy noticed David next to him.
“Damn shame, young and innocent, her life taken away so brutally. Nothing left but a destroyed family.”
“Death is never an easy thing to understand or accept,” remarked David.
“No, it’s not.” Murphy walked towards his car. “By the way, tell your Uncle thanks for the quick work on the reports.”
David spoke thinking it now or never. “I’d like to speak with you a moment if I could.”
“Can’t it wait? I have a lead on whatever it was that killed the Collins girl and Andy. I’d like to try and find it before it kills again.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, who committed those murders, but I’m afraid you’ll lock me in a padded cell,” David blurted out.
The Chief stopped abruptly, looking straight ahead. David came to a halt behind him, not knowing what was next. He spoke softly.
“What I have to say is going to sound bizarre, out-of-this-world, crazy in the head. You’re going to think I’m hallucinating.”
Murphy turned, his face serious, eyes searching. “What’s going to sound crazy?”
“Well,” David began, coughing to clear his throat and waiting for the Chief to toss cuffs around his wrist. “You heard of the legend of Isabel Shea, the witch?”
“Who hasn’t?” Murphy was not yet laughing or turning away.
“I think…I mean, do you think…maybe somehow…she has come back?”
There, he said it. It was out and now all he had to do was stop the Chief from laughing himself to death or arresting him for being a public fool in the daytime. Murphy looked down at the walkway.
“I spoke to Mrs. Toomey about the curse.” David felt he was pressing his luck. “She feels Isabel’s spirit has been raised by Satan worshippers and controlling a beast from Hell. She advised me to look in Isabel’s grave to make sure her remains are there and not those of a sacrificed person.”
Murphy remained silent. His thoughts whirled in the possibilities and of the absurdness of the suggestion, a three hundred year old witch back for vengeance.
He shook his head, trying to lose the bizarre notion from his mind
but it remained, clinging by visions of the recent murders and the beast at the field. Their eyes finally met.
“You’re not laughing?” David stated.
“It’s not funny,” Murphy answered. “I thought you might be off your rocker until the part about the beast. I saw it last night.”
“You saw it!” David spoke loudly, realizing his theory had merit, the evidence of which was seen by the police Chief himself. “Where, what did it look like, where did it go?”
“Slow down,” Murphy said, making sure no one had heard. “We have to keep this under wraps, at least until it can be confirmed. We could both be put away for thinking like this.”
He told David about the creature he had seen and lost near the Oak tree on the field.
“The Oak tree, that’s near the grave,” David stated.
“If I didn’t see that thing, I wouldn’t give you the time of day with this story. Let’s have a look at that grave,” Murphy said.
The Chief went to his patrol car and sat inside. David went to the passenger side. Neither spoke as the car left the cemetery, headed for the grave of Wexford’s urban legend.
* * * *
Murphy took a shovel from the trunk and began digging by the boulder David guessed as the marker, it was in the area of Mrs. Toomey’s recollection of the graves location.
“The soil is loose, dug up recently.” Murphy easily pushed the shovel into the soft earth and piled it into a growing mound.
“I don’t know if that’s good or bad,” David stated, watching the Chief shovel.
“It strengthens your theory,” responded the Chief, now knee-deep in the shallow trench. He handed David the shovel. “Your turn.”
Taking the shovel, David replaced Murphy in the hole. After removing a few more inches of earth, he struck something.
“There’s a body, but I don’t think it’s been here three days, never mind three hundred years, and no rope round the neck either.”
“Definitely a new corpse,” Murphy added, studying the apparent discovery of yet another victim. He did not notice the odor as David did. “It still has some flesh.”
The Banshee Page 7