Robin Likes to Talk

Screaming Banshee

Ah yes. It’s the time of year when the cold strikes and the rain and wind kicks up. Yesterday it was 21 degrees. Today 40. I never understand it, there must be cloud coverage; covering like a down blanket as I nestle further into bed. But I can’t sleep. Not with the screaming banshee. I crawl out of bed, pour a cup of coffee and snuggle down into the couch.

Image credit: Bunworth Banshee, “Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland”, by Thomas Crofton Croker, 1825

I was woken this morning by her effortless wails, as she continues from our bathroom skylight, echoing through the kitchen vent, into the two livingroom skylights like a choir singing off-key in a midnight graveyard concert. She is really wailing this morning. Good Lord woman SHUT UP.

My lungs seize, and I start clearing my throat, coughing. The stench of second-hand wafers up my nostrils and I am reminded of dirty hotels with heavy drapes, brightly patterned carpets, crowded streets and the sound of bells and whistles as slots bear down coins into their steel under-carriage skirts. I am reminded. Ick, how did I ever live that…

Ah, it makes sense. Too windy to be on the porch, my husband is out by the back door of the garage, smoking a cigar. The door to the house must not be fully shut. No wonder she is screaming and her echoes can be heard throughout the house. Annoyed, I throw off my fur blanket, burying my dog and slop through the living room, into the hall, then into the dark abyss of the laundry room. I can see a two inch slit of bright light. Oh I must be dying and that’s the door to Heaven, slightly cracked to show me the way. The banshee screams louder. Must be Hell, figures.

The stench of smoke slaps me back into reality. Yep, still here on earth. I push the door shut. Hard. Very hard. I slop back from the darkeness, out of the short hall, into the living room and plop myself back onto the couch and pull the blanket over me. My dog happily adjusts herself back against my hip. I feel her warmth. She is the same color as my blanket, just as soft. All I see is a tiny, turquoise stripe of collar.

A little quieter. Banshee is still screaming bloody murder, but her sounds are muffled and limited. The wind has kicked up. Kicked up so hard the Christmas wreath on the front door is pounding against its glass pane, the bell jingling. I could always imagine it’s Santa at the door. Yeah right….ding dong ditch. Thanks Santa.

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