THE MALEVOLENT BANSHEE
The Banshees dealt with in the last chapter may all be described as
sympathetic or friendly Banshees. I will now present to the reader a few
equally authentic accounts of malevolent or unfriendly Banshees. Before
doing so, however, I would like to call attention to the fact that, once
when I was reading a paper on Banshees before the Irish Literary Society,
in Hanover Square, a lady got up and, challenging my remark that not all
Banshees were alike, tried to prove that I was wrong, on the assumption
that all Banshees must be sad and beautiful because the Banshee in her
family happened to be sad and beautiful, an argument, if argument it can
be called, which, although it is a fairly common one, cannot, of course,
be taken seriously.
Moreover, as I have already stated, there is abundant evidence to show
that Banshees are of many and diverse kinds; and that no two appear to be
exactly alike or to act in precisely the same fashion.
According to Mr McAnnaly, the malevolent Banshee is invariably "a horrible
hag with ugly, distorted features; maledictions are written in every line
of her wrinkled face, and her outstretched arms call down curses on the
doomed member of the hated race."
Other writers, too, would seem more or less to encourage the idea that all
malignant Banshees are cast in one mould and all beautiful Banshees in
another, whereas from my own personal experiences I should say that
Banshees, whether good or bad, are just as individual as any member of the
family they haunt.
It is related of a certain ancient Mayo family that a chief of the race
once made love to a very beautiful girl whom he betrayed and subsequently
murdered. With her dying breath the girl cursed her murderer and swore she
would haunt him and his for ever. Years rolled by; the cruel deceiver
married, and, with the passing away of all who knew him in his youth, he
came to be regarded as a model of absolute propriety and rectitude. Hence
it was in these circumstances that he was sitting one night before a big
blazing fire in the hall of his castle, outwardly happy enough and
surrounded by his sons and daughters, when loud shrieks of exultation
were heard coming, it seemed, from someone who was standing on the path
close to the castle walls. All rushed out to see who it was, but no one
was there, and the grounds, as far as the eye could reach, were absolutely
deserted.
Later on, however, some little time after the household had retired to
rest, the same demoniacal disturbances took place; peal after peal of
wild, malicious laughter rang out, followed by a discordant moaning and
screaming. This time the aged chieftain did not accompany the rest of the
household in their search for the originator of the disturbances.
Possibly, in that discordant moaning and screaming he fancied he could
detect the voice of the murdered girl; and, possibly, accepting the
manifestation as a death-warning, he was not surprised on the following
day, when he was waylaid out of doors and brutally done to death by one of
his followers.
Needless to say, perhaps, the haunting of this Banshee still continues,
the same phenomena occurring at least once to every generation of the
family, before the death of one of its members. Happily, however, the
haunting now does not necessarily precede a violent death, and in this
respect, though in this respect only, differs from the original.
Another haunting by this same species of Banshee was brought to my notice
the last time I was in Ireland. I happened to be visiting a certain
relative of mine, at that date residing in Black Rock, and from her I
learned the following, which now appears in print for the first time.
About the middle of the last century, when my relative was in her teens,
some friends of hers, the O'D.'s, were living in a big old-fashioned
country house, somewhere between Ballinanty and Hospital in the County of
Limerick. The family consisted of Mr O'D., who had been something in India
in his youth and was now very much of a recluse, though much esteemed
locally on account of his extreme piety and good-heartedness; Mrs O'D.,
who, despite her grey hair and wrinkled countenance, still retained traces
of more than ordinary good looks; Wilfred, a handsome but decidedly
headstrong young man of between twenty-five and thirty; and Ellen, a
blue-eyed, golden-haired girl of the true Milesian type of Irish beauty.
My relative was on terms of the greatest intimacy with the whole family,
but especially with the two younger folk, and it was generally expected
that she and Wilfred would make what is vulgarly termed a "match of it."
Indeed, the first of the ghostly happenings that she experienced in
connection with the O'D.'s actually occurred the very day Wilfred took the
long-anticipated step and proposed to her.
It seems that my relative was out for a walk one afternoon with Ellen and
Wilfred, when the latter, taking advantage of his sister's sudden fancy
for going on ahead to look for dog-roses, passionately declared his love,
and, apparently, did not declare it in vain. The trio, then, in more or
less exalted spirits--for my relative had of course let Ellen into the
secret--walked home together, and as they were passing through a big
wooden gateway into the garden at the rear of the O'D.'s house, they
perceived a tall, spare woman, with her back towards them, digging away
furiously.
"Hullo," Wilfred exclaimed, "who's that?"
"I don't know," Ellen replied. "It's certainly not Mary" (Mary was the old
cook who, like many of the servants of that period, did not confine her
labour to the culinary art, but performed all kinds of odd jobs as well),
"nor anyone from the farm. But what on earth does she think she's doing?
Hey, there!" and Ellen, raising her naturally sweet and musical voice,
gave a little shout.
The woman instantly turned round, and the trio received a most violent
shock. The light was fading, for it was late in the afternoon, but what
little there was seemed to be entirely concentrated on the visage before
them, making it appear luminous. It was a broad face with very pronounced
cheek-bones; a large mouth, the thin lips of which were fixed in a
dreadful and mocking leer; and very pale, obliquely set eyes that glowed
banefully as they met the gaze of the three now appalled spectators.
For some seconds the evil-looking creature stood in dead silence,
apparently gloating over the discomposure her appearance had produced,
and, then, suddenly shouldering her spade, she walked slowly away, turning
round every now and again to cast the same malevolent gleeful look at
them, until she came to the hedge that separated the garden from a long
disused stone quarry, when she seemed suddenly to fade away in the now
very uncertain twilight, and disappear.
For some moments no one spoke or stirred, but continued gazing after her
in a kind of paralysed astonishment. Wilfred was the first to break the
silence.
"What an awful looking hag," he exclaimed. "Where's she gone?"
Ellen whistled. "Ask another," she said. "There's nowhere she could have
gone excepting into the quarry, and my only hope is that she is lying at
the bottom of it with a broken neck, for I certainly never wish to see
her again. But come, let's be moving on, I'm chilly."
They started off, but had only proceeded a few yards, when, apparently
from the direction of the quarry, came a peal of laughter, so mocking and
malignant and altogether evil, that all three involuntarily quickened
their steps, and, at the same time, refrained from speaking, until they
had reached the house, which they hastily entered, securely closing the
door behind them. They then went straight to Mr O'D. and asked him who the
old woman was whom they had just seen.
"What was she like?" he queried. "I haven't authorised anyone but Mary to
go into the garden."
"It certainly wasn't Mary," Ellen responded quickly. "It was some hideous
old crone who was digging away like anything. On our approach she left off
and gave us the most diabolical look I have ever seen. Then she went away
and seemed to vanish in the hedge by the quarry. We afterwards heard her
give the most appalling and intensely evil laugh that you can imagine.
Whoever is she?"
"I can't think," Mr O'D. replied, looking somewhat unusually pale. "It is
no one whom I know. Very possibly she was a tramp or gipsy. We must take
care to keep all the doors locked. Whatever you do, don't mention a word
about her to your mother or to Mary--they are both nervous and very easily
frightened."
All three promised, and the matter was then allowed to drop, but my
relative, who returned home before it got quite dark, subsequently learned
that that night, some time after the O'D. household had all retired to
rest, peal after peal of the same infernal mocking laughter was heard,
just under the windows, first of all in the front of the house, and then
in the rear; and that, on the morrow, came the news that the business
concern in which most of Mr O'D.'s money was invested had gone smash and
the family were practically penniless.
The house now was in imminent danger of being sold, and many people
thought that it was merely to avert this catastrophe and to enable her
parents to keep a roof over their heads that Ellen accepted the attentions
of a very vulgar parvenu (an Englishman) in Limerick, and eventually
married him. Where there is no love, however, there is never any
happiness, and where there is not even "liking," there is very often hate;
and in Ellen's case hate there was without any doubt. Barely able, even
from the first, to tolerate her husband (his favourite trick was to make
love to her in public and almost in the same breath bully her--also in
public), she eventually grew to loathe him, and at last, unable to endure
his hated presence any longer, she eloped with an officer who was
stationed in the neighbourhood. The night before Ellen took this step, my
relative and Wilfred (the latter was escorting his fiancee home after a
pleasant evening spent in her company) again heard the malevolent
laughter, which (although they could see no one) pursued them for some
distance along the moonlit lanes and across the common leading to the spot
where my relative lived. After this the laughter was not heard again for
two years, but at the end of that period my relative had another
experience of the phenomena.
She was again spending the evening with the O'D.'s, and, on this occasion,
she was discussing with Mr and Mrs O'D. the advent of Wilfred, who was
expected to arrive home from the West Indies any time within the next few
days. My relative was not unnaturally interested, as it had been arranged
that she and Wilfred should marry, as soon as possible after his arrival
in Ireland. They were all three--Mr and Mrs O'D. and my relative--engaged
in animated conversation (the old people had unexpectedly come into a
little money, and that, too, had considerably contributed to their
cheerfulness), when Mrs O'D., fancying she heard someone calling to her
from the garden, got up and went to the window.
"Harry," she exclaimed, still looking out and apparently unable to remove
her gaze, "do come. There's the most awful old woman in the garden,
staring hard at me. Quick, both of you. She's perfectly horrible; she
frightens me."
My relative and Mr O'D. at once sprang up and hastened to her side, and,
there, they saw, gazing up at them, the pallor of its cheeks intensified
by a stray moonbeam which seemed to be concentrated solely on it, a face
which my relative recognised immediately as that of the woman she had
seen, two years ago, digging in the garden. The old hag seemed to remember
my relative, too, for, as their glances met, a gleam of recognition crept
into her light eyes, and, a moment later, gave way to an expression of
such diabolical hate that my relative involuntarily caught hold of Mr O'D.
for protection. Evidently noting this action the creature leered horribly,
and then, drawing a kind of shawl or hood tightly over its head, moved
away with a kind of gliding motion, vanishing round an angle of the wall.
Mr O'D. at once went out into the garden, but, after a few minutes,
returned, declaring that, although he had searched in every direction, not
a trace of their sinister-looking visitor could he see anywhere. He had
hardly, however, finished speaking, when, apparently from close to the
house, came several peals of the most hellish laughter, that terminated in
one loud, prolonged wail, unmistakably ominous and menacing.
"Oh, Harry," Mrs O'D. exclaimed, on the verge of fainting, "what can be
the meaning of it? That was surely no living woman."
"No," Mr O'D. replied slowly, "it was the Banshee. As you know, the O'D.
Banshee, for some reason or another, possesses an inveterate hatred of my
family, and we must prepare again for some evil tidings. But," he went on,
steadying his voice with an effort, "with God's grace we must face it, for
whatever happens it is His Divine will."
A few days later my relative, as may be imagined, was immeasurably shocked
to hear that Mr O'D. had been sent word that Wilfred was dead. He had, it
appeared, been stricken down with fever, supposed to have been caught from
one of his fellow-passengers, and had died on the very day that he should
have landed, on the very day, in fact (as it was afterwards ascertained
from a comparison of dates), upon which his parents and fiancee, together,
had heard and seen the Banshee.
Soon after this unhappy event my relative left the neighbourhood and went
to live with some friends near Dublin, and though, from time to time, she
corresponded with the O'D.'s, she never again heard anything of their
Banshee.
This same relative of mine, whom I will now call Miss S---- (she never
married), was acquainted with two old maiden ladies named O'Rorke who,
many years ago, lived in a semi-detached house close to Lower Merrion
Street. Miss S---- did not know to what branch of the O'Rorkes they
belonged, for they were very reticent with regard to their family history,
but she believed they originally came from the south-west and were
distantly connected with some of her own people.
With regard to their house, there certainly was something peculiar, since
in it was one room that was invariably kept locked, and in connection with
this room it was said there existed a mystery of the most frightful and
harrowing description.
My relative often had it on the tip of her tongue to refer to the room,
just to see what effect it would have on the two old ladies, but she could
never quite sum up the courage to do so. One afternoon, however, when she
was calling on them, the subject was brought to their notice in a very
startling manner.
The elder of the two sisters, Miss Georgina, who was presiding at the tea
table, had just handed Miss S---- a cup of tea and was about to pour out
another for herself, when into the room, with her cap all awry and her
eyes bulging, rushed one of the servants.
"Good gracious!" Miss Georgina exclaimed, "whatever's the matter,
Bridget?"
"Matter!" Bridget retorted, in a brogue which I will not attempt to
imitate. "Why, someone's got into that room you always keep locked and is
making the devil of a noise, enough to raise all the Saints in Heaven.
Norah" (Norah was the cook) "and I both heard it--a groaning, and a
chuckling, and a scratching, as if the cratur was tearing up the boards
and breaking all the furniture, and all the while keening and laughing.
For the love of Heaven, ladies, come and hear it for yourselves. Such
goings on! Ochone! Ochone!"
Both ladies, Miss S---- said, turned deadly pale, and Miss Harriet, the
younger sister, was on the brink of tears.
"Where is cook?" Miss Georgina, who was by far the stronger minded of the
two, suddenly said, addressing Bridget. "If she is upstairs, tell her to
come down at once. Miss Harriet and I will go and see what the noise is
that you complain about upstairs. There really is no need to make all this
disturbance"--here she assumed an air of the utmost severity--"it's sure
to be either mice or rats."
"Mice or rats!" Bridget echoed. "I'm sorry for the mice and rats as make
all those noises. 'Tis some evil spirit, sure, and Norah is of the same
mind," and with those parting words she slammed the door behind her.
The sisters, then, begging to be excused for a few minutes, left the room,
and returned shortly afterwards looking terribly white and distressed.
"I am sure you must think all this very odd," Miss Georgina observed with
as great a degree of unconcern as she could assume, "and I feel we owe you
an explanation, but I must beg you will not repeat a word of what we tell
you to anyone else."
Miss S---- promised she would not, and then composed herself to listen.
"We have in our family," Miss O'Rorke began, "a most unpleasant
attachment; in other words, a most unpleasant Banshee. Being Irish, you
will not laugh, of course, as many English people do, at what I say. You
know as well as I do, perhaps, that many of the really ancient Irish
families possess Banshees."
Miss S---- nodded. "We have one ourselves," she remarked, "but pray go on.
I am intensely interested."
"Well, unlike most of the Banshees," Miss Georgina continued, "ours is
appallingly ugly and malevolent; so frightful, indeed, that to see it,
even, is sometimes fatal. One of our great-great-uncles, for instance, to
whom it once appeared, is reported to have died from shock; a similar fate
overtaking another of our ancestors, who also saw it. Fortunately, it
seems to have a strong attraction in the shape of an old gold ring which
has been in the possession of the family from time immemorial. Both
ancestors I have referred to are alleged to have been wearing this ring at
the time the Banshee appeared to them, and it is said to strictly confine
its manifestations to the immediate vicinity of that article. That is why
our parents always kept the ring strictly isolated, in a locked room, the
key of which was never, for a moment, allowed to be out of their
possession. And we have strenuously followed their example. That is the
explanation of the mystery you have doubtless heard about, for I
believe--thanks to the servants--it has become the gossip of half Dublin."
"And the noise Bridget referred to," Miss S---- ventured to remark,
somewhat timidly, "was that the Banshee?"
Miss Georgina nodded.
"I fear it was," she observed solemnly, "and that we shall shortly hear of
a relative's death or grave catastrophe to some member of the family;
probably, a cousin of ours in County Galway, who has been ill for some
weeks, is dying."
She was partly right, although the latter surmise was not correct. Within
a few days of the Banshee's visit a member of the family died, but it was
not the sick cousin, it was Miss Georgina's own sister, Harriet!