The Banshee: Henry P. Gravelle

In The Banshee: Satan worshippers raise the spirit of a witch who brings a demon to complete her vow of vengeance against the town that executed her three-hundred years earlier.

The Banshee: Horror

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BLURB: The Banshee

David Raferty awakes from a troubling dream to find he is travelling to his Uncles rural town, a place holding many memories. Still confused why he is there he begins to recall faces and places all the while discecting clues to a brutal murder. As more victims appear David, his Uncle, the sheriff and an unwitting priest search for the source of a childhood tale believed to be terrorizing the town… again.

EXCERPT: The Banshee

David Raferty lay in bed while the lightning storm raged outside. Heavy droplets of wind driven rain pelted the window. His eyelids squeezed closed, as tightly as possible, as if his mind would seep out through the sockets if he let up, even a little.

The pupils moved under the lids, back and forth, searching the darkness. It was a troublesome and exhaustive sleep bringing perspiration to his brow, moistening his curly hair and dampening the pillow.

His fingers pulled at the sheets, forming fists, tight and white knuckled. His body and limbs ached as though he had run a marathon, his mind a blur, suspended in blackness, not falling nor rising for there was no wind on his face or draft from behind. He felt a strange sensation of tumbling with arms outstretched and legs apart.

A human cartwheel was what he imagined. It confused him and his mouth opened wide, bellowing a scream that followed him through the darkness, until he saw the light. It grew in his subconscious from a mere shadow to a blistering white star burst as though he had emerged from the earth’s bowels to daylight. Then his eyes opened.

Joanne was beside him, wearing her favorite mint green nightshirt. It covered most of her torso, but the dislodged bed sheet exposed one creamy thigh and leg. His eyes followed his wife’s lean form down over the knee past the shin to the painted toenails. He was happy lying next to her in the comfort of the warm bed, listening to the torrential downpour, and her breathing.

Thunderous detonations of thunder boomed near, so near the pictures on the wall rattled. One crashed to the floor, shattering the glass. Joanne mumbled something incoherent then returned to her dream. He watched her breath for some time, her breast rising and falling mechanically. Her lips slightly parted, her eyes void of pain, loneliness, or worry.

The passion he held for her moved through him, arousing desire, tingling…He rolled onto his side, bracing his head with the palm of his hand, the other reaching to touch her softness and caress his young wife’s creamy flesh. The scent of her long fire engine red hair drifted into his nostrils. It smelled clean, with a tinge of raspberry aloe. She was so close he dared to run his fingers through it and watch the velvety way the hair dropped back into place, but his hand stopped inches from her. He could not proceed, could not go closer.

Joanne sighed and slowly turned onto her side, eyelids still closed comfortably, breathing rhythmic and calm. One arm folded under her pillow, the other by her side near the knee. She was so beautiful. David smiled. He missed her. Joanne’s eyes fluttered open. They gazed briefly into each other’s souls until she realized she had awakened. Lightning flashed by the window; its booming roar shook the house and illuminated the room.

“Jesus Christ!” She leaped from the bed, her legs caught in the sheet, causing her to roll off the side of the mattress. She stood quickly, frightened and confused.

“Joanne…” his hand reached out to her. She took a step back, away from the bed, her hands shaking, together under her chin.

“No, it can’t be,” She forced the words from her parched throat and fell to her knees, tears streaming across her cheeks. Another loud boom of thunder concealed her scream.

David was beside himself; she was so close it was surreal. If only he could touch her and kiss her, make love to her again. Then it began, as it always did.

The soft edges of Joanne’s figure turned gritty, abrasive, almost metallic, like so many pixels forming a photograph. Her arms blurred then dissolved, falling apart, followed by her torso and breast bobbing freely under the fading night shirt.

Her entire image dissolved, then the furniture, the bed, the sheets, walls and ceiling.

David cried out, “No, damn it, no!”

He was back in the black void, outstretched. He watched his feet dissolve. The flesh on the toes turning to paper then crinkling until powder replaced them. Then everything turned to powder and vanished; flesh, bone, blood, sinew.

His memory was on full throttle, careening out of control, running rampant, sending images across the screen in his mind of things remembered. Images on fast forward fluttered for him to recall of a farm house, him climbing a cliff, him running through a forest, a priest, a cemetery, a little girl and a kite, a police car, a grave and an explosion and…and…then it was gone.

The unclear pictures also dissolved leaving his memory blank. His face began to melt, his eyeballs dried turning to dust. He tried to scream through a collapsed throat and then awoke, on a bus.

Author Bio

Henry P. Gravelle is an Author, Screenwriter and Playwright who’s catalog includes nearly fifty short stories, several novellas and novels including The Bamboo Heart, Pug, Hoboand The Fort Providence Watch and The Banshee. Also a western series, The Doc Jacobi Adventuresand a paranormal detective series, The Buddy Sands Cases. His screenwriting includes several feature and short film scripts as well as a collection of short plays. Henry resides along the south shore of Massachusetts.

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Website URL: http://www.henrygravelle.com/

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