Chapter 3 Croía
Do you ever get the feeling like someone’s watching you?
Not just at one particular moment, but all the time, as if there’s a pair of eyes stitched into the back of your neck, like you can feel someone’s breath prickle down your spine.
That’s how it’s been for me these past few days.
Maybe longer, if I’m honest with myself.
I keep reminding myself it’s just shadows.
That my mind is playing tricks. Especially with this secret rattling around in my head.
Every so often I see something, just at the edge of my vision, a shape slipping behind a tree, or shadow melting into a doorway.
It’s always gone by the time I turn around. Still… I swear it’s real.
This is serious, I think I’m losing the plot. I try to shake it off, force a laugh, tell myself I’m imagining it. I talk to the dead for God’s sake, so what’s a stray shadow or two?
Tá sé seo difriúil. (This is different.)
It’s making me jumpy; jumpier than usual. I keep glancing over my shoulder like some eejit (idiot), scanning the streetlights, checking dark windows. Maybe I should tell someone. Who though? Who the hell do you tell when you think the living are more dangerous than the dead?
What if someone has finally pieced it together?
What if they have discovered what I am… a banshee.
Or is it just some nosy bastard sniffing around for a ghost story to brag to their friends over a pint.
Well, if that’s all they want, they can fuck right off.
I’m not here to dance for anyone’s amusement. I’m nobody’s clown.
They don’t see the cost, they never do. They want the thrill, the chill up their spine when they tell the tale.
They don’t feel the dead pressing into them at three in the morning.
They don’t lie awake with the last breaths of strangers swirling like smoke in their lungs.
If someone thinks I’m going to perform for them, they’re in for a nasty shock.
I’ve spent too long hiding in plain sight to let some creep ruin it now.
Let them watch. I’m not afraid of shadows. I’m only afraid of what I might have to do if they get too close.
With so many rumours swirling around my existence, I've even started believing some of them myself. Most of them are a load of shite, of course. Old wives’ tales spun in the dark to scare children into behaving.
Yes, my scream can cause death, but I don’t waste it on just anyone.
I’m not a weapon for hire, no matter what fools whisper behind closed doors.
My scream serves as the last tether to this mortal plane; it eases souls through into the afterlife.
Not that anyone ever sees it that way. All they hear is the screams and remember the dead left in their wake.
However, I only use it for the souls who are ready to leave, caught between this existence and whatever waits beyond.
If I didn’t do it, some of them would stay trapped in that grey place between the world of flesh and the world of dust. Purgatory.
It’s worse than any hellfire that sermon has ever painted.
It's an eternity of standing beside the living.
Screaming and begging into the void to be seen or heard, but forever invisible.
With nothing better to do for the day, I’ve spent all morning sitting in this fucking library again.
It’s the fifth day this week that I have been sitting at this same table with the same flickering overhead light.
It always has the same stink of old paper and mildew that clings to my clothes when I leave.
But, I’ve scoured everything I can find, every piece of useless chatter and half-baked ghost story, but I haven't found anything solid.
Somehow, I’ve convinced myself the answers are buried here, somewhere in these rotting stacks that no one’s touched in years.
I’ve even started collecting them, every tale and myth about the banshee.
I've slipped pages into my bag, scribbled half-legible notes in the margins as though I’m some sort of a lunatic.
I like to think that if I can piece them together, stitch the bones of these old stories into something real then maybe I’ll find something. Anything to set me free.
One of these lines must hold the truth. One of these mad poets or drunken storytellers must’ve brushed up against my world, even if they didn’t know it.
I want to crack it open, find the thread.
So, I keep reading. I keep turning pages until my eyes sting and my vision doubles.
I keep telling myself the answer must be here, somewhere, waiting for me to dig it out.
I’m nearly thirty-three years old, and I honestly can’t tell if I’m aging anymore.
Some mornings I catch my reflection in the mirror or a shop window, and I swear I look exactly the same as I did ten years ago.
The same eyes, the same tired lines that never get any deeper.
Other mornings, I think I see something else staring back.
Something that doesn’t belong to me at all.
Am I stuck here forever? Just drifting between the living and the dead until the world forgets my name?
Or will I just vanish one day, the way I appear for everyone else?
I really haven’t got a clue. I’ve been shackled to this curse for over a decade now, and I still don’t know how long the debt runs, or if it ever ends.
It’s funny, people think death is the scariest part but for me it's not knowing if this ever ends… that’s worse. Hopefully someday I’ll find answers.
Until then, I will keep doing what I do. Guide them across and try not to linger too long myself. Try not to forget what it means to be alive.
Exhausted and overwhelmed, I shove the books and old clippings back where I found them and pack up all my belongings into my backpack.
As I head for the door, I hear light footsteps behind me.
My breath catches in my throat, and I spin around so fast that my bag nearly slips off my shoulder.
But there’s no one there. Just empty shelves and a flickering overhead light.
Nothing but dust and silence staring back at me.
What the fuck, am I hearing things now too?
The paranoia is creeping in like damp under the door.
Every shadow feels as though it’s leaning closer.
Every echo feels like it’s following. I swallow hard, my ears straining for the smallest sound of a shoe on the tile.
My heartbeat thuds so loud it drowns out everything else.
I force myself to keep moving. Quickly taking one step, then another.
Is this what I’ve been reduced to? Me? A banshee who can stand beside the dying without blinking.
Who’s now cowering at creaking floors and stray footsteps and jumping at her own shadow.
With a slight newfound determination, I tighten my grip on the strap of my bag and force my shoulders back.
I’m nobody’s fool. And I won’t be anyone’s prey, not tonight.
I give myself an inner scolding, Cop on for God’s sake and shove the faint-hearted nonsense down deep where it belongs.
There are no shadows or footsteps. Just my tired brain winding me up again.
Putting more pressure than necessary on the door, it creaks loudly as I push out of the library and into the cold air.
I don’t dare look back as I head straight for the closest coffee shop.
My pace quickens before I even realise it.
The breeze wraps around my neck, slipping under my collar, and I swear for a heartbeat it almost feels as if there’s someone keeping pace just behind me.
I tell myself it’s nothing. Just the wind… it’s all in my head. It’s… nothing.
Once Inside, I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my sleeve, forcing a steady breath through my lungs, like it might settle me. The familiar hum of chatter and hiss of machines do a half-decent job of drowning out the pounding in my chest.
Hesitant, I step up to the counter, pretending my voice isn’t trembling when I order a large caramel latte to go.
I’m hoping a sweet comfort might plug the hole in my nerves.
But, even as I wait, I can’t stop fidgeting.
Shifting my weight from foot to foot, my fingers drumming on the strap of my bag.
The walls feel too thin. The windows feel too wide.
I hate how exposed I feel. How easy it’d be for anyone to watch me from the street.
Nervously I drift back, and lean against the furthest wall, away from the glass and the door.
Two minutes later, the barista calls out my order. I move to grab the cup, eager to get the hell out of here but before my fingers even brush the cardboard, someone else’s hand closes around it. What the fuck? My anger snaps up, burning through the fear that’s been gnawing at me all night.
With my words loaded and ready to spit out, I whip my head around. The words die in my throat the second I see him. God help me. I freeze and stand as though I’m an eejit rooted to this spot, my mouth half open, the words forgotten.
His eyes hit me first. Memorising dark green, sharp as shattered emeralds.
They're not just a colour, they’re a lure, a spell woven to pull me closer, with lashes so thick and long that any woman alive would sell her soul for.
They lock on mine, unblinking, and I can’t look away even if I wanted to.
I scan over his brown wavy hair, which falls just over his left eye like it’s teasing me, waiting for me to uncover what hides beneath it.
My heart stutters in my chest, and I feel it physically skipping a beat.
Everything in me shouts to move, speak, just do something.
But, I just stand still, frozen, as if I’m some sort of dummy.