"Once more I begged him not to go, but he went anyway. Young fool! I watched the shadows swallow him. I stood at the edge of the bog and listened closely, hoping I could hear him make it through. But it wasn't to be." The old man wiped a tear from his eye with a wrinkled hand, then rubbed his hand on his rumpled trousers. His long white hair hung in a tangled mass over his eyes, causing him to move it out of the way when he wished to see one of us. His black eyes stared at us each in turn, wanting to see if we were in the proper mood for the next scene.

"I could hear Tim moving around, stumbling into the weeds. After a while, and a lot of cussing from Tim, the bog became quiet. Then," the man's eyes grew wide, "there were the screams of a soul in agony, and Tim was gone." He sat back with his back against the tree and watched us.

As a group, we were twenty strong, all Americans. We were on a tour through Ireland, one that specialized in castles and bogs. We had checked into the Fancy Horse Tavern just a little while ago, and were fascinated by the building itself, an old castle still maintained as one, which the locals called "The Inn" with a touch of reverence. Guests were shown to rooms that housed two and sometimes three people at a time. I drew one of the rooms that housed two.

This particular night the bog was overshadowed. Moisture from the fog hung heavy in the air, making the bog drip with mist and gloom. Trees, heavily draped with dead vines and weeds, looked like misshapen gnomes, lending a magical air to the place. It was easy to believe the tale of old Angus.

"What happened to Tim?" Terry Anderson, whom I had the pleasure of rooming with, asked the old man.

"Well, lad, it would seem the Banshee got him. Aye, I've not heard of a soul screaming like that yet that didn't have a Banshee after it." Angus sighed heavily then rose to his feet. "Well, I'd best be going. Remember, folk, stay out of the Bog. Tis the season for another soul to scream." He moved off into the night, becoming one with the fog.

"I don't believe it." Terry glared belligerently after the old man. "He's just trying to keep us out of the bog."

"And well he might, the way I see it." John, the tour guide, said from behind us. "This isn't the first time I've heard of Tim McLean. He's one of the local boys lost in the bog. That story's about 20 years old, and they still haven't found him. I would take it as a warning." John glanced up at the darkening gloom. "We got a full day tomorrow, folks, so I recommend dinner and bed. Goodnight."

The group followed, that is all except Terry. He stood and stared at the bog before joining me in the dining room. After a hearty dinner, Terry and I retired to our room. I sat on one of the four poster beds, which all the rooms were equipped with, and watched him stare out the window at the bog.

Terry was a tall, thin man, about 5'11", black haired, blue eyed, very handsome and very well dressed. He reminded me of a rich young playboy, unlike myself. (Yours truly is also tall and thin, but with brown hair and hazel eyes. I am a scholar by trade, and my clothing is fashionable, too, but not tailored as Terry's was. I have heard women say I am good-looking, but I have no opinion myself, and will let it rest there.) "Terry, what are you doing?"

Terry turned from the window and stared at me. "I wonder how much of Angus' story is true."

"Maybe some, maybe none. Even if there isn't a lick of truth in it, that bog still seems a nasty place, especially at night. So what difference does it make? We are in Ireland, which is known the world over as the Land of Lore." I watched as Terry started pacing back and forth at the foot of our beds.

"Yeah, but what can be so treacherous about an old bog?" Terry slapped one fist into his other hand, and plopped himself down in an refurbished armchair. I ignored him as I looked over the room.

A fireplace sat under the mantle, a small merry blaze doing little to heat the room on this cold clammy night. The four poster beds were both made with old fashioned quilts and flannel sheets, with fluffy goose feather pillows at their heads. The chairs were antiques, refurbished and remade into modern replicas of original articles. Against one wall, under the windows of the room, was an old refinished original table, accompanied by five refinished chairs. An area carpet, hand woven, lay on the floor, it's tasseled edges reaching almost to the confines of the room. Across the way was an old-fashioned dresser, complete with doilies and a washbasin made of porcelain. Also on the dresser was a pitcher of water, a perfect match to the washbasin. A semi-large dressing mirror stood in one corner of the room, and I could see a perfect reflection of Terry in it. The walls were plastered with faded heather and roses wallpaper, and the drapes were matched with the color of the roses on the walls. All in all it was a quaint room, well worth the time and money it had cost to come on this trip. I would not have missed it for the world, because I have always been attracted to Ireland and her magic, unlike some of my pig-headed fellow Americans.

One of which was sitting across the way with a snarl on his face. "Com'on, Terry, buck up. It can't be that bad."

"Why was that old man trying to keep us out of the bog? What can he possibly be hiding in there?"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"That old man Angus was trying to keep us away from that bog. Why?" Terry looked at me, indignation making his eyes wide.

"Do you have any idea how treacherous a bog can be, even in broad daylight, let alone at night?"

"No, can't say that I do."

"Well, listen up, my fine feathered roommate. Most bogs are swamps with sandbars and quicksand hidden in them. Some are shallow, some are deep. A large man can disappear like a snap if he's not careful. I've heard stories of Ireland's bogs for as long as I can remember from both people I know and books I've read on the subject. They even make movies about the bogs of bonny Ireland, and I for one have no intention of getting closer to one than I am right now." I watched Terry's face shut me out as I talked.

"What about the banshee?" Terry was determined to drag out of me all I knew about bogs.

"Mainly what I can tell you is that most bogs have one or two running around in them. Banshees are notorious for running off with the weak-hearted and the stupid. Most of their victims are people that just don't believe in them until it's too late. Do you know what a banshee is?"

"No." He was staring at me like he had never seen me before.

I took a deep breath. "Banshees are commonly known by their screaming. They wail like a woman in the pit of agony to lure their unsuspecting victims into their clutches. Some of them haunt people who have hurt them when they were alive, sometimes even generations of the same family. Some haunt the place where they lived, or the place they died. They lure anyone who will listen to them into the bogs, then drown them in quicksand, or frighten them out their wits so they can't come back. Either way you look at it, banshees usually find some way to kill those who have life. Legends say their wailing precedes the death of a loved one, so most people try to avoid them."

"So, when Angus said the banshee of the bog made off with Tim McLean, he wasn't kidding."

"Right."

Terry looked me right in the face. "I don't believe it."

After a few more tries to reason with my dim-witted roommate, I decided I'd had enough of his antics and went downstairs to get in on a poker game some of the other guests were having in the lobby. I stayed long enough to win a considerable amount of money, then went back up to my room to reason with Terry again. The room was dark, so I undressed as quietly as I could so as not to awaken him and went to sleep.

I must have been sleeping for a couple of hours when a small rustling noise woke me up. I sat bolt upright in bed, and turned on the lamp right next to me. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes gave them time to adjust to the lamplight, and I could make out a shape standing by the door. Tilting the lampshade, I could just make out Terry's face.

I have never seen a total and complete look of terror on someone's face since that night when I looked into Terry's panic-stricken eyes. Jumping out of bed, I rushed to his side. "Good Lord, man, what happened to you?" I helped him to the nearest armchair and rebuilt the fire while he shivered and shook with fear.

In the light of the fire, I took a good look at him. His clothes were sopping wet and he had a drowned look about him. His hair was matted and dirty, with clumps of weeds tangled in it. He smelled damp and musty with an earthy kind of aroma. His face had smudges on it to match the ones on his hands. One shoe was missing, and the other one was covered with mud of some sort. My heart thumped uncomfortably against my ribs as he stared at me with those wide unseeing eyes.

"Terry, what the hell is going on?"

"Remember when I said I didn't believe? I believe, yep, I believe now."

"Believe what, fool?"

"The bog, the banshee in the bog!"

"You went out there?" I couldn't believe it. Of all the stupid idiotic things to do.

"Yes, I went out there. After you left to go downstairs, I packed a flashlight, some rope, a compass, and my wallet in a totebag and followed you. You were playing cards and didn't see me, so I snuck past you and out into the night. I approached the banks of the bog very quietly, and picked up a long stick to test the ground with. I had no intentions of walking into quicksand or any other dangers. Just wanted to look around, you know?" Terry picked at his fingers while talking, refusing to look at me.

"I understand." Verbally I said this while I was thinking Fool.

He continued like I hadn't even spoken. "I turned on my flashlight and used the stick to find steady footing on the swamp trail. I was making good time when an owl hooted and scared me out of my mind. I dropped the stick and watched it sink into the mire not more than a foot away from me. I searched for another stick, but couldn't find anything other than a dead willow tree about 20 feet ahead of me. I picked my way through the swamp until I was standing directly in front of the tree. Gratefully I hugged the tree, and sank down against it, resting my back while I tried to think of the way back." He fell silent, and I guessed that in his mind, he was still in the bog.

While he had been talking I called room service and asked for a pot of hot black coffee. He was oblivious to my presence in the room and sat staring into the fire while the pot came and I poured, then handed him a cup. He clutched at the warmth of the cup until his knuckles turned white, then tipped the cup and drank it piping hot. I was afraid he would burn his throat out and I would never hear the story, but he continued like he had never stopped.

"While sitting against the tree, I heard a rustling in the marsh bushes on the other side of the trail. I looked but could see nothing, even after shining my flashlight in that direction. I was beginning to be afraid now, and called out, asking who was there. No answer came back, so I decided I was getting spooked by nerves. The human body was not made to withstand stress at those levels for long, you know."

"Yes, I know." I noticed he was becoming more agitated as time went by.

"Finally I decided to pick my way back to the Inn as best as I could, one step at a time. I had left the tree and had walked to the place where I lost my stick. I looked down and there it was, lying across the path. I was astounded. I had seen that pole sink into the mire, yet here it was right in front of me! I picked it up. It was covered with mud and felt slimy in my hands, but I was so glad to see it I never questioned how it had come back. I used it to pick out my way across the swamp, and had reached the edge of the bog when I heard a sound."

I reached out and touched Terry's hand consolingly, for his nerves started acting up again and he couldn't even hold the empty cup straight. He was holding the cup with both hands, and it looked as though it was on a blender, he was shaking so bad. "There, there, take a deep breath, Terry, and go on with the story."

Terry took a deep breath, held it and released it, and continued, "I turned around and looked back into the bog. I saw a woman walking towards me. She was dressed all in white, and had long black hair. She moved with the grace of a lion. I stood there until she had walked up to me, not even noticing until now that she had walked over quicksand without sinking into it! Oh, God!"

"Calm down, Terry. You're safe now. Go on with the story."

"Safe? I doubt it. You will too, my friend, you will too. Where was I?" He drew a shaking hand through his hair and looked at it covered with mud. He hastily wiped his hand on his trousers and stared at me.

"The woman?"

"Oh, yeah," he drew a shuddering breath, "the woman. She was dressed in white, with long black hair. As she came up to me, I stepped back until I was just on the outside edge of the bog. She came up to the edge, too, but stood just inside the bog. She had some sticks and stuff in her hair, like a nymph of Greek mythology, you know?"

I shook my head, agreeing with him. I was very familiar with Greek mythology. It was a hobby of mine.

"She spoke to me. 'Where are you going, Terry? Don't you want to be with me?' I answered, 'No, I don't want to be with you. I want to leave the bog.' She smiled a sweet smile. 'You don't want to leave me and my bog! Come, I'll show you my lovely house. You are always welcome there.' I said no, I wanted to leave. A thought flashed through my mind that nobody knew I was out here, and then all I could think about was Tim McLean. She smiled again and said, 'I can offer you immortality, Terry. You can live here with me forever, and be mine.' Then she started singing and reached for me. I took a few steps backward, and she stopped. I guess she couldn't leave the boundaries of the bog. I didn't stick around to see for sure, I just ran like hell back up here. As I was running I heard her say, 'You will come to me before the night is out, Terry Anderson, or I'll come and take you!' Then she started singing again, and I can still hear that song, even now!"

He shuddered and started to cry. "What if I have to follow the song? What if I have to go to her because I can't resist that song!" He grabbed me by the pajama top lapels and held my face up to his. "You've got to promise me that you'll stop me! Don't let me go out there and disappear like all the other guys she's bewitched! I can't be like the sheep that goes willingly to the slaughter! I have free will and I'm telling you that I do not want to belong to the banshee of the bog, and you have to make sure of it!"

I promised him that I would do all in my power to keep him from following the siren song of the banshee, even if I couldn't hear it. A few hours later, I sat up watching Terry sleep restlessly in one of the beds. He tossed and turned, most of the time with both pillows over his head to drown out the song that he could hear but I couldn't. I had no doubt that the song was there, but I couldn't pick it up.

I sat in a chair underneath my bed-lamp and tried to read a book. A few more minutes passed with only the rustling in the room, then it was joined by a rustling out in the hall. I cautiously walked to the door of our room and listened.

"Ttteeerrrrrryyy." A soft lilting voice called. It sounded like the voice of a young girl. I listened as the eerie voice called my roommate's name again, this time closer to the door.

"Ttteeerrrrrryyy." This time she was right outside the door, calling him from his dreams. I opened the door and stood facing the banshee of the bog.

The stench from the bog was on her, twigs and mud clung to her clothes and hung from her long hair. As I looked at her, I thought she looked more alive than a schoolgirl, black sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks, with a beautiful white smile. Truly bewitching....then shook myself.

Blocking the door with my body so she couldn't enter, I asked, "Whither do you here, fair maiden?"

"I am here to retrieve that which is mine, kind sir, him whom you have stolen from me."

"I have stolen no one from you, madam. Who is he?"

"His name is Terry, and I know you are the cruel soul who is keeping us from happiness. Please, sir, release him to me so that we may be together!"

"By what right do you claim the young man, fair maiden?"

"He has entered my domain, and by the rights of passage, he belongs to me. All men who enter my house belong to me. I will not harm him."

"Yet yonder man has left your domain, which means you no longer have a hold on him. Is this not true?"

"It is true." Dejected, she hung her head, and little drops of swamp water dripped from her hands, and the ends of her hair. "But I must have him!"

"I can not give him to you, maiden! He has escaped from you once, and you no longer hold him. Begone!" I pointed back down the hallway from where she had come.

"You are a cruel and evil man! Bewarn your friend! If he so much as looks at the bog, he becomes mine again!" With an evil scream that shivered my spine, she flew off down the hallway and left, waking everyone in the house on her way out.

For a second, I stared at the clumps of mud that had fallen from her dress, then shut the door and went to sleeplessly to bed. Terry wakened the next day, and apparently had forgotten the events of the previous night.

I explained them to him just to watch him scoff at me, showed him his own muddy clothes, repeatedly warned him of the night's conversation with the banshee, and how close he came to becoming her prey.

"You still trying to scare me with that bog? I told you yesterday I didn't believe in banshees and stuff like that. What's the matter with you anyway?" Terry laughed off everything I said.

"I'm warning you, Terry, stay away from that bog! It would be best if you didn't even look at it on our way out of here. She's watching you, and I barely got you away from her last night. Heed my word!" His attitude bothered me.

Was it possible the banshee's song erased his memories of her? I decided it was possible, just possible enough for her to get another shot at him! Damn!

"First Angus, now you. What is it about that bog that drives you crazy? It's just a swamp, you know."

"Yeah, I know, but you've forgotten everything! I promise I'll leave you alone, but you've got to promise to stay away from the bog. Ok?"

"Ok, buddy. Just cool it, alright?"

"Alright."

A few hours later, we got ready to leave the Inn, John and Angus at our sides. Everyone on the tour group had spent time packing their stuff onto the bus, and were just waiting around for all the last minute stuff to be done.

I had made a determination to watch Terry and keep him away from the bog, but with the packing and stuff, he soon slipped my mind. As soon as I had a chance, I looked for him, but couldn't find him anywhere. His bags were in the bus, and all his things were gone from the room, but he was nowhere to be found.

I asked everyone if they had seen him, and had gotten negative replies. Just before the bus was due to leave, I went to the bog. I searched all over and could find nothing of his jaunt there last night, but I did find a single man's footprint about two feet inside the boundary of the bog.

Shaking my head, I went to find Angus. I asked him if the banshee came out in the day. He scratched his head and said, "Och, now, tis hard to tell. Banshee's are a parculiar lot, ya know, lad. My guess would be no, unless she feels a claim on someone who got away from 'er. Why do yo' ask, lad?"

I quickly filled him in on the events since last night. His face turned pale as I spoke.

He said, "That could do it, lad. My guess is that yo' won' find yo'r friend anywhere hereabouts. Looks like another banshee bust. Pity. I don' tell the yarns for naught." I agreed with him, and walked away.

I went back up to the room for a last minute check, expecting to find nothing. But there on the pillow of Terry's bed was a bouquet of swamp flowers, and out in the bog I could hear a rapturous love song, my farewell present from the banshee. Shaking my head, and leaving the flowers were they were, I left the room, never to return.

Needless to say, the swamp was searched, and never was found a trace of my roommate. If you should happen to visit the Inn, pay close attention to the stories of Tim McLean and Terry Anderson, and stay away from the bog. I am sure that there are more ways than the banshee's way of gaining immortality!

Khris Comstock, 1991

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