The Banshee's Damned Comb

“To whomsoever reads this, I am desperately sorry. For you, I’m afraid to say, it is now too late. Allow me to introduce myself: my name is MacAirlie, first name of Tadhg, and I tell you now; you shall not make it out of this place, for she is watching you.”

 

3^rd November 1845

 

I know not who may receive this letter, or even if, indeed, it shall be received at all, therefore I shall put no address, no name, and shall simply attempt to convey to you the situation I find my meagre soul in. If it is, by chance, stumbled upon  by a passer-by, much as my physical self appeared then, then I wish all my luck to you, although I fear it could be more a curse than a gift, and I hope that through this you may heed my warning, and avoid the ‘damnéd comb’. I could merely tell you, in austere terms, how to avoid the dire state I find myself in. Lamentably, I believe this would not suffice, for the curiosity of mankind is strong and too easily ignores the imperatives of today. Therefore I shall tell you my story and attempt to brush aside that ignorant, instinctive, messenger on your left shoulder; that voice in your ear far from the blissful chanting of an innocent angel, but the devious echoes of a cursed wrongdoer. Hence I write to you this letter, as I have been doing every day since my transition into this wretched abode; this cornucopia of nothingness in which I find myself each and every...day. ‘Day’ hardly seems appropriate. There is nothing to represent time anymore; no sun, no moon, no clocks, no early cockerel’s call...nothing; nothing except light, the never-ending, blissful and yet daunting glow which surrounds me. I do not sleep...at least I do not think I have done so since she...since she took me. I feel no need for it, and yet now of all times I desire only to close my eyes and escape from this existence, even if it were for a few...a few letters’ time. I know not how time behaves in this place, or even if time exists here at all. I am tormented by everything, and yet everything here would seem the epitome of nothing where you are now. I have become accustomed to believing that four of these letters end my ‘day’, and begin the next. And now I write to you from the limbo of death, neither of physical, or even metaphysical, existence...caught between in this gloomy, god-forsaken place. Each day, the same, I write this in hope that someone at least has the chance to know, unlike myself, of what it... she... is...waiting in the tail of your eye, behind your back and peering over your shoulder as you read these words. There are numerous tales of her, each giving their own outlook, all of which were wrong. ‘The Rusalka’, ‘The Screaming Hag’...’The Banshee’...these names, created by ignorant authors trying to fashion her as a mere...sobbing widow of the marshes. Feeble attempts to portray even a shred of her personality. They had never seen her burning eyes, or heard her ear-splitting wail, the very keening which penetrates the soul, tearing out those memories you hold dearest and giving them back. Forcing the mind into a state of disbelief, trying to understand how on earth...how you could forget these things, the birth of your children, your wedding day, your family and your friends...all ripped away, leaving the emotions void of purpose. Never did I read these words in the literature I studied, or glance upon them on a page of old text. Yet this comes as no surprise, for the mortal man cannot imagine the pain, as it is not physical; it embeds itself in the core of sanity, and subverts the very nature of human understanding.

Yet I tell you of all these things, but not how I came about acquiring this shallow existence, the very one I doubt will ever lead me back to reality. I was a young man back then, journeying across Ireland as a pass-time, before I started my Tour. Paid for by Father, of course, I was starting out here, with the intention of going back to my hometown of Lyme Regis and then setting out for Vienna not long after. I had decided to visit the small town of ‘Termonfeckin’, or ‘Féchin’s refuge" as it’s translated. I was looking for a certain building, a small church on the outskirts of the town. It had been damaged during the Irish Rebellion, but I often found myself attracted to these decaying monuments. They reminded me of history, these tributes to the past, of events now long past and forgotten by many. They reminded me of how, at some point, time must tick on and leave behind its brutal past. Time...how I miss it, and not just the concept, but those objects of time I used to hold as merely materialistic possessions, the clock for instance...ticking away... the hands laid gently on the face, caressing it softly with each second, minute, hour, passing.

I found the church; I walked along the stone path and trudged across the graveyard, half expecting something to burst from the ground and pull me under, I laughed at the thought back then.  The doors were stiff, but I was able to push the great oak barriers open with a hard enough jolt. Then it happened, the single, most important, decision I would ever, and did ever, make. As I walked through the church, one thing caught my eye. That damn comb, the Pandora’s Box of my life...It glowed at me, the only thing in the church, in my life for that matter, which seemed to have purpose. It lured me, and I obeyed. I stepped over the debris as if I had been there before, and yet I thought nothing of it at the time. I could barely see, the only light emanating from the object in front of me. All aspects of it seemed to draw me in, the shape, the colour, all hypnotising me, playing on my curiosity. As I got closer, I observed the inscription on its side, from a man named Macairlie; the writing seemed to be carved by nail, but yet again my fascination betrayed me. I reached the altar, on which it was placed. Only divine intervention could have halted me from picking it up...yet no such assistance came.

 I grasped the comb...it seemed to secrete a kind of supernatural energy, it was warm...but not as if it had been recently picked up, but as if there were a fire brewing within the handle. It was made of ivory, and yet weighed near to nothing. As I held it up, the light intensified, along with the warmth which seemed to want to burst from its vessel. I dropped it, for fear of scalding my skin. It crashed down onto the edge of the altar and fell somewhere behind me. It slithered along the stone floor, stopping before a pair of black feet. I gradually looked up, slowly taking in all aspects of her appearance; the black dress, which seemed to draw in the light around it, and those arms, those thin, scraggy arms, one of which was holding the comb and the other draped lamely down the side of the ragged garment. Then I saw her face, that beautiful, pristine and yet still emotionally void face...staring at me. Her eyes...blazing with some seemingly malevolent fire. They glowed, much as the comb had done, two windows to the infernos roaring from within her soul. She was young, and yet the rest of her body possessed the characteristics of an elderly hag. She reached out to touch me, her hand bleeding that paranormal warmth, and yet owning an unnaturally dark blue hue. Time came to a halt, her hand brushed mine...and now I find myself here...alone. Avoid the damnéd comb.   

***

“To whomsoever reads this, I am desperately sorry. For you, I’m afraid to say, it is now too late. Allow me to introduce myself: my name is MacAirlie, first name of Tadhg, and I tell you now; you shall not make it out of this place, for she is watching you”