The Mountain Banshee

1. banshee
banˈʃiː,ˈbanʃiː/
noun
:(in Irish legend) a female spirit whose wailing warns of a death in a house.

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Vallen Harbor was a small village that faced the North Atlantic Ocean as their climates were constantly harsh and cold, and so were the people who smelled of the sea. The people here were also good storytellers and were fascinated with the supernatural, thus they used a bit of magic. Although they were secluded and isolated far away from the other villages, they were a thiving people. There was one problem though.

Every night, a loud wail could be heard from the top of the mountains. This terrified the village and forced them to stay inside the safety of their homes before dusk, which is probably why the influx of tourists wasn't all that great. Countless of brave souls have ventured into these mountains, just to come back running in fear.

"Don't go into the mountains, only death awaits." They said.

"I'd actually luv it if me mum was dead," Gin snorted at the thought. "It's always, 'Gin, go buy the groceries' or 'Gin, why can't you be more useful like your brothers?' or 'Gin-'" He continued to mope and sob on the counter to the bartender who could care less about this stranger's problems. The only issue he had to deal with this man was that he hadn't paid for his fifteen mugs of beer yet.

"Sir," The bartender started calmly. "I'm going to have to ask you to pay now. And leave."

"'Sir' my arse!" He snapped, struggling to keep his glare at the man, let alone keep his eyes open. "THAT'S SIR TO YOU"

The bartender looked at him weirdly. "But I-"

He was interrupted with a finger on his lips, Gin shushing him whilst shaking his head. "Dick, dick, dick."

"My name is Dickson-"

"And you know what that means?!" He shouted enthusiastically, bursting into a fit of laughter. "THE SON OF DICK. YOU CAN KISS MY ARSE, O SON OF DICK, BECAUSE YOUR MOM IS A-"

The next day, Gin's unconscious body was found floating in the river bank, seemingly lifeless. Fortunately, his house was near the same river bank, and so was his mom.

"YOU USELESS, GOOD FOR NOTHING-" She screamed, beating him physically and emotionally while his body curled up into a ball on the side of the river. He merely sulked underneath his 64 year old mother's wrath, sobbing pathetically.

Once again, he was asked (or rather demanded) to pick fruits and vegetables from the mountain forests. He tried to argue, but he was eventually kicked out anyway, basket in hand.

"Witch," He snorted, lifting himself off the ground and dusting the contamination off his shirt. With his dignity still intact and his nose held high, he ventured off into the woods. (cue song)

As he hiked further into the woods, snow slowly became more visible as he marveled at the frozen trees and snow covered ground, even the life-threatening icicles that formed here and there were beautiful. No, he couldn't stay for long, there was obviously no plant that could grow here at this time and decided to go back before the sun sets. He wasn't a superstitious person, he wasn't afraid of some ghost who wails at night for no apparent reason. But he was indeed afraid of his mother, there was no arguing there.

Sighing, he turned around and made his way back down the mountain. At least he'd gotten enough apples for his family to survive another day.

As he did so, he couldn't help but feel eyes watching him, but he merely brushed it off as his imagination. But as time passes, the feeling began to grow, and it no longer felt only one was watching him. He picked up his pace, his heart pounding against his rib cage and his breathing ragged. The only thing that kept him from slipping into that stupid myth was that it wasn't dusk yet, but it will be soon.

Making a turn into the forest, he decided it'd be best to shake his stalkers loose. He went through twists and turns as he progressively feels the number of his stalkers' presence's dropping, and soon he found himself back on the dirt road.

"Thank the gods," He sighed to himself, then grinned triumphantly. After doing a little victory dance, he turned on his heel to walk home, only to be confronted by a pack of wolves.

Grimacing, he mumbled. "Screw Odin."

The wolves barked and snarled at him, baring their sharp canines that threatened to rip through his skin, and his mother's fruit basket. Dear Odin, anything but the fruit basket.

Gin made a run for it, though it wasn't his smartest decision. The wolves gave chase as he did a little parkour, jumping over some tree roots and climbing over rocks. Yeah, this wasn't his best day.

He ran into a dead end as he desperately tried to look for an escape, but alas, the wolves have already cornered him, and he had nowhere else to run. Falling on his knees, he began praying to whatever god was up there who was willing to listen to him.

"Odin, Thor, heck, even Loki, if you're really not just some drug-induced hallucination and is listening to me beg, I want to live, meet someone, get married, have kids, I'm too young to die in the hands- er, jaws, of these carnivorious beasts, send an angel, a valkerie or something!" He begged to the skies desperstely.

As if answering his prayer, the wolves stopped baring their fangs, and a shadow towered over his quivering form. He was grateful, yet terrified. What if this person or thing was worse than those flesh-eating carnivores?

His fear was short-lived when a gentle yet cold hand slipped under his scruffy chin, tilting his head upwards to the most stunning icy blue eyes he's ever seen.

"Are you alright?" Her voice was gentle, as smooth as silk. For some reason, he couldn't find the words to reply, far too mesmerized in her beauty. She giggled as his jaw parted slightly as if about to say something, but it closed again.

"Am I dead? Am I in Valhalla?" He asked. She giggled again, but to him it sounded like church bells ringing in his ears.

"No, you're very much alive, and very much on earth." She replied, amused.

"Oh." Was the only thing he could muster.

Regaining his composure, he stood up and fixed himself. Screaming like a little girl was not a very good impression he would've liked to have left. Clearing his throat into his fist, he looked her in the eye- or at least tried to.

"Well, um, what are you doing here?" He stuttered awkwardly, inwardly scolding himself.

"I live here." She replied nonchalantly. "I should be asking you the same thing."

Giving her a skeptical look, he asked, "I'm not a superstitious person at all but, uh, haven't you heard of the Mountain Banshee?"

"No. What's that?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just a weird old myth." He brushed it off absentmindedly. Taking a closer look at her, she had an unusual shade of light blue hair and her complexion was awfully pale. A little bit of frost covered her nose, cheeks, and chin, probably because of how much clothes she's wearing. Or, rather, the lack of clothes she was wearing. "Aren't you cold?" He asked.

"I don't get cold." She answered, looking at her hands with a far-off look. "It's always been that way."

He didn't know how to answer that so he just kept his mouth shut. "Okay...well, I'll be off now. Or else mother will have my head." He joked, though repeating it in his head...it was quite possible.

"Oh, alright." With a wave of her hand, the wolves pulled back to make an opening for him to exit. Gin gave her angelic figure one last look, before setting off back to the village, taking back everything he said about the Norse god.

When his silhouette had disappeared from the distance, the woman made her way through the snow with her loyal wolves trudging behind her until a steep cliff was in sight. There, in the center of it all, was a stone grave with tree roots groping about it. The tombstone has obviously already been weathered down and the gold plate was stained with dirt, but she knew very well what the words engraved on it read, even when she couldn't see it.

She dropped in front of the grave, caressing the cold stone surface ever so gently.

A blood-curdling scream was heard from the mountains.