By Jason Zapata

This says I is the truth
Or let the Saints forsake me.

The night was distressed.
And the moon peered warily
Through a veil of clouds.
Trudging home from the inn,
I heard a chilling scream.
It echoed across the fields,
Filled and rattled my bones.
And I felt cold. Terribly cold.

Though the wind shrieked
Through bare branches of winter.
The eerie scream resounded,
Even as the squall relented.
She appeared before me then.
Her moonstone eyes met mine.
Mercury colored tears streamed,
Down undulating, mist like skin.

I speak plainly, I don’t connive,
T’was no illusion drink contrives.
Believe this frightful tale,
Beware the Banshee’s wail.
She screams when death arrives

This says I is the Truth
Or let the Devil take me.

The Banshee keened once more,
Then glided away into the night.
Instilled with a deep foreboding,
I sprinted home but to no avail.
Sprawled upon the parlor floor,
Lay my stricken wife Sháuna.
Her murderer had fled the scene,
Leaving only a crimson trail.

In the haunting nights that followed
Murder spread throughout Ulster.
And despite my desperate efforts,
Sháuna’s killer remains unrevealed.
There is no rest or peace while
Night torments me with memory.
Every time there is another killing.
Every time I hear the Banshee’s wail.

I speak plainly, I don’t connive,
‘Tis no tale strong drink contrives.
Believe this frightful tale,
Beware the Banshee’s Wail.
She screams when death arrives.