Free The Banshee by Henry P. Gravelle Page B

praying.
    He looked out over the view of Wexford and related his dream of the woman with a severed throat that tried to speak but could not. When he finished he turned to find Nancy’s face pale.
    â€œAre you okay?” David sat her back in the car.
    â€œYes…I’m fine,” Nancy said softly.
    â€œI thought you were going to pass out.”
    â€œJust a little upset over your dream. You’re right, it is a strange one.”
    â€œI didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t realize the cut throat would make you uncomfortable,” he said.
    â€œDid you ever figure out what the woman was trying to tell you?” she asked, closing her eyes and placing her hand onto her forehead.
    â€œI haven’t a clue,” he answered.
    He sat behind the wheel and gazed out at the town and Whiting field. The Oak tree stood out like a decayed sore spot, barren of the green that surrounded it. It brought his thoughts back to Isabel Shea.
    He turned to Nancy, still reclined in the seat with eyes closed. “Who in town would know about the legend of that witch, I mean more than the average person?”
    Nancy turned to look at a patch of wild flowers at the edge of the overlook. She seemed agitated.
    â€œI guess if you really have to know, you could talk with Mrs. Toomey. Her husband was the town clerk years ago and sort of the unofficial town historian.”
    â€œHe’s not around?” David asked.
    â€œYeah, he’s around…in the cemetery, died about six years ago.”
    â€œWould you mind if we visited her?” He felt as though this whole subject bothered her.
    â€œWhy are you so interested in Isabel Shea all of a sudden?” she asked, still gazing out the window.
    â€œI have a wild hunch about those murders. I know it’s only an urban legend but humor me, okay?”
    â€œMrs. Toomey is ninety-two,” she responded, facing him, “senile and neurotic. Keep that in mind when you speak with her.”
    He smiled and started the car. They left following Nancy’s directions to the Toomey residence at the edge of town.
    It only took ten minutes to reach the house. It sat devoid of neighbors on a lonely road outside of the populated area of Wexford, built around the turn of the century and crying for repairs. The gutters blackened from years of rain and wind rotting the wood rendering them useless. Hardly any paint remained on the exterior. A picket fence with lopsided and missing pickets encompassed the weed-choked yard.
    â€œI assume this Home and Garden property began its downfall after the husband passed on?” remarked David, walking with Nancy to the gate held on by one hinge. “It reminds me of the Johnson house.”
    Nancy remained silent as they approached the porch. David was about to ask if she was angry when he noticed a window curtain slightly ajar revealing an aged wrinkled face, “Someone is at the -”
    â€œI saw her,” Nancy interrupted abruptly.
    The weathered door opened slowly in response to David’s knock but only enough for a pair of watery eyes to peek out. They squinted with the wisdom of many years, along with the sorrow that life seems to place upon a soul.
    Nancy tried to make the introductions. “My name is Nancy Flan -”
    â€œI know who you are,” snapped the woman, closing the door a bit more. She sneered while examining Nancy from the safety of her hallway. “Who is that?” she asked, pointing with her eyes at David. The wrinkled puffs under them swayed with the movement of her head as she gave him the once over.
    â€œI’m David Raferty,” he replied, tilting his head to ease her vision. “I’m visiting my Uncle, Doctor Carl Raferty.” She acknowledged the name.
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    â€œI understand your late husband was somewhat of a town historian and may have some information concerning the witch, Isabel Shea?” David said.
    Her eyes