Shade of Pale by Greg; Kihn Page A

you is that history is full of ghosts, in literature from the Romans to Shakespeare to Washington Irving to Stephen King.”
    Jukes gave her a sly smile in return. “Do you?”
    Fiona shrugged. “Kind of. I mean, I’m a historian. I spend a great deal of time hunting them down in one form or another.”
    Jukes felt the warm rays of her smile, and for the first time in his life he felt at ease with a woman. He said, “Funny, you don’t look like the type who believes in the spirit world.”
    She blushed. “Well, I don’t really.…”
    â€œWhat can you tell me about the Banshee’s singing?”
    â€œOh, the song of the Banshee is supposed to be the most terrible sound imaginable. The Banshee’s wail is the sound of impending death, literally. Some of the research suggests that her wailing may actually cause the death. Ulick Burke was said to have been split in half by the sound.”
    Jukes sat upright. He could scarcely believe his ears. “Did you say split in half?”
    Fiona took a bite of her turkey sandwich and nodded.
    â€œThat’s exactly how Declan Loomis died.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
    O’Connor entered the old woman’s crowded living room carefully, not wanting to bump into anything. Mrs. Willis had thousands of tiny figurines displayed on every available surface. Little statues, fragile bits of glass artwork, were everywhere. When O’Connor looked closely, he saw that they were all animals.
    The centerpiece of her collection, a family of exquisite miniature giraffes, grazed in frozen splendor on the mirrored shelf of an antique display case.
    â€œYou like my little zoo?” Mrs. Willis asked, her voice as thin as a reed, her Irish accent thick. She was 102 years old, supposedly, and as tough and wrinkled as jerky.
    O’Connor tried to whisper, his own booming voice far too overwhelming for this room, “They’re so delicate, I’d be afraid to touch one.”
    â€œThey are delicate, and quite fragile,” she said slowly. “Come with me.”
    She led him through the cramped little house, into the kitchen. “Sit down, Padraic O’Connor.”
    He did. She sat across from him at the kitchen table and removed her glasses. There were a few minutes of silence that O’Connor chose not to break, while the old woman studied him.
    â€œYou resemble your father,” she said at last.
    â€œDid you know him well?”
    â€œOf course I knew him well,” she answered quickly, annoyed that he would ask such a stupid question. “Are you thick?”
    Without waiting for an answer, she continued. “I know he taught you the secret ways, the ways of the ancients. That’s how it’s passed on, from father to son.”
    â€œMrs. Willis, I—”
    â€œSilence!” she barked. Her voice resembled a crow’s, O’Connor thought, dry and hateful. He folded his hands and sat like an obedient child.
    Mrs. Willis shook her finger. “In my family, after all my brothers were killed, my father gave me the knowledge in the hopes that I could someday pass it on. He knew I had the second sight, and I could see the destinies of people, and he knew that when the time came I would just see who to pass it to.
    â€œNow there’s none left but you, Padraic, a distant nephew, but that’s the best I can do. I’m too old, and besides, I am a woman. A woman cannot do what needs to be done; only a man can perform that task.”
    O’Connor stared at her, feeling the gooseflesh crawl up his back. For the first time since he’d left Ireland, Padraic was having second thoughts. The enormity of what he was about to do suddenly blossomed in front of him as if the mist cleared to reveal a mountain.
    He was used to being in charge of a situation, to being the decision maker. But here, sitting across from the century-old lady and hearing her talk, he got the feeling that he was