The service begins with hymns. Too many hymns. Then a passage about “weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth.” I wonder who selected those verses. They seem wildly inappropriate given all the death, and yet their poetry sings to the banshee inside me.
Weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth…
What does gnashing mean? I think it’s grinding…yes, that makes sense…grinding of teeth. I’ve done that before, in the paroxysms of grief, in my wanderings.
My attention snaps back to the service. Edgar is expressing condolences to the families of the dead. He calls them heroes of the faith. Martyrs.
And then he’s looking at me. Talking about me. “…one who lives among us but isn’t truly one of us…” And he’s telling them what I am. Banshee. He doesn’t go into detail, just offers a general explanation. “Supernatural,” he calls me, “descended from Cernunnos, the demon beneath.” He doesn’t saymonsterorthreat, but I can sense both those words in the rigid stances of the people around me, in the glares thrown my way and the whispers traveling the air beneath the current of Edgar’s words…so many useless words.
“Robert Earnshaw has confessed his sin in keeping this secret from us,” Edgar says. “He did it out of love, in the hope that faith might purge the evil from his daughter.”
Where did Edgar learn to talk like this? I guess this pompous style of speech comes from reading too many old sermons and commentaries from the 1800s. Does he even hear himself? How much he sounds like a cult leader more than his dad ever did?
But helookslike an angel, slim and blue-eyed, with that cloud of curly, blond hair, with that delicate, earnest, beautiful face. There’s a hectic light in his eyes, a fervent energy in the movements of his slender hands as he reads passages about purging the unworthy and taking the sin offerings “outside the camp,” whatever that means.
“Brethren,” he continues, lifting both hands. “We must now decide what path to take. Make no mistake—this is not simply a tragedy. This is war. Spiritual warfare, more potent and physical than ever before in our lifetimes. Are we ready for the challenge? Will we stand against this great evil that threatens to rise and consume us all? The demon killed Macauley and Quinn first. Then last night, he came for Coffey and Heffernan. He took Gainey, Donaghy, and Ward, but he will not be satisfied with them. No, he will come for us. For you, and for you.” He jabs a long, pale finger at a couple of church members. “He will come for your children. He will come for the elderly. He will come for theworld. What are you willing to sacrifice to stop him? To keep this ancient horror from rising up once again?”
“We must ask God to defend us,” a woman quavers from the pew behind me.
“Yes.” Edgar steps around the pulpit and walks to the edge of the platform, lips pursed, nodding thoughtfully. “Yes, we must do that. But God will defend those who fight for Him. There’s a time for prayer, my friends, and there’s a time for action. Can anyone deny that this is the time for action?”
“We must cast out the evil from among us,” someone calls. “Reject the polluted creature! Otherwise God can’t bless us!”
“Now, now.” Edgar raises a pacifying hand, gives a gentle smile. “I’m not sure calling Cathy Earnshaw a ‘polluted creature’ is helpful. She is wild, yes…a child of demons and not of God.”
“But she is my daughter.” My father stands up, his face brick red above the bristling beard. “And she’s willing to repent.”
“I hope so.” Edgar’s innocent blue eyes fix on me, his gaze flooded with beneficent concern. “For her sake, I truly hope so.”
“This is a matter for the church leadership,” Dad continues. “For the pastor and the deacons—”
“Pastor Linton, my father, is in no state to make decisions,” Edgar cuts in. “He is grieving the loss of his brothers, his friends, his flock. And as for deacons…we have so few left. I think this question is too big for a few men to answer. We must all come together and find a solution.”
Aunt Nellie rises suddenly from her seat. “Bob, have you ever tried curing Cathy?”
My dad stares at her, frowning. “She’s a banshee. That’s not something anyone can cure.”
“But have you ever tried?”
“I… No.”
With a triumphant nod, Aunt Nellie turns to face the congregation. “Cathy can come and live with me. We’ll see what can be done about her condition. Perhaps the evil spirit can be driven out.”
There’s a murmur of relieved assent among the church members. Aunt Nellie is well-known and respected. If there’s anyone they’ll trust with my “rehabilitation,” it’s her.
I’ve thought of begging Aunt Nellie to let me live with her—I’ve even hinted to her about it. But I always got the feeling she wasn’t thrilled with the idea of taking me in. And I’m definitely notinterested in living with her now, when she’s talking about driving an evil out of me.
An impulse I’ve had since I stepped inside the church is growing stronger. It’s not the horrible crawling sensation I get before an episode, but it’s almost as urgent. An instinct, a voice in my brain, repeating one word over and over.Run. Run run run run run…
But runwhere? Where could I go? Heathcliff said his family is dangerous, too, and besides, I’m not sure where he lives.
Voices surge around me, some in support of Aunt Nellie’s plan, others suggesting alternatives. But the voice in my mind cuts through all the noise.
Run run run run run RUN RUN RUN!
I step out of the pew and head down the aisle toward the lobby.
Behind me, the voices rise in pitch and volume, and I quicken my pace. Two ushers get up from the rear pews and step in front of the doors leading to the lobby, blocking my path.
