Every Halloween was a reminder of this awful event. Each year she would sit alone, worrying that the dreadful fairy woman would return for her, so this year she threw a party to try to block out all the bad memories. She invited her few female friends and a couple of neighbour ladies who might have taken offense if left out. In the kitchen, on the scrubbed pine table, she laid out plenty of food, Guinness and a barrel of poteen she’d brought from Patrick the potato man who had a still hidden somewhere in the pine forest beyond the hills.

One at a time, her guests went into the living room to have their palms read by the ruddy cheeked Romany. They all returned to the front room smiling and announcing they’d have something ahead to celebrate…..an engagement, a wedding, a birth, or money coming to them. All except the widow who waited until last so that she could show the fortune teller out.

The widow Maloney came out looking totally despondent.

“Whatever’s the matter?” they all asked. “Was it bad news?”

The widow slumped onto a kitchen chair weeping bitterly and burying her face in her linen apron.

When her sobbing had ceased they asked her again what had upset her so.

“The gypsy told me I’d come into money I never knew I had and that I would see my husband’s face again tonight. It can only mean one thing. The Banshee’s coming for me,” she cried. “They’re going to carry my soul off to the Otherworld too.”

Her friends could not console her though they tried. Singing a few lively songs and even her favourite ‘Danny Boy’ didn’t work. As the evening progressed the mood declined and they sat as though in the silent misery of a wake, drowning their sorrows in poteen, awaiting the Banshee’s arrival.

With every whistle of wind down the chimney and every rattle of the widow’s green wooden shutters, their fears grew. The widow sat by the fire, growing pale…..just waiting for death to come and take her.

Then…..the howling began. It was hideous and sounded like babies being murdered. There was a yowling, moaning and scratching at the door.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” the widow cried, “She’s here! The Banshee is here!”

They all huddled together whimpering in terror, gathering themselves around the widow protectively, and suddenly a great gust of wind blew open the front door, its black metal latch rattling. Up in the gnarled old tree branches they thought they saw a grey, dangling figure, then there was a flash of lightening and two black cats rushed into the room, their hair standing on end, hissing and spitting. As the women all scrambled to chase them out, presuming them to be witches’ familiars, there was an almighty howl of wind down the chimney.

“The imps of Hell!” someone screamed.

“The black imps of Satan,” pronounced Mrs Bailey.

They all screamed in unison, shaking with mortal dread.

Another whoosh of wind howled down the chimney and the room was filled with peat dust, soot and smoke. They heard a loud clatter and quaked with fear at the thought of what they might see when the dusty smoke cleared.

A sigh of relief went out as they realised there was no Banshee to be seen, only a rag covered package, which lay on the fireplace near the brass fender. When the widow opened it up, it contained a brass box which someone, at some time, had concealed high up inside the old stone chimney beyond the reach of the licking flames. Inside the box was a pigskin bag full of coins and a smaller wooden box. She opened it in anticipation. The box contained a fading sepia photograph of the widow’s late husband in his youth. A tear came to the corner of her eye as memories of their courtship and happy years together flooded back. “Sean, my dear Sean,” she whispered as I put my arm around her shoulder.

Indeed, as the Romany had predicted, she had seen the face of her husband once again and came into money she didn’t know she had. Relieved, the party turned into a celebration of singing, dancing and the poteen was freely flowing!