Prologue

Come away oh human child
To the waters and the wild
With a faery hand in hand
For the world’s more full of weeping
Than he can understand

-William Butler Yeats

I froze, listening, as the wind twisted my hair into a long mass of tangled knots.  The long, painful mourn grew louder.

But the creature was close.

Faster and faster, my heart pounded in my chest.  Shudders racked my body, but my feet remained rooted to the ground, unable to move.  I held my breath in a vain attempt to slow my racing heart.

The wail rose again, growing higher, louder, closer.

“Move, Bree. Move!”

That other voice pounded in my head.  His voice.

I glanced down at my bare feet  My toes had tangled in the grass.  It was as if I had taken root, frozen on the lake shore.

The full moon cast enough of a glow that I could just make out the outlines of the trees surrounding the lake.  It was just like me to go for a walk in the dark without a flashlight.

I peered ahead and spotted a path through the willows.  If I could just reach it, maybe I could find a place to hide.  Unfortunately, my feet refused to budge.

The voice fell, its terrifying beauty echoing through the wood.   I twisted and pulled to get free, but managed only a graceless fall forward, my body sprawling onto the lumpy ground. There was a loud tearing sound as the grass holding me in place ripped out by the roots.  I stumbled to my feet, swaying as I tried to gain my balance.

“Run, Bree. Run!”

My heart pounded in my ears as I sprinted down the trail.

I kept running for what seemed like hours.  At last, the wail faded into the distance.  I turned to look over my shoulder.

Big mistake.

My foot slammed into an exposed root, shooting pain through my toe and launching me face first into the trunk of a rather large bald cypress.  The left side of my face scraped against the bark as I slid to the ground.

Dazed, I pulled myself to my feet, clutching the tree for support.

“Go now, Bree!”

I pulled my right foot forward, but the pain in my left foot made me cry out in pain.

Finally, I managed a sort of hobble-run, and hurried down the path. I wasn’t making much progress, but at least I was moving, away from that sound.

The trees slowly passed by ever so slowly on both sides of the path, the wind tangling my hair even more. Tomorrow I would have to use a whole bottle of detangling spray just to get a brush through it.

If I made it to tomorrow.

The moan grew softer, as if it were being carried away on the wind, rising and falling as it faded.

Faded.

What else was fading?  I struggled to remember the dream.  The one where the beautiful family I had never met gazed at me pleadingly while they faded away.  That was the only way I could describe it.  They just grew fainter and fainter, translucent like a ghost, until they finally vanished completely.

Who were they?

There were four of them, and they were not like any family I had ever known.  They were too perfect, too beautiful, almost magical.  They seemed tall, although I couldn’t actually see their feet touching the ground.  One of them I recognized, almost.  It was like when a picture of a movie star reminds you vaguely of someone you know, but you can’t quite place them.  Each morning when I woke, a lingering feeling told me it wasn’t just a dream; that they were trying to tell me something.  I just didn’t know what.

It was silent now, save the faint rustling of leaves in the breeze. The wind had nearly stopped.

I turned down a side path toward the edge of the lake, the water gently lapping at the rocky shore.  I could follow the shoreline back to my grandmother’s house.

Still limping, I picked my way through brush, over logs and around shrubs.  The longer I walked, the more I began to doubt that the wail I had just heard was real.

My mind ran through the possibilities.

First was the prospect that it was merely been the wind I had heard.  That was crazy.  I had heard the wind whipping through the trees around my home all my life, and had always thought it was a comforting sound.

This was nothing like that.

Second option. It could have been a wolf. That idea was ludicrous as well.  The red wolves often howled in the hilly forest around Lake Geneva.  A wolf’s howl had never made my blood run cold.

Third option. I didn’t want to think about the third option.  But if it were true, running was pointless.  The creature was just a messenger.

The wail returned, growing closer, then farther away, tossed around by the ever-changing wind.

Something made me stop and look toward the water.  What I saw confirmed my fears.

There, about 100 yards up the shore crouched a figure, dressed in white.  She was tall and willowy, with long white hair which glowed brilliantly in the moonlight.  Seeing me, she rose from a kneeling position at the water line.  It appeared she had been washing some type of material in the dark water.  Her face was full of longing, but also fear.

Slowly, she reached one long, slender arm toward me, pointing.  I knew then why she was here.

She was a banshee.

And she was wailing for me.