Page 110 of Echoes of the Banshee

“I read.” The lie lands heavy. Could she be a banshee? No, her soul is too broken.

“Right,” I say, trying to brush it off. “Let’s get to work.”

Thea dives into the research. I notice that she already has a notebook full of references but none that say exactly what she wants. She’s struggling to find books that support what she thinks. The stories of banshees ripping souls from the innocent dominate. The truth is buried somewhere beneath the weight of fear and misunderstanding.

I can feel her frustration growing as she flips through pages, muttering under her breath. “Ugh, none of these sources are helpful. Everything’s about how banshees are dangerous, how they kill people…” She shakes her head. “I can’t even find any mention of male banshees. I was hoping there’d be something.”

The tachycardia catches me off guard. “Male banshees?” I repeat slowly, my voice barely a whisper.

She nods, still thumbing through another book, her focus wholeheartedly on the pages. “They’re supposed to be… anomalies. The old stories say male banshees didn’t just help the souls of the dead, they could bring people back to life.”

I gawk at her. I think I may have forgotten how to talk. Thankfully she isn’t paying attention, flipping pages again. I don’t know why it unsettles me so much, why I can’t laugh it off like I usually would. It feels like she’s talking to me. My mom believed those stupid stories. That’s why she named me Lazarus.

I open my mouth, about to make some remark, try and steer the conversation anywhere else. But I’m failing at even that. She’s utterly upended my world, again.

She doesn’t notice, she’s frowning at the book like it’s done her dirty. I don’t want her to get discouraged, so I lean forward and start typing on my laptop. “Alright, let me try something. We can use modern resources, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“Consulting work. Stories from people who’ve had actual experiences with banshees.” I pull up a search bar and type in a few words. “There’s got to be someone out there who knows the real deal.” I don’t need to tell her that I know these sources because my family monitors them closely.

Thea watches me for a moment, then leans closer to read the laptop. “I guess it’s worth a try.” I pretend not to breathe in her scent.

“Don’t focus your search only on Ireland.”

“Why not?”

“They’re not originally from there, despite the myths. Banshees lived as nomads for centuries. But around the time of the Black Death, almost all the ones left in Europe fled to Ireland — trying to escape persecution. But now very few remain. They’re drawn to help people and if we only look there, we might miss a lot. If we don’t just look for banshees but based on the healing we might find more reliable sources, maybe even some first-hand accounts.”

I nod, impressed by the depth of her knowledge and insight, hoping that that’s all it is. “Good call. I’ll see if I can find anything.”

Thea starts typing furiously, adding new search terms and cross-referencing information. I keep digging as well, finding a few websites about modern-day banshees. “A lot of them help terminally ill people, others choose to help lingering souls,” she tells me. “So maybe cross reference end of life or hauntings.”

I spend the next few hours scrolling through different online resources, finding reports, interviews, and even personal accounts. Slowly but surely, the pieces start to fall together.

“I have to admit, I’m surprised you were able to find things to back up your claims, you’re not secretly a banshee are you?” I ask, part playful, part honest question.

She laughs. “No, the only soul I’m in charge of is my own, and I’m doing a lousy job. No one would give me the job of guiding spirits!” she says. The words are deep. I feel for her soul again, it seems to be getting stronger, more beautiful each time I feel it.

We continue working together, combing through articles, folklore, and personal testimonies. By the end of the night, we’ve crafted a report that’s likely the most accurate and thorough one on banshees ever written. Thea beams, clearly pleased with our work. “I think this is it. We’ve got everything, personal accounts, historical references, the truth about what banshees actually do.”

“This paper is really good,” I say, leaning back in my chair, trying to hide the joy in my voice. “You should be proud. You’re changing the narrative. I bet anyone who reads this will start looking at them differently.” I’m amazed at how she’d captured what I couldn’t put into words. “You’ve got a way of seeing things that most people would miss.”

She looks away, shy. I risk reaching out, touching her face and making her look at me. “I’m serious, Thea. You’re amazing.”

Her face turns scarlet and I let her look away.

“It’s probably just a drop in the bucket, but… maybe it’ll mean something to someone.”

I want so bad to tell her it does. I’m going to send it to Ma, it will bring her so much hope. As I think it, I think about introducing them. Ma will love Thea, probably more than me. But then, as the thought settles in, so does the dread. Even if she seems to understand us better than most, I doubt she could love one.

The thought lingers, heavy, as I follow her out of the library. Do I want her to love me? I’m lost in it now, mind drifting, and for the first time in a long time, I’m not paying attention to the world around me. My feet move mechanically, one step after the other, but everything else is blurry.

“You’ve been in your head today,” she says quietly, the words slipping into the space between us like an invitation. “Want to talk?”

How can I tell her that I’m worried she could never love a banshee? How can I even let myself hope for it? When my pa found out, he ran. Same for most banshees. Even if they manage to find their mates, they don’t always stick around.

“No,” I lie. “I’m good, just… thinking.”