The day before Halloween and our Irish wake had barely gotten started. Great uncle Seamus would have been proud of his three sons for getting us all together to celebrate him. But he would be most proud that they convinced his best friend to foot the bill for the finest Irish whiskey. His pride would have faded when they refused to share the whiskey and were falling down drunk before the ladies of the family had set out the array of treats he enjoyed so much in life.
Their mother cuffed them soundly about the ears and sent them to sleep it off in his stead. Then the party really got started. Thankfully, Seamus was more clown than cad, so as we shared our memories, we found cause to roar with laughter and raise our glasses.
As darkness fell deeper outside, eyes turned to the clock. Slowly but surely, people began to take their leave with more hugs, more Irish blessings baptized in the dregs of the bar, and reminders to the widow that family was just a call away.
When only a handful of people remained, the remaining hands banded together to help clean up the remains of the celebration of life. They might have finished in record time had she not interrupted.
An unearthly wail filled the room. A pinpoint of light grew with the earsplitting sound until the silhouette of an angular woman in rags revealed herself to the remaining mourners. The widow sank to her knees, adding her own wail to that already permeating the air. The mourners closest to her, knelt beside her as if to shield her with their bodies and the rest stood staring at the banshee with slack-jawed, wide-eyed fear as her hollow, soulless eyes looked through them.
She turned her head with disturbing slowness to scan the room. Finally, her eyes rested on the image of the deceased under the in memoriam banner. Her head whipped back around to face her quivering audience and emitted an even more plaintive wail.
“Late,” she dragged out the word and turned once more to Great Uncle Seamus’ photo, addressing it with a lingering wail of despair. “Already called.”
She disappeared with less fanfare than she arrived. The mourners still huddled together as coldness gripped the room. When the temperature finally rose, so did the mourners. They rushed as fast as feeble legs could carry them to vacate the banquet hall before anyone else could be called.
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Happy Halloween, dear readers! Feel free to take this last chance opportunity to inspire my National Novel Month Writing but posting suggestions in the comments.
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