Caoineadh by Reuben Paul

The wail dragged Eamon from sleep, thin as glass yet heavy with grief. He followed it through the mist to the graveyard, heart pounding. An old woman stood there, grey hair plastered to her face, skin slick with rain.

“Who are you mourning?” he whispered, reverent and afraid.

She turned, and he saw her mouth was gone, only a black hole where screams were born.

The air trembled with her cry. His ears split; blood poured warm down his neck.

As darkness took him, she leaned close, breath cold as graves.

“Your mother,” the banshee keened. “She heard me first.”