The Banshee of Dovedale

The prompt featured a Banshee during a thirty-minute writing session.

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The banshee screamed, and the night fell silent. A chill ran up Bella’s spine as she stood at the edge of the woods, unmoving. The silence was oppressive, not peaceful, and heavy enough to make her skin prickle.

The villagers of Dovedale recognised that sound; it meant someone would be taken before dawn. Bella’s lantern flickered, casting uncertain shadows. She felt the scream in her bones. Her grandmother always said the banshee cried for those whose time had come. Bella was not afraid for herself, but for her brother, Tom.

Tom had gone hunting that morning, chasing a stag deep into the forest despite the warnings. Hunger had outweighed caution.

“He should be back by now,” Bella murmured, glancing at the pale moon. The banshee wailed again, echoing through the trees. A crow cawed, a warning.

Bella stepped forward, the crunch of leaves loud beneath her boots. The forest felt hostile, its leafless branches twisting and vines creeping. Mist curled around her legs.

She whispered a prayer to the old gods her grandmother honoured in secret. Suddenly, a scream came from her right. She turned quickly; her lantern struck a tree and shattered. The wick fell to the dry earth, igniting the leaves. Within seconds, the fire began to spread. “Oh, what have I done?” she cried.

Flames licked hungrily at the dry undergrowth, casting wild shadows across the trees. Panic surged through Bella as she stamped at the fire, but it spread too quickly. Smoke curled upward, thick and acrid, stinging her eyes.

From the darkness, a figure stumbled into the flickering light, Tom, coughing, his face streaked with dirt and fear. “Bella!” he shouted, reaching for her. Relief flooded her, but there was no time for reunion.

“Run!” she urged, grabbing his arm. Together, they fled the encroaching fire, weaving between trees as the banshee’s wail rose again, louder, almost triumphant.

They broke through the tree line, lungs burning, as the inferno roared behind them. The banshee’s wail pierced the night, rising above the crackle of flames, a sound both mournful and vengeful. Villagers, drawn by the chaos, rushed to meet them, their faces pale in the firelight.

Bella clung to Tom, her hands shaking. Around them, the old women whispered frantic prayers, crossing themselves as if to ward off death itself. The banshee’s cry faded, but its warning lingered in the smoke-filled air.

Behind them, the forest burned a living memory of fear and desperation. The flames devoured ancient trees and sacred ground, erasing the paths Bella’s ancestors once walked. She knew the village would never forget this night, nor would she. The banshee had not claimed a soul, but its shadow would haunt them all.

As dawn broke, Bella watched the smouldering woods, her brother safe at her side. The cost of survival was written in ash and scarred earth. For now, Tom was alive, but the banshee’s promise echoed in her mind: next time, fate might not be so merciful.