Banshee II

A pale glowing miasma of yellow, rimmed with red, an unconsecrated halo backlights her.
Her eyes, all white, her breath foul, her voice, the wailing of a thousand damn-ed souls.
Her lips, two earthworms all segmented and crusted, wriggle upward into a Joker's grin.

The sound of their breath is all Tara can hear; phlegmy, burbling, popping hyperventilation of the unholy circle. A box of pups with head colds.

The regulator clock has stopped it's tick-ticking. The filter on the fish tank is holding it's breath. The radio is blinking "12:00".

"Tara...."

The voice is shrill and high and soft and subtly painful. The opposite of kettle drums being beaten by trolls.

"Come play with me, my sweet ."
She hisses and sighs the word "sweet".

"Momma, Momma, MOMMA!"

Tara can hear the words in her mind, banging against the top of her skull, looking for a way out. Her lips quiver like a heart out of rhythm. They will not make the shapes, and even if they could, her throat would not feed the empty words formed by her mouth with the life of tickled air.
She pinches her arm and imagines forcing her eyes open to leave this place and wake in a warm bed.

There's a soul-searing shriek from the Banshee's portal. A clawed, bony hand thrusts forward toward Tara. All the wee scritchy-scratchy folk have turned, their circle broken, their eyes wide now with rage. Their tiny feet claw for purchase on the bedsheets, the rat-like familiars rush forward toward the head of the bed......and Tara.

She tries once more to open her eyes and........

Grandma is standing by the side of her bed, smiling. She runs a hand through Tara's hair and asks her if it was a bad dream. Tara grabs grandma's night gown and buries her head in the folds of it.
"Grandma always smelled of lilacs." she thinks to herself.
"Honey, can I get you a drink of water? Perhaps that will settle you down a bit."
"Yes, please."
Grandma takes her hand and leads her out of the dark bedroom into the light of the hall.

Early the next morning, Tara's mom, coming into her room to wake her for school, noted something unusual.

With all the recent problems Tara had been having with nightmares, the sheets of her bed would invariably end up at the foot of her bed, bunched up into knots with her blanket. This morning however, the sheets were as crisp and fresh as when she had made the bed yesterday morning.

Little Tara was lying quite still. Centered and alone in the large bed.
Her arms were stiff, straight on either side of her, the delicate palms pressed down on the mattress. Her white cheeks had a translucent milky-blue porcelain quality. She wasn't breathing.

Her mother bit her lip, took a deep breath, and slowly sat at the foot of the bed. This wasn't a surprise. She knew it was coming for some time. And, here it was. The doctors said 3 to 6 months. She went early. Two months, three weeks, and this was the morning of the third day.

"First my mom, now my sweet little girl. At least there were no nightmares last night. She left us in comforting familiar surroundings. That's something"

And then her facade of strength crumbled.

The howl of the Banshee filled the room for a second time that morning.