“Way cool,” I commented, foraging through the remains. “When? Why?” I asked.
“The 40’s, give or take.” Count answered. He squatted, investigating whatever it was that caught his attention. “Why?” Count looked up. “He said he heard the banshee’s wail. Says he knew it was coming. Says he didn’t do nothing to stop it. He was walking through the tunnel one foggy morning. In the middle of the tunnel, the cries of the banshee and the clanking of her chains surprised him. He didn’t see it coming - you know, the fog lurks in the tunnel too. He dove out of its way just in time. He laid in muck beneath the fog gazing up as thirteen palls passed. Thirteen sets of clanking chains overpowered his whimpers.
“Banshee Smamshee, what a dumb story,” I said.
“That’s what I said…” Count stood behind the dead campfire, his arms outstretched, like a condor riding thermals. “… until I found out how many people lived here.”
“Let me guess - thirteen,” I said.
“Fourteen,” Shannie said. I turned to her, she sat upon a fallen tree outside the crumbled front wall. “He was the sole survivor.”