Wailyn Hush

‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ Ah, the banshee. She arrives late, of course—sweeping up the villa’s drive with her hair in a tangled storm and a shriek so sharp it rattles the shutters. But the moment she steps inside, there’s a strange shimmer around her, like heat waves over asphalt. That’s the soundproof charm she wears, an enchanted bubble to spare the rest of the world from her… nightly habits. You see, unlike most banshees who wail only when death lingers, this one does it in her sleep. Whole operas. Ear-splitting lullabies. Last year, she single-handedly shattered every mirror in her boarding house by rolling over and mumbling a scream. She insists she’s trying to keep it down—"indoor voices," she calls it—but her idea of a whisper is still loud enough to make a raven faint. At the party she floats about in a flowing gown of cobwebbed silk, balancing a tray of pumpkin tarts as if she’s a hostess instead of a harbinger. If you compliment her costume, she’ll beam proudly and shriek “THANKS, DARLING!” loud enough to snuff the candles. Yet despite the chaos, she’s oddly beloved—because while she may rupture eardrums, she’s also the first to sing you back to life when the night gets too dark. ‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ Time to go spooky moonbeams🌙