"Don't scare easy, does they?"
said the bogeyman to the banshee.
"Not nowadays." The banshee shrugged.
"Not here, anyways––they're deaf you see, the entire lot of 'em."
"The entire village?" the bogeyman marveled.
"Aye," said the banshee. "You might think it was a curse

that brought it on––some medical anomaly at the very least––
but they willed it on themselves. Voluntarily."
"Willed it?" The bogeyman spat in disbelief.
"Voluntarily? For Chrissakes."
"Aye," said the banshee. "Though if I were
entirely honest, it was fear drove them to it.

Found it more convenient than listening."
The banshee chewed her lip.
"No bother. Scaring's not my modus operandi.
The wailing's only meant to warn them."
"Warn them?" huffed the bogeyman. He ground a square of pool cue chalk
into one of the fuzzy antlers protruding from his temples.

"Aye," said the banshee. "Impending death."
The bogeyman tugged at his forked tail and thought on it.
"You mean to say that with everything in your arsenal––
that wretched howling, those bedraggled locks like seaweed
twined round a lobster pot, the spectral glow emanating off that old shawl––
you're little more than a glorified canary down a well?"

"Of sorts," said the banshee,
"though no one's ever quite put it that way."
"I died down a well," the bogeyman lamented. "Many moons ago.
"And rest assured, there were none of your breed skulking around
to provide any sort of forewarning or legal counsel."
He shrugged. "Perhaps it's better not to know. After all,

death is always impending––in one way or another.
I mean, isn't that the nature of it?"
"Suppose so," said the banshee.
"But to rob me of who I am––of what I do––
it's as if they've rendered me invisible. It's criminal."
"Still, there's other vocations," considered the bogeyman.

"You'd be singing a different tune if it had been their eyes
they'd gauged out so as to spare themselves the sight of you
creeping out from beneath their beds at night."
"Suppose you have a point," sighed the bogeyman.
"Still, I can't blame them for not wanting to know––
impending death and all. For what it's worth, I quite like your voice."

"That's awfully kind of you," said the banshee,
"but it don't help none, to be honest.
I need to get my mind off work."
The banshee checked the time on her phone.
"It's Friday, isn't it?
Saint Cuthbert's Ladies Auxiliary

does a mean fish fry.
Care to join me?"
"I'd love to," said the bogeyman,
"but I'm a vegetarian."
"Vegetarian?" she cried in disbelief. "You?
I've never heard anything so absurd.

Not even fish?"
"Not even fish,"
said the bogeyman.
"But the children … don't you––?"
The bogeyman scrunched his nose.
"I'm only meant to frighten them, not eat them.

Perhaps you're thinking of witches."
"No," said the banshee.
"They've gotten a bum rap
over the ages, haven't they?"
"Who's that?" asked the bogeyman.
"Witches," she replied, a touch annoyed.

"Oh, aye," said the bogeyman.
"Speaking of which,
could I ask you a little favor?"
"Depends," said the banshee.
"They're a timid lot," explained the bogeyman,
"the Saint Cuthbert's Ladies Auxiliary.

Fogies, mainly. Prescription pills.
A dais of lousy tickers. Things could turn south
quick with someone in possession of your unique vocal capacity
among that fold. Could you croon a little ditty
before you set off––a precautionary measure, you see––
just to get it out of your system?"