The faded red grocery store façade stood looming over me, dull compared to its siblings and perhaps too dowdy for tourists to bother entering, endearingly familiar to locals like me.
My sweaty hands were slippery against the cold metal of my bike companion as I walked it slowly towards the shop and leant it somewhat precariously against the old fashioned red brick building. No one would be stealing such an old child-sized bicycle in the small amount of time I would take. My breath clouded dragon-style into the cold night air and my untied hair messily blew around my face as I clutched the plastic folder of my homework against my phone. I took a deep breath and flung the door towards me, feeling my confidence grow at the sweet tinkle of the bell above the door and offering a nod to the guy behind the counter who grinned back.
I walked past the shelves of shop stuff (crackers, sweets, condiments in the fridge, you get the idea) and returned to the counter with a cold litre of milk clutched in my left hand.
Then I heard it again.
The milk tumbled onto the carpet as I dropped to the floor, hands covering my ears.
The keening.
It had been about a day ago when I first heard it - before I knew what it meant and before I had been given the assignment. I was at the dinner table and had just finished devouring my spaghetti when a crippling sadness washed over me. Usually, something really awful had to happen before I wept, but I burst into tears when my ears were filled with the most gut-wrenching song - comparable to a woman wailing. I lay on my bed for what felt like hours but must have been only seconds, my eyes puffy and nose streaming, before my family burst through the door, asking if I felt sick, asking if anyone at school had done anything to hurt me and millions of other questions. But the song had died down, quieting as abruptly as it began.
Then today at school our class had been given the individual task of researching an element of Ireland's history.
I chose folklore and emailed this particular grocery shop employee who I knew was also fascinated by it (also, he was my older sister's boyfriend so that made it easier for me).
He told me about banshees and I almost passed out in shock. Bashees were Spector-like creatures, appearing as young ladies. They wailed whenever someone was about to pass on. But the catch was that only the victim, the person who was going to die, heard the wails (otherwise known as keening). Then he shared a story about a close encounter his grandfather had with one in this town, but I wasn't listening.

Because unless I could find the banshee and perhaps get more information, I had less than 24 hours to live.