The Banshee of Bond Street Dark Supernatural Fiction

Dark Supernatural Fiction

Eira Quinn hadn’t heard silence in years. Not since Marcus died. Not since the banshee started screaming.

She lived alone on the corner of Bond and Figueroa, in a house she inherited from a man she

The Quinn Residence

barely remembered marrying. Two highways flanked her neighborhood like steel rivers—one to the east, one to the west—and the constant hum of traffic was as familiar as her own heartbeat. The train tracks weren’t far either. The whole place buzzed, always.

But lately, something else had joined the noise.

The cats.

The neighbor fed them—dozens of them. Strays, ferals, half-dead things with patchy fur and glowing eyes. They fought, they yowled, they pissed on her porch. And at night, they howled. Long, drawn-out wails that sounded like babies crying or women screaming. Eira hated them. Hated the neighbor more.

She was in her mid-fifties, though her body felt older. Her kidneys were failing. Years of drugs and alcohol had hollowed her out. She was supposed to be on medication for schizophrenia, but she didn’t take it. Didn’t need it. She wasn’t crazy—just tired. Tired of the noise, the memories, the guilt.

She had two sons once. Twins. Michael and Marcus. Born into chaos. She kept Marcus, gave Michael to her mother. Said it was temporary. It wasn’t.

Michael grew up in a nice Middle Class Suburb. Good school, college, military. Went on to Federal agent, or so he claimed. He called sometimes to check on her. Mostly to brag to her about his life. She didn’t care. He was too much like his father, a disappointment. Always had been.

Marcus stayed. Through the evictions, the overdoses, the nights she woke up on the floor with a needle in her arm. He was there when she married that soldier. There to console her when the soldier died overseas. There to help when she inherited the house. He was her good one. Her baby.

He died in her arms.

 Fentanyl laced meth. They were laughing one minute, arguing over whether to snort or smoke it. He did his Scarface impression, lined up a gagger on the table, and dropped before the punchline. She tried to save him. Failed. That was two Christmases ago.

Little Ghost

Now, every morning, she sat on the porch with her coffee, watching the sunrise and waiting for the bird. Marcus had rescued it once—a broken-winged thing he nursed back to health. It flew away when it healed. But it came back. Every morning. Perched on the fence. It watched her. She called it “Little Ghost.”

The cats still howled. But lately, something else joined them. A scream. Higher. Sharper. Not feline. Not human.

She heard it one night while making cocoa. Froze. Listened. Brushed it off. Just another damn cat.

But it came back. Night after night. Louder. Closer. She blasted Marcus’s playlist—rap songs she didn’t know the words to. Just noise now. White noise. Anything to drown the banshee.

Then Michael called.

Said her caretaker hadn’t heard from her. Said he was worried. Said she should visit him, he had met someone and wanted her to meet. He told her that the part of the city he lived in was beautiful. Peaceful. A short train ride?. Said he worked at the base. What city? What flight?

She hung up.

That night, the scream returned. Piercing. She grabbed her flashlight and stormed outside. No cats. No traffic. No hum. Just silence. Thick. Wrong.

She took an extra sleeping pill. Didn’t help.

Bond and Figueroa

At 3:30 a.m., she woke again. The scream was inside her skull now. Vibrating through the walls. She threw on her slippers, grabbed the flashlight, and stepped into the fog.

It was dense. Central California thick. Couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. The air was heavy. Still. No wind. No sound. Just the scream.

She followed it. Past the neighbor’s house. Down the sidewalk. It moved when she moved. Always just ahead. Always just out of reach.

Then she turned back. Enough of this. She was cold. Tired.

And there it was.

In her driveway. A shadow. Small. Fast. Wrong.

It shimmered like smoke. No legs. No face. Just motion. And eyes—red, beady, glowing like coals.

“Kitty?” she whispered.

It didn’t run. It circled her leg. Then her waist. Then her chest. It spiraled around her like a ribbon of shadow, brushing against her skin gently touching it. Cold. Weightless. Familiar.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t scream. Just watched.

“You just needed someone, huh?” she said softly.

The creature paused at her shoulder, its eyes inches from hers. Then it rose—slowly—curling upward like incense smoke, disappearing into the fog.

The scream stopped.

She made cocoa. Sat at the kitchen table. Remembered.

For the first time in years, the memories came clearly. The good ones. Marcus laughing. Marcus dancing. Marcus holding the bird.

She smiled.

Seven days later, the police came.

The neighbor had called. Said she hadn’t seen Eira. Said there was a smell.

They found her in the recliner. Cocoa gone cold. TV still flickering.

The coroner said she died in her sleep. Malnourished. Underweight. No signs of struggle.

But the neighbor swears she heard something that night.

A scream.

Long. Low.

And not quite human.

C.M. Pereida