Many years ago, on a wet and windswept evening in the village of Kilmacow, a local man was driving home along the narrow country road in his Ford Anglia. Rain lashed against the windscreen and the hedgerows blurred in the headlights. Without warning, the car spluttered and came to a halt, its engine refusing to turn over.

As he stepped out to check under the bonnet, he noticed – half-hidden in the gloom – a young woman sitting on a low stone wall by the roadside. She wore a light-coloured dress quite out of keeping with the weather, and her long hair fell forward, veiling her face. A chill ran through him. Something about her stillness, and the way the rain didn’t seem to touch her, filled him with unease.

Panicking, he climbed back into the car and turned the key again and again. When he glanced across to the passenger seat, his blood ran cold – the woman was now sitting beside him, silently combing her long hair with a silver brush.
He froze as she began to hum a low, haunting melody. Terrified, he squeezed his eyes shut; and when he dared to open them again, the seat was empty. At that moment, the engine roared to life. He drove straight home without stopping once.

For three days, he spoke to no one and remained in bed, pale and shaken. Then, late one night, his family heard a piercing wail outside the house — a sound so sharp and mournful it seemed almost human. Thinking it was a fox, the man took his shotgun and stepped into the yard.

There, perched on the garden wall, was the same woman, her pale form glowing faintly in the darkness as she brushed her hair once more.

Two days later, news arrived from England: his brother had died suddenly.

Locals have since linked the story to Ireland’s long-held belief in the banshee, whose wailing is said to foretell a death in the family. Some say she still wanders the roads near Kilmacow on stormy nights, her silver comb glinting faintly in the rain.