The Halloween Project 2024 - Story 3: Copper over Brass

The tag sale was more like a full-blown flea market. Paul pulled up and knew immediately that he had set foot in a gold mine. His Outback was already pretty well filled, but he thought, “Hell, I’ll throw some of that stuff away to get some of these items.” He had been driving helter-skelter across Connecticut and Massachusetts for a couple of days. Autumn was always the best time to scour the small towns for unique finds and maybe a treasure or two. The trip had been beautiful as well as lucrative, leaves in full glory against the hills.

His antique shop in Woodbury was doing just fine. The rich folks out of Boston and New York City would come to the northwest hills of Connecticut and spend money. Lots of money. Paul was a master at finding, re-finishing and selling items for 20 or 50 or 100 times the amount he had paid for them. It was a great business in a great location. Recessions didn’t matter, Covid hadn’t made a difference. People with money to burn found ways to burn it, and if their flame was antiques, Paul would certainly help set the fire.

He was near Great Barrington, had driven in on Route 71, noticed the first “Tag Sale” sign, written in wobbly black marker, and took the turn. Another sign staked to the ground sent him to Egremont Road, and finally, another arrow pointed out a right-hand turn onto Pumpkin Hollow Road. If you could call it a road, more of a back cut through to somewhere else. A promising placard announced:

“Tag Sale - just on right.

Go up driveway”

The driveway, a gravel swath, cut two hundred yards up to the house bordered by apple trees in full fruit. Paul pulled into a small parking area with only two other cars.

With just a glance at the items arrayed haphazardly across the lawn and folding tables Paul knew he had found the magic pot at the end of the rainbow. Not a pot of gold, a pot of diamonds. Paul just glanced and spotted a single Saratoga trunk, Upside-Down Ball Mason Jars, old tools and older paintings, an ancient sideboard. The house just beyond the front yard was an older farmhouse in perfect condition. He stepped out and began musing through the tables feigning slight interest. An elderly man sat in a webbed folding chair, a cash box on a table nearby.

”Hey, afternoon,” Paul said.

”Afternoon,” the man replied.

”This your place? Very nice out here, Mr.?” It was a question Paul offered.

”Well, it’s mine for a few more weeks until the closing. Lynch, Last name’s Lynch,” came the answer. “Movin’ up to Pittsfield. Be closer to my daughter. One of those senior living establishments.”

”I’m Paul Rogers,” extending a hand, “Not so interested in going, Mr. Lynch?” Paul asked.

”Not interested at all. But you know how it is. Get to a certain age and it just catches up with you. Broke my hip and now I can’t hardly do the stuff I like,” Lynch explained.

”Like what?” Paul asked. He knew from decades of experience. Get the seller to talk. Make it personal. Make it human. They’ll sell more for lower prices. Mr. Lynch rose from his chair with a soft grunt and shook Paul’s hand.

”You name it. Get on the tractor and mow the lawn. Blow leaves. A little painting here and there. Used to have chickens, but they’re long gone. I mean I can do it, but there are a lot of aches and my daughter don’t like it.”

”Well, I’m sure she has your best interests at heart,” Paul said.

”She does. And she worries. I’ll be 92 in November.”

”92?” Paul offered honest surprise. “Wow, you don’t look a day over…”

”I know, I know,” the old man interrupted, “82, right?” And he chuckled to himself.

”Well, you have some nice things here, Mr. Lynch. All for sale?

”Just a few exceptions,” the old man returned.

It was then Paul looked up and noticed the huge barn. It rose, two fields back, a brownish-red against the cool blue October sky. It was beyond large, two, perhaps three stories. But that wasn’t what he was seeing. It was a weathervane, a huge weathervane, perhaps one of the largest he had ever seen. Three feet, maybe four. A weathervane he could not quite make out.

”What is that?” Paul pointed to the barn. He raised his hand, gesturing to the backyard.

”The barn? That’s the old cow barn, kept hay in the loft. Used to have 40, maybe 50 milking cows. Well, not me, my grandfather.” Mr. Lynch replied.

”It’s far from the house. And the roads,” Paul said.

”Yeah, for a reason.”

“No, not the barn, Mr. Lynch, on top,” Paul asked. “What is it? Most weathervanes are horses or hawks, roosters or sailboats. What is that?”

”That’s an exception,” the old man returned.

”Well, it is exceptional, but what is it?”

The old man turned and took a good long look toward the barn, then turned back to Paul. His voice came with a sigh.

”My father brought that from Ireland when he came in 1873. It was just like you see it today. Three-and-a-half foot copper over top of bronze, like a double sheathing. Actually made it in Belfast and carried it with him to America. He mounted it up there himself after he built the barn,” he hesitated for a moment, “It’s a banshee.”

Paul looked at the man, then back at the barn, the cupola atop and the weathervane. He shaded his eyes from the sun with a hand and peered harder. “A banshee,” he replied, “Aren’t they…?”

Lynch interrupted again. “A banshee is an evil spirit. A woman, sometimes young, sometimes old. Sometimes ugly as sin, sometimes beautiful. Long, long, stringy hair. And a banshee screams. She screams when someone is about to die. Or she screams so awful that it makes the person go insane and kill themselves.”

Paul could see it now. The outline was clear once you understood. At this moment facing left into the breeze. A face, outlined with flowing, wild hair, streaming backward. Two arms ending in clenched, perhaps claw-like hands. The body morphing into a flowing gown, tapered and rippling. Paul knew he had to have it. His mind flew back to an old New York Times article. In 2006 a weathervane with a horse and rider had auctioned for $700,000 at Sothebys.

”I’d like to buy that…,” Paul hesitated, “that weathervane. I’ll pay you whatever you like.”

”No, sir, you don’t quite understand. That’s an exception. It’s not a weathervane. It’s a banshee. Somehow my grandfather captured it. I don’t know how. I don’t want to know. Like I said, he encased it in brass and copper. Two layers. Turned it into that thing you see up there. And sometimes it does howl. When my wife died, it screamed for two full days, and you could just hear it through the brass all the way to the house. And so before I leave, I’m going to do my best to melt it down. It might free the banshee, but I think, maybe, the fire just might kill it. We’ll only know when I do it.”

Paul turned to look more closely at the old man. From the distance, the weathervane was a remarkable, unique, one-of-a-kind antiquity. Up close, it might be a miracle. And it was a good story. Maybe the old man believed it was a banshee. A malevolent spirit, trapped in brass

and copper, yet still able to curse and wail.

”Mr. Lynch, that is one great tale. I just love it. New England, haunted barn, hell, haunted weathervane,”

Lynch turned to him and said simply,

”No.”

Paul returned to Woodbury with his haul of antiques, collectibles, and oddities. Some he placed in the store windows immediately, and they sold as he knew they would. Others he placed on shelves for cleanup, refurbishing, and a touch of paint. He could not get the weathervane out of his mind. Weekly, he called Lynch to check in. He would inquire about his health and always dance the conversation around to the weathervane.

The answer from Lynch was always simple, direct, “No.”

A month went by, then the leafless trees turned to November, and one day, Lynch did not pick up the phone. “Damn, he’s moved to Pittsfield,” Paul thought. The next day, on a whim, he drove up to Massachusetts and made his way to Pumpkin Hollow Road.

Approaching the house, he could feel the stillness. A knock, several knocks, produced nothing. The tables and chairs, items and curiosities, relics, and antiques were long gone from the yard. The wind picked up. Paul walked around the house peering in windows that mostly had shades and shutters drawn. He turned and walked through the first field, then the second to the foot of the massive barn. Glinting in the sun, the tainted copper weathervane glistened. He watched as if waiting for something to happen. Then he heard a voice calling across the fields from the backyard of the farmhouse.

It was a woman, middle-aged, calling and waving her hand. Paul quickly turned and walked back. When he approached, she questioned, somewhat stiffly,

”Can I help you?”

”I apologize. My name’s Paul Rogers. I was here for the tag sale last month and I’ve been talking to Mr. Lynch over the phone the last few weeks. How is he doing? Up in Pittsfield now?”

”My father’s dead, I’m Patty Lynch,” she announced but relaxed her alarm. “He had a heart attack about three days ago. He never made it to Pittsfield.”

”I am so sorry. He was quite a…storyteller,” Paul offered.

”That he was. They found him there in the barn. Up on the second floor. He actually had put a ladder up to the trapdoor on the roof. God only knows why. At 92, can you believe it?”

Paul turned and looked back at the barn and said, “In all honesty, I’m here because of the barn. Well, actually, the weathervane.”

A week later he was back with his sometime helper, Alex, a strong, able carpenter in his 40’s. They carried two satchels of tools; hammers and pliers, wrenches and a small device like a jack, an electric drill, and two lengths of long rope. It had cost Paul $2000 in a nice pile of fifties to persuade Patty Lynch to sell him the weathervane right there and then. She proved to be a tough negotiator, probably like her old man. She also demanded he dismantle the weathervane himself or hire a crew to do it.

They crossed the fields, light late in the afternoon. All the leafy color was gone, Massachusetts had turned to gray. Through the barn door, up the ladder to the second floor, then the propped ladder against the roof trapdoor. They mounted.

Once emerging to the roof, ”It’s not too steep, that’s good,” Alex cautioned, “but watch your step.”

Moving slowly, they crossed the arch roof by the center line and closed the distance to the weathervane. Paul could not believe it. Massive, the lowered sun, gleaming off its textured

surface, the weathervane shone. The wind rose.

”What the hell is it?” Alex asked.

”It’s a banshee, a mythical creature. Irish,” Paul explained.

”Man, it’s creepy,” Alex said, “What’s that noise? You hear that?”

There was a low keening sound, like an off key whistle, passing from the field, through the weathervane and directly at them.

”The wind, I’m sure it’s the wind. That old piece probably has a couple of tiny gaps in the copper,” Paul said. “Let’s get to work,”

They came within a foot of the banshee and the wind grew stronger. They could tell that it would take muscle and some strong handwork to get the brass plate off the barn surface. The howl grew louder. And louder still.

“Damn, that sounds like screaming. Like really loud screaming.” Alex said.

”Let’s hurry up,” Paul replied. They worked at the bolts and screws. The wind burst like a gale. Screaming, and it was definitely screaming, rose and fell on the wind. It pierced their ears. Screeching with a horrible dark sound, it shrieked louder than the drill, which could not free the heavy lag screws. A half-hour in, and they weren’t making any progress. Howling grew.

Shouting above the din, Paul cried out, ”Shit, I’m out of here, Paul! I can’t hear myself think! We’ll come back another day! When there’s no wind and no…”

He stood abruptly, straddling the roofline. As he did the banshee careened quickly with the wind, the front of the gown, claws upraised, crashed into his shoulder, sending him barreling, head over foot, off the peak, down the roof and over the edge. His scream echoed but not as loud as the banshee’s. The thud to the ground played a bass line to the wind.

Paul held low to the roof, eyes wide, ears crushed by the dual screams. Tools skittered down the roof, some catching, some flipping over the edge. He tried to turn and begin a panicked crawl back to the trap door. He managed a short pull, but he couldn’t move. His feet were tangled. The screaming banshee formed words and terrors above the hurricane wind. Paul began to scream. The wind pursued his body perched at the top of the barn. Screaming buried the wind. He looked back, his feet were tangled in the ropes they had brought to lower the banshee to the ground. And then the rope pulled. And pulled again. And the screaming.

When Patty Lynch showed up a week later, she looked at the house and then at the barn

and raised her hand to her mouth, not quite understanding. In the distance, Paul hung by his

foot, skull caved by his crash against the barn, upside down, ropes still attached to his legs.