The bulk of these stories were never written down and could fade out of existence in a few short decades. Details would be forgotten or changed. Interest in them would dwindle until the kids were throwing their eyes to the heavens whenever grandad mentioned the olden days. And then that was that. The superstition would die and so too would its monsters.

There was one interviewee, not old per se, he was probably in his sixties. Mickeen was his name. He was constantly cracking jokes and slapping Ben on the back as if to make sure their punchlines physically landed. He had a thick navy jumper, hair like an Eighties’ perm, and one of those Irish beards that captured every shade of autumn. He’d leant forward in his chair, inviting Ben a little closer with a twitch of his finger. His wife had been interviewed before him. She had spoken mostly of the banshee. Nothing Ben hadn’t heard before.

‘Do you think it’s all true?’ Mickeen asked, smirking as if awaiting some hilarious response.

‘It doesn’t matter if I do or not,’ Ben replied. ‘I’m just here to collect the stories.’

‘You don’t.’ Mickeen laughed, slapping his thigh. ‘I knew you didn’t. Sure, why would you? It’s all just a bit of fun, isn’t it?’

‘You should have heard your wife talk earlier. She certainly seems to believe in it.’

The banshee tradition was common as rain across the island. Though the stories were often rewrought between counties, she was always an omen of death, her eerie cries foretelling a death in the community. For the most part she was a woman dressed all in black, with long white hair that she could often be seen combing, or so the stories went. Details varied depending on who was telling them. There were examples where some hapless sod had found a comb on his walk home only to have the banshee follow him, hammering on his door with horrifying force, practically shaking the thatch from the roof. It was usually returned by means of iron tongs, which oddly enough were either broken or melted from the banshee’s touch. The Irish were certainly inventive; Ben couldn’t deny his people that.

‘Aye.’ Mickeen grinned. ‘My wife has seen and heard enough. The grandkids, too, whenever they’re visiting.’

‘And you?’ Ben asked. ‘You haven’t seen or heard anything?’

‘I’ll tell you a secret,’ Mickeen offered, winking down at the recorder, ‘between you and me.’

Ben agreed. The reels were stopped.