It was during our first visit to Ireland in September 1948,” recounted Mr. William C. Gall, M.P.S., of Emsworth, Hants, “that my wife Eve and I went with our hostess to spend a day or two at her brother’s house at Killagally, south of Athlone. It was a big, Georgian house, almost a mansion, built on the ruins of an ancient nunnery, but being Ireland, and remoter Ireland at that, it had no modern conveniences, such as gas or electricity. Thus, it happened that in the evening we were gathered round a log fire in a huge and lofty eighteenth-century room, dimly illumined by two candles set in tall silver candlesticks, engaged in conversation such as one can enjoy only in Ireland. It was a still night, but pouring with rain; the great window shutters were closed; there was no other house within a mile; and it was half a mile to the lodge gates on the highway. We were listening to reminiscences of the past, when I heard a most unearthly howling noise from somewhere outside. I looked at my wife and she looked at me, but the others continued talking as though they had not heard it. Again there came that uncanny wailing, more prolonged this time, and still they made no remark although it was manifest that they were rather disconcerted. Our query ‘Whatever was that?’ passed unheeded. When for a third time there was that eerie howling, rising and falling in pitch and even more persistent and insistent than before, it was impossible to ignore it, but our host’s only reaction was to rise abruptly and say, ‘I think we’re stirring them up too much. We had all better go to bed.’ Without more ado, he bade us ‘Goodnight’ and left the room. There was nothing more to be said, so each of us lighted our candles and went to our rooms. Once we were in our bedroom, by force of habit I looked at my watch, which showed a little after ten o’clock. My wife, Eve, said to me, ‘Whatever was that weird howling; one would think it was a Banshee.’ I replied: ‘Well, it was certainly not a dog, or a fox, or an owl.’ (It was quite unlike any of these and the persistent, mournful rising and falling wail sent cold shivers down the spine.) ‘I believe it was a Banshee, and if so it is a bad omen for someone here tonight.’ It was with subdued and apprehensive feelings that we eventually settled down for the night. The next day our friends absolutely ignored any attempt to refer to the matter, and in the course of a really delightful holiday we soon forgot our fears and forebodings and the whole affair sank into the background of our minds. The sequel came when our holiday was over and we returned to our little cottage at Waterlooville in Hampshire, where we were living at the time. There we learnt, to our distress, that a very dear friend and neighbour had been terribly injured by two burglars and was critically ill in hospital. He was the owner of a laundry situated at the rear of our cottage and he lived in a house at the end of the road, so he had to pass our cottage on his journeys between his home and the laundry. On the very night on which we heard the Banshee, our friend had occasion to visit the laundry office, which was situated upstairs, on the first floor. He entered the building, using an electric torch to see his way, and as he went to mount the stairs to the office he was attacked by the two men concealed there, who struck him down and then hurled a large cash-box at his head, which gave him a dreadful injury. He lost consciousness but regained it again some time and then attempted to reach his home. It must have been a nightmare journey as he crawled along, weak with loss of blood and with spells of unconsciousness. At last he reached the door of our cottage and he has a distinct recollection of sitting on the door­step, fervently wishing that we were at home and could come to his aid. Eventually he did manage to reach his home just as his son was about to go in search of him. For a long time his life was despaired of, but brilliant surgery and careful nursing restored him to health once more. Checking over the details with him when he was well enough to discuss them, we discovered that he was sitting on our doorstep mentally calling us in his distress, at the very same time that we were listening to that wailing Banshee in Ireland.” Marjorie Johnson, Seeing Fairies