The Banshee's Comb (Campfire Story)

In Ireland, there's one thing the old folks will tell you never, ever to do. If you're walking along a lonely road at night and you see a comb lying in the grass, a lovely silver comb, shining in the moonlight, you leave it right where it is. Don't touch it. Don't even look at it too long. Because that comb belongs to the BANSHEE.

The BANSHEE is a spirit woman with long silver hair and a gray cloak. They say she follows the old Irish families, and when one of them is near the end of their days, she sits outside the house at night and combs her long hair, COMB, and wails, BANSHEE, so the family knows to say goodbye.

Now, there was a young fellow named Tom who didn't believe a word of it. 'Old wives' tales,' he said. And one night, walking home past the graveyard, what should he see lying in the grass but a comb. A beautiful silver comb, with long silver hairs still caught in its teeth.

'Finders keepers,' said Tom, and he put it in his pocket.

That night, as Tom sat by the fire, he heard something outside the window. COMB. Soft. Slow. COMB. Like somebody brushing long, long hair. And then, from far away over the hills, a sound that made the hair on his neck stand straight up. BANSHEE!

Tom's grandmother sat straight up in her rocking chair. 'Tom,' she said, very quietly. 'What did you bring into this house?'

Tom pulled out the silver comb. His grandmother went pale as milk. 'You foolish boy. She's come for it.'

And then, at the door: KNOCK.

Tom started toward the door with the comb in his hand, but his grandmother grabbed his arm. 'Don't you dare hand it to her with your own hand! Whatever she touches, she keeps.' She took the long iron tongs from beside the fireplace, the ones for moving hot coals, and set the comb in the end of them.

KNOCK. The wailing was right outside now. BANSHEE!

Tom opened the door just a crack, just wide enough to poke the tongs through. Outside, he saw nothing but mist and a flash of silver hair. A cold, white hand reached out of the mist and snatched the comb.

And then the tongs were yanked so hard that Tom fell flat on his back. He slammed the door, and the two of them sat there shaking until the sun came up.

In the morning, Tom looked at the tongs. The thick iron ends had been twisted round and round, tied up in a knot like a piece of string.

Tom never picked up another thing he found by the road. And if you ever hear soft brushing outside your tent at night, COMB, COMB, and a knock where there shouldn't be one... KNOCK... well. Don't open the flap with your bare hand.

Storyteller tips: tell this one low and slow, and save your loudest voice for the tongs being yanked. If you have a comb and tongs or a stick, act out the handoff. For the last line, knock on something nearby yourself instead of cueing the audience, and watch them jump.

The banshee (bean sí, "woman of the fairy mound") is a mourner, not a monster. In the old stories her cry warns a family, it doesn't cause the loss. The comb and the tongs are a common Irish telling.