Banish, Part 1

And welcome back to Undertow Realms, podcast of the weird and the wicked. I'm your host, Fred Greenhalgh, here with a story of a woman who arrives in a quaint town in Maine to tend after her sick aunt's antique business. But after she hears and ignores ominous warnings from the locals, it becomes clear there's a reason the town is named Banish. Banish is written by Laura Bernier, wife to Chris Bernier, whose work you've heard here many times on Undertow before. And it is performed by Janice Morgan. We're presenting it in two parts, so get ready for a road trip destination Banish, Maine. I think this place is great. Check with the tourism bureau. Here we go. It was September when I first pulled into Banish, and the days were still long, staying light out past 7 p.m. It wasn't until the sun began to set earlier each evening that the full scope of the town's nightmare came into focus for me. Became my nightmare too. The air conditioner in my 15-year-old Forrester conked out on the drive up from Brooklyn, so I had the windows down as I passed the town welcome sign. Founded 1793, population 1,508, and rolled along Main Street. I'd never been to Banish. It was a town in the Sebago-Long Lake region, not itself on the water, but near enough to any number of lakes and conveniently on the route to several ski towns in both Maine and New Hampshire. Its location and multi-season vacationer draw made it ideal as an antiques destination. I drove past the Banish Trading Works, a tall weathervane top structure that had perhaps once been a town hall, and Churnley's Antiques, a hoarder's paradise built into an old gas station, its front lawn cluttered with junkyard detritus, before I pulled up to Aunt Margaret's shop. It was a colonial-era house with wood siding painted red. The sign over the door said Finney & Co. in wrought iron cursive. I found a parking spot just past the shop, nearly to a restaurant called Susanna's that was doing a bustling late lunch and cut the engine. The door key was where Aunt Margaret had said it would be, and I fished it out of its flowerpot surreptitiously so that none of the sidewalk diners would see. I felt foolish when I glanced over my shoulder to check. None of them were looking at me. This was one of the things Charlie had complained about. You always make everything about you, he'd said. You always think everyone is out to get you or that everyone thinks you've done something wrong. No one is actually thinking about you that much, Clover. Inside, the red house was hot and stuffy. It smells clean, though, like lemon pledge and freshly mopped pine floorboards. I searched each room for the cats. I didn't find any trace of them, but also not a trace of decomposing animals. So presumably one of Aunt Margaret's friends had taken the pets in after the ambulance had departed on its way to Portland. I examined the shop with growing appreciation. Aunt Margaret had set up the rooms of the house with antique furniture and vintage accessories that fit each room's original purpose. The front parlor boasted upholstered love seats and Chesterfield club chairs. The kitchen was decked out mid-century style, with twinkling dishes and a chrome table surrounded by yellow naugahyde chairs. Upstairs, each of the bedrooms had a different color scheme to which Aunt Margaret had matched the potpourri. Everything was for sale, even the potpourri. It was charming. I found that I was surprised. I didn't know my aunt that well, though she and my mother were fairly close. Not close enough that we'd been encouraged to visit. Reunions took place in Boston, where my mother lived, but even those had decreased of late. The last time I'd seen Aunt Margaret, I'd thought she seemed edgy, even grim, so the cheery, cultivated polish of her shop took me off guard. I descended the stairs, noting that they were steep and slightly crooked, and texted my mom that I'd arrived safely. Because I was looking at my phone, I didn't see that I was no longer alone until the newcomer spoke. I've got the cats. My foot expected to find the bottom step, but I miscalculated and found only air. My stomach plummeted. I recalibrated and looked at the intruder. I was a little embarrassed and disoriented, and I spoke more sharply than I intended. I'm sorry, who exactly are you? The woman was unaffected by my tone. She was medium height, about 65 or 70, and extremely slender. Her nose and cheekbones stood out in her face like a picture frame to the main feature of her huge dark eyes. Her hair was pure white and cropped short in a bowl cut, but somehow she made this look natural and even glamorous. She wore a white cotton sweater and green linen pants. I'm Dorothy Eustace, she said. I have the plan apothecary down the street. I'm assuming you're Margaret's niece? Yes, I'm Clover Finney. A bit sheepish, I shook hands. Hers was dry and cool. How's Margaret doing? I haven't heard an update since she was flown from Portland. She's still in the hospital, but out of intensive care. The doctor said she has a long road ahead of her, but should make a full recovery. Well, thank God for that. And she'll be staying with your mother for the time being? In Boston? Was this the small-town nosiness that had driven my mother out of Maine as a young adult? Yes, once she's released from Mass General. So you have her cats? She'd taken in my aunt's pets the night after the heart attack. We made arrangements for me to pick them up once I'd settled my things into my aunt's living quarters. Aunt Margaret had transformed a carriage house in the shop's backyard to live in so that the main house could be given over entirely to selling antiques. It didn't occur to me until after Dorothy left to ask what a plan apothecary was. I hauled my suitcase out of the Subaru into the carriage house. I checked the fridge for spoiled food, but except for an oozing bag of Brussels sprouts, everything seemed mostly stable. I looked around the kitchen for a compost bucket and spotted one outside the back door. The door had three locks on it. Seemed excessive. I undid them all and opened the door and dumped the rotting sprouts into the bucket. The back patio area was narrow, edged with wild ferns and set apart from the encroaching forest by a waist-high curved fence. A metal bell hung from the gate, and prickly boughs of what looked like holly had been woven through the posts. I wondered if this was to keep wildlife away or just left over from last Christmas. It was surprising how closely the trees came to the yard, considering that this was Main Street, and thus presumably the center of the village. I closed the door behind me, but only bothered to fasten one lock. The window over the sink had iron bars on it, I noticed. I was used to this from Brooklyn, but in Banish, Maine? I found two pet carriers in the front coat closet and took them out. On the front doorstep, I hesitated, my hands full. I was just walking down a handful of storefronts on Main Street to Dorothy's shop. Surely I didn't need to lock the door behind me. I thought uneasily of the iron bars and the three locks. With a sigh, I set the carriers down and reached into my pocket for the key. Dorothy Eustace's plant apothecary was dim, only lit by the afternoon sunlight streaming through the front windows. Its carved tin ceiling and wide-worn floorboards were painted greenish-black, adding to the impression of cool gloom. Potted plants covered several surfaces, while gardening tools and gifty items like candles and ring trays adorned the rest At first I thought the store was empty Then with a jump I realized Dorothy had been there the whole time She stood behind the cash register her arms folded Despite her white hair and white sweater, she blended in with our surroundings and seemed to absorb the darkness, like a three-dimensional shadow. A flash of movement caught my eye, and I saw a cat stalk around her feet. This is fish. That's chips. Dorothy broke her silence. Her eyes set so widely apart in her face were night dark and unblinking. Fish is orange, chips is black. Margaret usually keeps the pantry stocked with their favorite foods. You understand about changing their litter boxes? Oh, yeah, totally. My boyfriend has had a cat. I mean, he still has it. He's just not... I trailed off, annoyed. Something about Dorothy unnerved me, and I wasn't used to appearing flustered. So how did you get the cats here from Margaret's place? Did you carry them in your arms? Dorothy looked amused. I told them to follow me and they obeyed. Like this. Fish in the carrier. The orange cat mewed in reluctant protest, but stalked into the carrier and settled down. Dorothy commanded chips into the other one and I bent down to latch the doors. Dorothy held the front door open for me. Planned apothecary was written on its glass window in copper. Etched, I noticed. and not a decal. Clover? I looked back at Dorothy. There was an odd note in her voice, a strain in her expression that I couldn't quite identify. I don't know how much Margaret was able to tell you. In the hospital? About Banish? I actually hadn't spoken to my aunt at all. The ICU restricted visitors. My mother had conveyed her instructions to me. I guess she said something about not going out at night. Dorothy's strain eased the tiniest amount. Yes, we all stay in once the sun goes down. I suggest you follow suit. Nightlife here gets a little rowdy? I was curious. How bad could the yokels get? Surely no worse than the Bushwick bros I was used to. Something like that. I waited. Finally, she added, reluctantly, it seemed to me, There are folks around here who live off the grid. They aren't the nicest. They can lurk around after dark. A woman living alone? Just take my word for it. Noncommittal, I nodded and took a few awkward paces down the sidewalk, laden with the pet carriers, trying to jostle the cats as little as possible. So I hadn't gotten very far, and she barely had to raise her voice when she repeated her warning. Remember, Clover. Don't go outside after dark. Well, that first day, I wasn't tempted. Like I said, the sun still set late, and I'd gotten up before dawn to beat the traffic out of the city. By the time it was dark, I had fallen asleep on top of the bedclothes, Netflix episodes cycling onward until they hit the Are You Still Watching prompt? I got up to pee and brush my teeth and turn off the TV and never even thought of looking out the windows into the dark to see what it was that had Dorothy and Margaret so adamant about staying inside. The cats took a few days to warm up to me. I wasn't hurt by this. I wasn't actually a cat person, another point of contention between Charlie and me. He'd adopted his cat, which he named Luna, like every other pet in a 20-block radius, during one of our breakups, and subconsciously or not, I'd always resented the animal. I made an effort with fish and chips, though, stroking them and offering them treats. I'd be here for a minimum of six weeks, maybe longer. Aunt Margaret had almost died, and her recovery couldn't be rushed. It was fortuitous, in a way, how things worked out. My contract as an adjunct art professor had not been renewed. The rapid advent of AI had reduced my already dwindling freelance projects to nothing. I'd been staying with Charlie, and obviously that was now out as well. Meanwhile, there was only Mom and me to come to my aunt's aid after her sudden cardiac event. Mom took charge of her medical care, had her flown to Boston to get a bed in the best hospital. Once things stabilized, thoughts turned to Margaret's business, her sole source of income. You'll have plenty of time up there to get back to your own drawing, my mother said, when she'd prevailed upon me to take this stint in Maine, keeping the lights on in Margaret's shop for her. What about the graphic novel you keep saying you want to do? I didn't know if it was the years of teaching or the breakup with Charlie, but my confidence was shot. Whenever I sat down to draw, my hand shook. The lines trembled on the page as though scrawled by an alcoholic in the late stages of DTs. They say those who can't do teach, but what do they do when they can't even teach anymore? So when I wasn't helming the shop register, my sketch pad didn't hold me for very long. I went out searching for distractions. There was plenty to explore. Banish, as I've already said, was an antique hunter's haven. The Finney & Co. posted hours were noon to six, but Churnley's opened at 11, give or take, while the trading works sharp as a tack at 10 a.m. daily. Conscious that I would be viewed as, well, that I was an interloper from New York City, I tried to make eye contact and smile at the passerbys I encountered. This seemed to scare them. A middle-aged woman jaywalked to avoid me. Meanwhile, the coffee shop between Finney & Co. and the plant apothecary kept odd hours, 9 a.m., which seemed late for a coffee shop, to 1 p.m., which seemed early, and the proprietor was similarly unaccommodating. She answered my attempts at chit-chat with monosyllables and flipped the open sign to closed the second I departed. It was only 10.05. I took a sip of my iced coffee and crossed Main Street. The trading works was manned by its owner, Trent Robbie. He was a tall, tattooed guy of about 35 or 40 with a long, curly beard. He looked vaguely familiar, maybe because he exactly resembled a Bedford Avenue barber down to his crisply ironed plaid shirt. His store was airy and well-curated, four floors of interesting finds tending toward the restoration hardware aesthetic. Huge wardrobes, rescued church pews, butcher block sideboards, as well as graceful paintings and framed art hanging around each corner. I couldn't resist buying a papier-mâché crescent moon that he said was from the 1930s. He introduced himself to me when I brought it to the register. Any friend of Margaret's, he said as he rang up the sale. He gave me a 10% friends and family discount and passed me a hand-drawn get-well card that he said his kids had made for my aunt. Aren't you and Aunt Margaret competitors, I asked. No way, he said. Banish is one big family. My kids call her Aunt Margaret too. He pointed to a photo propped up behind the cash register. In it, a young woman with chin-length brown hair held a chunky baby boy, while two little girls clutched one of each of his feet. Avery is eight, Kennedy is five, and Beau is two now. That's my wife, Nora. They're lovely, I said, to be polite. He wrapped the moon in newspaper and placed it in a brown paper bag. I took it. Thank you for the discount, I said and turned to go. hey Clover I had a feeling I knew where this was heading and sure enough I'm sure it seems wacky but it's best if you don't go out after dark town tradition he wasn't kidding or smiling if anything he spoke pompously in the manner of someone accustomed to being obeyed father knows best I was irked so I guess that's why that was the night I went out Hi, this is Rob Benedict. And I am Richard Speight We were both on a little show you might know called Supernatural It had a pretty good run 15 seasons 327 episodes And though we have seen of course every episode many times we figured, hey, now that we're wrapped, let's watch it all again. And we can't do that alone. So we're inviting the cast and crew that made the show along for the ride. We've got writers, producers, composers, directors, and we'll, of course, have some actors on as well, including some certain guys that played some certain pretty iconic brothers. It was kind of a little bit of a left field choice in the best way possible. The note from Kripke was, he's great, we love him, but we're looking for like a really intelligent Duchovny type. With 15 seasons to explore, it's going to be the road trip of several lifetimes. So please join us and subscribe to Supernatural then and now. ah the regency era you might know it as the time when bridgerton takes place or it's the time when jane austen wrote her books the regency era was also an explosive time of social change sex scandals and maybe the worst king in british history vulgar history's new season is all about the regency era the balls the gowns and all the scandal listen to vulgar history regency era wherever you get podcasts. Oh, please, not that music. That music gives me nightmares from my childhood. Could we get something a little bit lighter, some lighter music here? Are you a fan of true crime TV shows? And what about Unsolved Mysteries, the show that jump-started all of our love of true crime? I'm Ellen Marsh. And I'm Joey Taranto. And we host I Think Not, a true crime comedy podcast covering some of the wildest stories from your favorite true crime campy TV shows all the way to Unsolved Mysteries. Baby, you will laugh, you will cry, you'll think about true crime in a whole new way, and you'll also ask yourself, who gave these people mics? New episodes of I Think Not are released every Wednesday with bonus episodes out every Thursday on Patreon. And every Monday, you can listen to our True Crime Rundown, where we go over the top true crime headlines of the week. So come and join us wherever you listen to your podcasts. It's not like I premeditated it or spent the whole day plotting how I'd defy the townspeople. I shook off my irritation as I left the trading works and went across the street to poke around in one more store before I opened Finian Co. for the day. Narrow walkways between piles of junk characterized the overgrown gas station that was Churnley's. If it was a garden, it would have been choked by vines and weeds. Instead, it was choked by clutter. There may have been treasures to unearth, but it was unlikely most casual shoppers would be able to do so under the grouchy eye and MAGA hat of Frank Churnley. He sat on a metal stool by the entrance and watched me on smiling as I browsed. I was the only customer. I took the bull by the horns and introduced myself. I know who you are, he grunted. That's all he said until I left empty-handed. when I got the now familiar don't-go-out-at-night warning. If I'd been in the mood for introspection, I'd have known that that's when my plan that wasn't a plan got cemented. I walked back to Aunt Margaret's shop and switched the clothes sign to open a few minutes before 12. It was a bright fall Friday and business was brisk. I sold a vanity from the pink bedroom and a pair of wing-back chairs from the parlor. I arranged with the buyers for weekend pickups and hung sold tags on the pieces in question. Their absence would create gaps in the displays, and I wondered if Aunt Margaret had stock in storage ready to swap out or if she would want me to begin browsing estate sales on her behalf. I found I didn't mind the idea. Playing shopkeeper for the past week had been kind of fun. But by seven that night, the novelty wore off. I'd run through the half-hearted grocery stash I'd bought on my first morning at the Hannaford on the outskirts of town, and all that was left was one frozen pizza. I stalled and ate a bowl of cereal instead. I called my mom and left a message when she didn't answer. I was sick of Netflix. I tried to sketch, but okay, whatever. I didn't want to. I didn't know what I wanted to do. I was restless. The sun had set. Through the carriage house's barred windows, I could just glimpse at the restaurant Susanna's. Bistro lights shone, and I thought I heard the sound of voices. Why shouldn't I go have a drink? maybe even dinner. I could box up the leftovers for tomorrow's lunch. Perhaps I'd meet someone unmarried and or under the age of 70. I knew Charlie wasn't spending his Friday night alone. Spiraling down this thought train is what finally drove me into my shoes and out the door. I didn't notice the subtle spark that occurred when I slammed the door behind me. The key felt hot in my hand as I turned it in the lock, but then thoughts of Charlie's betrayal always tended to send my temperature soaring. I shoved the keys in my handbag and strode towards Susanna's at a fast clip. The sidewalks were empty, lit by a streetlight between Finney and Co. and the restaurant. As I passed under, it went out with a pop and a sizzle. Now the town was dark. Only the bistro lights at Susanna's cast any illumination. It was an overcast night, and the moon was barely a muted glow behind the cloud cover. The restaurant's front door was locked. Frowning, I tugged harder to no avail. Two signs were posted in the door's glass pane, a rainbow flag that read, Abide No Hatred, and a placard listing the hours. 11 a.m. until sundown, Tuesday to Sunday. What the hell was up with this town? So that means they stayed open till after nine in the summers, but closed at like 4 p.m. in the winters? I clomped down the steps. The closest place to get food was the Amato's next to the Hannaford, but it was on the far side of town by the gas stations and the old train depot. Unofficial curfew or not, I didn't fancy walking across town in the dark. I'd have to get my car. The wind blew through the streets and ruffled my hair. I felt suddenly uneasy. If I'm honest, I'd been feeling uneasy since the moment the key turned in my hand. Frozen pizza didn't sound so bad after all. I headed back the way I'd come. Finney and Co. was only half a block away. Footsteps picked up a few paces behind mine. I stopped and turned, but there was no one there. When I started walking, the sound of footsteps began again. They were accompanied now by a long, low laugh. It might have been a growl. I walked faster. the impact hit me like a rugby tackle my body sparked all over and I hit the cement something had its teeth in my calf through the stars I was seeing I shook my leg uselessly yanking it to no avail I heard my jeans rip and felt my skin follow the pain hadn't hit me yet I scrabbled for a hold on the sidewalk there was a snarl that made my hair stand on end and suddenly my leg was free. I crawled away desperate and dared at last to look over my shoulder. I hadn't had any time to think, but if I had, I suppose I assumed my attacker was a dog or a bear, a wolf, some kind of creature. Now I froze in shock. It was a woman. She lunged at me, her teeth bared in fury. Her eyes were set too far apart and her teeth were oddly long. All this I saw in the blur of an instant before she was on me, throttling me with her long fingers. She was insanely strong. My vision began to go black. Before I lost consciousness, I heard a horrible clang. The pressure on my throat subsided, I think, but by then, it was too late and I was gone. She coming back around it was difficult to ascertain which part of me hurt the worst my throat my leg my back where i'd been tackled and my side where i'd hit the pavement i opened my eyes suddenly terrified about what i'd see two faces loomed over me both reassuringly ordinary. I thought I recognized one, and after a beat, the red hat clued me in. It was Frank Churnley, the old grouch from the junk shop. The other face was a similar age, perhaps 65-plus, female, short, spiky gray hair, and a flash of winged eyeliner that made her look jaunty. She's awake, Churnley said, and he moved back out of my line of vision. The woman helped me sit up. Easy does it, she said. She was plump and wore a gauzy black caftan. Her grip was reassuring and steady. She passed me an ice pack and told me to hold it to my throat. I was in the restaurant's kitchen. She went to get more ice from the industrial freezer for my leg, which had been efficiently bandaged. I thanked her, and she said, Oh, that was all Frank. He was a medic in Vietnam. Churnley leaned up against the stainless steel counter. He grunted. The woman was Susanna Baxter, the restaurant's owner. She'd been the one to clobber my attacker with a cast iron skillet, which she displayed with pride. It's usually for frittatas, but you know they don't like iron. And my personal trainers got me swinging kettlebells. Came in real handy. Who's they? What the fuck was that thing? I clutched an ice pack in each hand. Their coldness was the only thing convincing me that any of this was real. I told you not to go out at night. Turnley looked disapproving. Oh, Frank, Susanna said. I would have done the same thing. I did the same thing when I moved here. And look how that turned out. We won't speak about that right now. Susanna turned back to me. Now, Clover. It is Clover, correct? What a pretty name. How did you come by it? My dad's an ex-hippie, I muttered. Look, what the hell is going on in this town? She regarded me with sympathy. Banish is a bit of an acquired taste, it's true, but you're perfectly safe as long as you stick to the rules. Bit late for that now, Frank said. An acquired taste, I repeated. A taste for what, psychopaths? "'Some of the people who live here,' Susanna paused, as if reluctant to let me in on an unpleasant truth. "'At night they lose control, become feral, but it passes by morning. "'The woman who attacked you won't even remember. "'So I'm not supposed to press charges? "'What happens if I run into her at the laundromat?' "'My voice rose. "'This is crazy. Is it drugs? Some kind of vampire cosplay?' Frank and Susanna were silent for just a moment too long before Frank scoffed. Vampires aren't real. Don't be ridiculous. Susanna changed the subject. Banish is a quirky place, but ultimately a rewarding one, she said. Everyone here brings something to the table. What do you bring, Clover? I'm just here to look after my aunt's shop. My head was spinning and my wounds were throbbing. But you must have had a life before, she said. A hobby? A profession? I'm an illustrator by trade, I found myself admitting. I teach drawing, or I did. Susanna looked thoughtful. Fascinating, she said. I just want to go home, I said, and suddenly I felt a tightness in my throat that was not related to the strangling. I did want to go home, But where even was that? Not with Charlie, not with Mom, not with Dad, not Brooklyn, not Boston. Where was I needed or even wanted? Frank, see that Clover gets back safely, Susanna said. He clapped his red hat more firmly on his head and took me by the elbow. We'll talk more, dear. I'm here anytime. For an old fart, Frank could walk fast. No one came near us on the return to the carriage house. He waited until I'd slammed all the locks home before I heard him move away. I leaned against the door and let out a shaky exhale. Then I went to the bathroom to take stock. The red marks on my throat would definitely leave bruises. I peeled up a corner of the leg bandage. Frank really had done a nice job and examined the bite. It was red and angry looking. I slathered Neosporin on the wound and re-bandaged it, showered and got in bed. I'd always had a talent for compartmentalizing, honed, I suppose, by patchouli summers spent in my dad's camper van following Grateful Dead tribute bands and starched winters in school uniforms being classically educated in Boston. Now, I summoned this talent from deep within and laid to rest my disbelief about the strange situation in which I found myself next to my still raw heartbreak over Charlie. I couldn't solve either problem, or to be precise, I couldn't solve them tonight. I put my earbuds in and hit play on a sleep aid podcast. I was just drifting off while I thought of something. I limped to the kitchen and made sure each and every excessive lock was fastened. And that was Banish Part 1 by Laura Bernier, performed by Janice Morgan, with sound design by me, Fred Greenhalgh, and music by Blue Dot Sessions. Banish is a Dagaz Media production. Part 2 will reveal just exactly what is going on with those strange creatures that roam at night, and we'll find Clover with an impossible choice. Undertow is a production of Realm, themed by Marcus Vagala, executive producers Fred Greenhalgh and Molly Barton. Thanks for listening, and stay spooky. The world of Sonic the Hedgehog has been thrust into a not-so-dark, not-so-stormy, hard-boiled detective story that probably nobody saw coming. Follow Sonic and the Intrepid Chaotix Detective Agency as they take on their biggest case yet. This high-flying, action-packed adventure will take them across the world, fighting for every clue they can find. It's one heck of a tale. Which is good, because this story might be the only thing that can save their lives. Well, if that's all, I can just dispose of you. Wait, what? All will be revealed in... Sonic the Hedgehog presents The Chaotix Case Files. Listen now, wherever you get your podcasts. The chaotix are on the case. For eight years, we've been asking the same question over and over again. How did this happen? My name's Mandy. And I'm Melissa. And we're the hosts of Moms and Mysteries, the true crime podcast with over 55 million downloads. We're two Florida moms who are obsessed with mysteries. Each week, we do deep dives into fascinating true crime stories. We cover everything from infamous cases like Casey Anthony to the bizarre and complex crimes right here in our home state, like the shocking murder of FSU professor Dan Markell. We bring you the facts, but with warmth and width, you'd only get from two friends who have been hooked on mysteries since childhood. Join us for new episodes of Moms and Mysteries every Tuesday and Thursday. Listen to Moms and Mysteries on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or wherever you get your podcasts.