The Widows Wail

by Adam Kelly

Her wail still echoed within my ears as I rested alone within the darkness of the cramped carriage. The heavy thud of the galloping horses, nor the constant creaking of the carriage around me, could dull that most horrific sound. A day or possibly two had passed and still the noise followed me. It is a sound that will haunt me until the day I die, long and piercing, starting low and confused. Quivering with uncertainty as it grasped the very facts that had summoned it from the depths of her heart and lungs. Growing shrill with pain and suddenly lurching onward, once her anger had wrapped itself around her vocal chords, squeezing, until it had choked the happiness from her being and I had been the one to cause it.

The graveyard at the back of the old church was flooded with rain pouring from the ominous grey clouds above.

Slowly, I trudged through the mud between the gravestones up to the building next to the church.

Wiping the rain from my eyes, I approached a small window, through which I could see the flicker of candlelight.

The ghostly image of lone figure draped in flowing white garments from her head to the very tips of her toes. She almost appeared to be floating back and forth, silent and alone.

Her face hidden beneath a veil, I could not see her features but I knew she was crying. She was waiting for someone, her beloved fiancé. However he was nowhere to be seen.

Fear had overcome me. I had left a note in her father’s coat pocket the night before. Not having the courage to tell her myself, I had thought it best to come from her father instead.

I knew this was a coward’s resolve and had tried to convince myself to stay, but in truth I knew it wouldn’t work. She loved me unconditionally and at first, the feeling was mutual. The spirit of that love quickly faded.

The door to the church creaked open, organ music piercing the air, through the howling winds and relentless rain.

Ducking behind a rosebush, I recognised her father. He solemnly crossed the path leading to the building his waiting daughter had taken refuge in from the storm outside.

Inside he was handing something to her. The note I left in his pocket, he had finally found it.

She took the paper from his hands and lifting the white lace covering her beautiful features, read the note, mouthing the final written words “I’m sorry”.

That is when it began, the wail, sorrowful, forlorn and angry.

Startled, I turned and slipped into the rosebush. The scent offering me the slightest of reprieves before the agonising pain of the thorns took hold. I climbed from the shrubbery dragging my legs across more of those hateful talons, leaving yet more bloody scratches in their wake. I began to run.

The rain felt heavier. Pelting me like rotten tomatoes thrown by a baying crowd, jeering and hissing through gritted teeth in judgement of my crime.

As I ran between the gravestones, the flooded ground became thicker and deeper. Sludge and dirt was lapping at my trousers, the mud pulling at my legs as if the dead themselves were grabbing at my heels, crying out for me to stop, fresh pangs of pain with every cold splash to my wounded legs. Filthy, fetid arms reaching out from their graves trying to drag me below to join them in their final resting place, scratching and clawing at my limbs.

I almost wanted to give in, to join them in their macabre sanctuary beneath. Free from judgement or recompense for my betrayal.

My carriage came to a sudden halt, tearing me from my lamenting daydream of the previous day’s events.

I had travelled to York, where my brother, Arthur, was the proprietor of a successful Inn. He would shelter me until I could find work. I stood and exited the creaking old box.

Looming before me, in the cold wind and rain, was a large, imposing, stone structure that looked like a fortress. Two large windows either side glowed orange from the candlelight within, like eyes piercing through my soul. Below that a gaping mouth which served as an entryway to those daring enough to step within.

“Micklegate Bar” Croaked the hooded driver, who was still sat upon the driver’s seat, reaching out his hand for payment. I thought him reminiscent of the ferryman sailing on the river Styx, escorting lost souls into the afterlife.

 I placed a bag of coins into his bony fingers and without counting he stuffed the bag into his pocket and heaved at the reigns, starting the horses off into the darkness.

Watching the carriage fade from view I noticed how easy it would be to mistake it for a hearse. In more ways than one I had been the cadaver for this journey. 

Giving a final glance at the stone gate before me, I pulled up the collar of my coat and walked through it.

The Inn was larger than I expected, a wooden sign bearing the title ‘The Elysium’ was being battered around by the wind. I smiled and stepped through the door.

Inside stood a lavish bar and to my right, tables immaculately clean yet all empty. As I approached the bar a tall, bald man appeared seemingly out of thin air. He was impeccably dressed and sported a kept beard.

“Good evening Sir” The man offered. “We have been awaiting your arrival. You are Mr Harker’s brother are you not?”

“I am indeed” I replied.

“If you would like to follow me” the bearded stranger nodded as he lit a candlestick. Crossing the bar, he began climbing a narrow staircase. “Your arrival, though expected, was announced upon short notice”

As we climbed, the mysterious gentleman turned to me and with an intrigued look asked “Do you know the other name of our city?” and with a crooked smile he whispered “The city of a thousand ghosts”

Something about the glint in his eye felt disconcerting. We continued on in silence.  He stopped outside a single door at the top of the spiralled staircase and unlocked it, stepping inside. I followed, immediately wishing I hadn’t.

Lit by the pale moonlight, the room was large with a peaked ceiling, but completely bare, save for a dusty old desk beneath a window, an old wardrobe and a small pitiful bed.

“As I have said, your coming was of short notice. This room will suffice until more permanent quarters become available” My Concierge assured me, as he closed the door “Goodnight”.

It was then I noticed the smell, a foul, rotting smell. I looked around the room for the source, yet it seemed to be resting in the air. My eyes explored the decaying attic, pausing upon a dark and empty corner. I couldn’t help the feeling that, as I gazed into the darkness, something, was staring back.

“Hello?” I muttered. An uncomfortable silence hung in the air along with that putrid smell. My first night remained uneventful. I found sleep to be difficult.

The following day started rather oddly. I had placed my shoes beside my bed the night before and when I awoke they were soaking wet.

That day I spent exploring around this beautiful city, from York Minster to a part of York known as The Shambles. Here my still rather damp shoes suffered more misfortune, as I stepped into a puddle of pig’s blood on the cobbled street outside one of the many butchers. As contrastingly quaint, yet crowded as this corner of the city was, I could not help but fall for its charm. Occasional streams of red trickling through the cobbles into the city itself, to the busy pulse of the crowded shops felt like the heartbeat of this glorious city. I had met its fiery eyed visage the day before.

As night fell I returned to my room where I noticed a slow dripping sound. Realising there must be a leak after all I set to work seeking out the source, yet my efforts where in vain. I had scoured every inch of the dwelling apart from one space, the dark corner of the room that had unnerved me since my arrival.

I thought better of it and decided instead to rest. As I climbed into bed I thought I caught the faint scent of roses before it was snatched from me by the familiar smell of decay the room seemed to provide.

That night I lay staring into the blackened corner, the words of Friedrich Nietzsche echoing in my head; “And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”

My third day of residency began even more curiously. I woke shivering with the cold. Even for a November morning this was unnatural. A bead of cold water rolled sideways down my forehead. Sitting up I ran a hand through my hair. A cold wet streak ran through it. The ceiling above was dry as a bone. Water droplets lined the floor leading from my bed to the desk. The chair had lain unused, yet it was now turned to face me, a small puddle atop its seat.

I quickly dressed to begin my day looking for work. As I left the room I turned one last time, regarding the chair with curiosity, my gaze then wandering to the corner. Although it was daylight, the darkened crevice sat out of reach of the sun.

As I left the Inn, I told the bearded man of the mysterious leak in my room. He assured me he would see to it.

All day I spent traversing the streets of York searching for employment, a fruitless excursion that yielded no success.

Upon my return to the Elysium, the concierge informed me that he had discovered no leak, also that a letter had arrived for me that he had placed on my desk.

I thanked him and made for my room.

I was glad to be back in the sanctity of my quarters. I breathed a heavy sigh and closed the door behind me.

The dripping had returned and with it a dark, almost black pool of what I assumed to be water, had slowly began to seep from beneath the bed, glistening in the pale blue moonlight.

A shiver ran down my spine as I edged towards the bed, snatching the candlestick from the table beside it. Grasped by the curiosity of wanting to know what lay beneath, I reached out my trembling hand and holding my weapon of choice at the ready, seized the bed and flipped it on its side. Nothing was there but dust, rat droppings and a pool of water.

I sat at the desk once again resting my head in my hands. My mind was unravelling. Guilt and regret had given way to the deepest emotion of all, fear.

Fear of a new life, fear of dying alone and fear of the judgement of others. Like spectres in the night these fears haunted me. The irony in this cities nickname suddenly became clear, the city of a thousand ghosts. I had fled across the country to escape the ghosts of my misdoings and instead, not only had I found a thousand more, but I had become one, a ghost of my former self.

Glancing at the letter that lay before me, I stroked my fingers across it, recognising my mother’s handwriting.

I exhumed the contents within.

Dear Edward,

I am sorry my son. It grieves me to inform you of young Christine’s tragic passing. Regardless of recent events I know you still loved her and this news will undoubtedly be heartbreaking for you. Still I know you will want for every last detail so I shall not refrain.

She was inconsolable upon learning of your change of heart.

Incensed, she ran from the church despite her father’s pleads for her to stay. The storm was relentless.

They found her in a flooded, open grave. She had tripped and fallen. Her neck contorted unnaturally.

I could read no more. This was my doing. If only I hadn’t ran like a coward. As my tears began to fall on the page the ink began to bleed, as if the words themselves where shedding tears of their own.

I was so encumbered with my grief that I was oblivious to the dripping sound growing louder until I could feel each drop hit the floor behind me. Whatever the cause of that noise was, it was in the room. It was behind me.

The already frigid room was pierced with an icy chill. Condensation crawling across the windows as if the room itself had began to breathe.

For the life of me I could not move. I had become gripped by some unnatural form of rigor mortis. Trapped within my own body, all I could do was look upon the letter that still shook in my hand. Watching black inky tears fall from the words upon it, as if some malevolent force commanded me to gaze upon my consequence.

The smell of roses returned. The scratches upon my legs inflicted a few days earlier began to burn. I glanced down as mud snaked up my legs, forming fingers that wrapped around my wounds.

I had lost my mind surely.

Ice cold breath on the back of my neck, I needed rest.

Water dripping down my spine, I was working too hard.

A cold, wet hand on my shoulder, I began to turn against my own will.

She was draped in flowing white garments from her head to the very tips of her toes. She was floating silently before me. Her face hidden beneath a veil, I could not see her features but I knew she was crying. She was waiting for someone, her beloved fiancé. She had found him.

Her veil began to lift of its own doing as she floated closer. Those lips that had mouthed my cowardly words days before, the lips I had fallen in love with. She floated closer for one final embrace.

As she drifted into the moonlight I noticed her dress was soaking wet. No longer white, it had become a dull grey. Her head sat at a crooked angle to her body which seemed twisted the opposite way. Those lips, those thin blue lips, her teeth almost showing beneath. She looked more corpse-like the closer she drifted.

It was a haunting noise, long and piercing, starting low and confused. Quivering with uncertainty as it grasped the very facts that had summoned it from the depths of my heart and lungs, growing shrill with fear. She lurched forward, her skeletal, ghostly hands reaching for my throat. All the life gone from her eyes and I had been the one to cause it. I wailed.

The widows wail.