Chapter 4: The Weeping Bride

Chapter 4: The Weeping Bride

The two nights following the "cleanup" were a study in strained silence. Thomas no longer walked with a swagger; he moved like a man trying to make himself as small as possible, his eyes perpetually wide and scanning the oppressive dark. He stayed close to Leo, a pilot fish clinging to a grim, silent shark, his terror a palpable thing in the cold air. The unspoken horror of what they had zipped into that black bag lay between them, a shared trauma that needed no words.

For Leo, the boy's death was a heavy stone added to an already unbearable cairn of sorrows. But it was the rune, scratched into the back of the phone now tucked away in his locker, that truly haunted him. It felt like a key to a door he never knew existed, and he feared what lay on the other side. The phantom chant of the spirits now had a shape, a symbol, and it was a symbol that was reaching beyond the cemetery walls.

Tonight’s patrol took them towards the oldest section of Blackwood Hollow, a decaying sprawl of tilting headstones and crumbling mausoleums choked by ivy and shadowed by ancient, skeletal oaks. The air here was always the coldest, the sense of sorrow the most profound. This was her territory.

The sobbing began as it always did, a faint, distant sound of a heart breaking. As they drew closer, it grew in intensity, weaving through the tombstones, a melody of pure, undiluted grief. Thomas flinched, instinctively pulling the collar of his jacket tighter.

Leo kept his pace steady, his jaw set. He knew the source. A large, ostentatious marble monument for a bride who had thrown herself from a cliff on her wedding day in 1887. A tragic story. A perfect vessel for something truly monstrous.

The sobbing was directly in front of them now, seeming to emanate from the shadows pooling at the base of the monument. It was a sound designed to claw at the soul, to elicit a desperate urge to offer comfort. But Leo had seen what happened to those who offered comfort in this place.

Leo…

The whisper was not part of the sobbing. It was a single, perfect thought inserted directly into his mind, clear as a bell. He kept walking, his flashlight beam fixed straight ahead. It was one of her usual tricks.

You never liked the quiet, did you? Back in the city. You always needed the noise to sleep. The sirens, the traffic… it was a lullaby for you.

Leo’s stride faltered for a fraction of a second, a barely perceptible hitch in his rhythm. Thomas, walking nearly in his footsteps, noticed it and tensed. Leo recovered instantly, his pace resuming its metronomic beat. But his mind was reeling. How could it know that? It was a small, insignificant detail from a life he had buried fourteen years ago, a life before Blackwood Hollow. He had never told anyone.

The sobbing intensified, and the whisper came again, laced with a cruel, mocking pity.

Sarah hated it. She wanted a little house with a garden. A place where you could hear the crickets at night. She told you that on your second anniversary.

Leo’s hand tightened on his flashlight until his knuckles were white bone. A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck. Sarah. It had never said her name before. He felt a surge of pure, unadulterated rage, so potent it almost made him gasp. He fought it down, shoving it into the iron box in his chest where he kept all the things that could get him killed. He focused on the crunch of his boots on the gravel. It’s a trick. It’s guessing. It’s a hook.

Is it a trick, Leo? Or is it a memory? I have so many of them now. They’re like pressed flowers in a book.

The voice was closer now, coiling around his thoughts like a venomous snake. The air shimmered near the monument, and for a moment, he could almost see her—the tattered veil, the silhouette of a wedding dress, a promise of madness.

I remember the yellow sundress she wore. The one with the little blue flowers on it. You went for a picnic at Miller’s Pond. You were late picking her up from the library because you were watching a baseball game. You forgot to buy the lilies she asked for. The voice dripped with Sarah’s remembered disappointment, a subtle, cutting tone Leo hadn’t heard in almost two decades. She forgave you, of course. She always did.

Every word was a perfectly aimed dart, striking a memory he had locked away, protected. His mental discipline, the unbreachable wall he had spent fourteen years building, was beginning to crack. He could feel the memories she spoke of bubbling up, vivid and painful: the warmth of the sun, the scent of Sarah’s hair, the guilty knot in his stomach over the forgotten flowers. He was losing control. The cemetery wasn't just a physical space anymore; the entity was turning his own mind into a hunting ground.

He risked a glance at Thomas. The kid was staring at him, his face etched with confusion and concern. He could see Leo’s distress. He was showing weakness, a fatal error.

Leo forced himself to turn away from the monument, to lead them down a different path, away from the epicenter of the psychic assault. He needed to get away, to reset. But she wasn't tied to the grave. She was tied to him.

The sobbing faded, replaced by a single, final whisper that shattered his world. It was Sarah’s voice, not the mocking imitation, but her true voice, resurrected from the depths of his soul. It was the voice he heard in his dreams, the voice he would have given anything to hear one last time.

It spoke the last words she had ever said to him, as she lay in the sterile white hospital bed, her strength fading, a faint smile on her lips. Words he had never, ever repeated to another living soul.

“You forgot the lilies, Leo. But it’s okay… you’re here now.”

The world tilted. The gravel path seemed to rush up at him. A strangled, animal sound escaped his throat, a noise torn from the deepest part of his being, violating the first and most sacred rule. He stumbled, his flashlight clattering to the ground. He clutched his head, his fingers digging into his scalp as if he could physically pull the voice out. The memory, so private and so painful, was now tainted, stolen, weaponized.

“Leo!” Thomas’s voice was sharp with alarm. He rushed forward, grabbing Leo’s arm to steady him. “Leo, what is it? What’s wrong?”

The physical contact, the sound of a human voice filled with genuine concern, broke the spell. Leo looked up, his eyes wild and unfocused, seeing not Thomas, but the ghost of his wife’s smile.

And from the direction of the monument, echoing through the silent, watchful graves, came a new sound. Not sobbing. Not whispering.

It was the soft, triumphant laughter of the Weeping Bride.