Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
“The Weeping Widow, huh?” I tilt the brochure, one brow lifting.
“The Weeping Widow,” the woman repeats softly, as if saying the name in a normal voice might conjure trouble. My gaze drops to her long, sharp nails painted metallic crimson. She reaches forward and taps the picture with one curved talon. “Even in death, she mourns her beloved husband. Never sit in her lap, honey.”
“Wasn’t planning to.” Not unless I have to. For research purposes, of course.
She frowns at my black velvet dress, tights, and tall black boots, then adds, “You from the city?”
“I’m from the Internet.” I deflect, keeping my tone easy.
She squints. “You’re that YouTube girl,” she says, a slow, mocking smile spreading across her face. “I knew you looked familiar.” She lowers her voice. “If you investigate the Weeping Widow, bring iron with you. A nail, a knife, something small. Old iron’s best.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. How perfectly on brand for this morbidly merry little town. “Why old iron?”
“Because new iron doesn’t remember,” she says, like it should be obvious. “Old iron does.”
“Interesting.” I flip through another brochure. It lists lots of different events for Creepy Christmas Season, including a Haunted Slayride through the town’s historic district and Carols from the Crypt on Christmas Eve.
The slick edge of the brochure slices the pad of my thumb.
“Ow!” I jump and stare at the mean little cut. The sting flares, then fades under the chilly morning air. I dab it with a tissue. In the awning’s shade, the smear shines too dark, almost metallic. A shiver rattles the paper snowflakes overhead. I bury the brochures deep in my bag.
“Careful, dear,” the woman says.
“Thank you,” I respond.
And thanks for the hazardous reading material, lady.
I stroll away, heading back to the covered bridge.
I pull out my camera again.
“Folklore primer,” I say, angling the lens toward the bridge. “Crowsbridge Hollow is best known for the legend of the Ironbound Rider—the headless cavalryman who terrorizes the town and takes a bride every generation to satisfy some ancient pact.” I drop my voice into a fireside-story tone. “But he’s not the only ghost who haunts this town. Locals whisper about the Weeping Widow. Supposedly, the bronze statue weeps green tears. And if you whisper your love’s name in her ear after midnight, she whispers back your worst fear.”
Damn, that’s good. I need to thank Wren for digging up the Widow’s story. As far as I know, no other YouTube channel has ever done a deep dive on the Widow. My best friend/producer is the reason I don’t get lost in research rabbit holes.
The toe of my boot bumps the bridge threshold. I glance down. Time has rubbed the iron rosette to a shine. Does this qualify as “old iron?” Will I get in trouble if I pry one loose and take it home as a souvenir? Probably.
Shaking off my larcenous fantasies, I crouch and press the microphone closer to capture the scrape of shoe on plank, the murmur of the river under the boards, the faint jingle of distant sleigh bells bleeding through fog. When I’m confident I’ve recorded enough ambient sound, I straighten and tuck my camera away.
A few feet away, a little girl in a bright red coat and an Ironbound Rider hoodie peeks around her mother’s legs, sipping from a glittery red water bottle.
“Hey,” I say softly, crouching to her level. “Nice hoodie. I bet you’re brave enough to ride across the haunted bridge?”
She shakes her head, eyes wide. “No way. He waits for liars.”
Her mother laughs under her breath. “The Weeping Widow, the Rider—this whole town’s obsessed with ghost stories. A statue that cries,” she adds, her tone pure can-you-believe-this-shit.
Ah, a fellow skeptic.
“They do have clever holiday marketing,” I say lightly. “Scare tourism wrapped in tinsel.” I wink at the girl. “Stay on the nice list, okay?”
She grins, showing a gap between her teeth, then hides behind her mom again. There’s a pang in my chest—nothing painful, just hollow. I take a breath and let it pass.
We murmur polite goodbyes, and I turn toward the bridge.
The bridge lets out a sigh as I approach. Not literally. Obviously. The river wind pulses through the floorboards in a rhythm that feels like breath, anyway. The longer I stand there, the more the world simplifies. Wood. Water. Iron. The hum of traffic in the distance. My heart punches the inside of my ribs like it’s celebrating today’s adventure. Today’s investigation.
I shoot a cutaway of my hand brushing a rail, careful to dodge splinters. The studs chill my skin. Rust flakes at the edges, the color of old, dried blood.
“Listen,” I say to the camera. “You know me. I don’t spook easily. I want to believe in good reporting, good neighbors, and the power of a strongly worded email to the town council more than I want to believe in headless guys on horses or statues that cry. But I do respect tradition. So tonight, we’ll go meet the Widow. And we will not, under any circumstances, sit in her lap.”