“I don’t spook. I’m a badass. I’ve got this,” I whisper, cycling through my new mantra. Let’s hope it protects me.
With my bag bumping against my hip, I follow the gravel path that snakes toward the hill. The dark buildings of closed businesses along Main Street loom behind me. A stray light shines from a window here and there, but they’re too far away to make out many details or tell if anyone’s watching me. One lonely truck rumbles through the night, then nothing. Even the rush of the river seems muted.
Earlier, I changed into more sensible jeans and a hoodie, but the night chill still prickles against my skin. The cold seeps intomy knuckles and I curse that I didn’t grab a pair of gloves. At least the tread on my hiking sneakers grips the terrain with ease. I left my beloved crow brooch at the inn, which felt like leaving a friend behind. Instead of the pin for protection, I pried an old nail loose from the window in my room and tucked it in my pocket. It’s probably not even made of iron, but the brochure lady’s voice wouldn’t leave me alone.Old iron remembers.Fine. Then remember me, please, and be useful tonight.
Anxiety thrums through me. Why now? I’ve gone on dozens of “ghost hunting” expeditions. Both solo and in groups of other skeptics. Rem pods, EVP recorders, bells, boxes, lights, Ouija boards—I’ve used all sorts of paranormal equipment.
And I’ve been disappointed every time.
Part of me hoped that just once, I’d stumble upon the real deal, so I could be a believer in the supernatural too. So I could understand why my mother was willing to throw her whole life away.
No. Don’t think about that now.
Tripod down. Camera mounted. Ring light secured and shining, I pick up my flashlight in one hand, breathe in the scent of wet leaves and cold metal, then press record.
“Folklore check-in,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Meeting the Weeping Widow for a polite and respectful hello. If she’s busy weeping, I won’t interrupt.” Dry, friendly. The tone my audience likes.
The statue waits at the top of the rise, a bronze woman on a stone bench. Veil down. Hands folded. Her lap open, daring me to take a seat. The streaks down her face seem darker than simple patina. Twin shiny green lines. Like someone dragged a damp thumb over her cheeks.
I sweep my flashlight slowly over the statue. “Legend says she weeps green at midnight. If you whisper your true love’sname in her ear, she whispers your truest fear. Odd tradeoff, isn’t it? Love for fear.”
I pause and try to line up the thoughts racing through my head. Love. Fear. Maybe not such an odd pairing after all.
“On second thought.” I step in front of the camera, hands thoughtfully shoved into my coat pockets. “Thing is, they’re not so opposite. Fear narrows your vision—makes you hyperaware of danger. Love blows it wide open—suddenly you see beauty, possibility, reasons to risk everything.” I huff out a laugh. “Both bypass logic. Fear can have you jumping at shadows. Love can make you do things you swore you’d never do.”
My gaze drifts to the bronze streaks down her cheeks.
“Love and fear—they’re hardwired into us. Survival code.” I hold up my left hand. “Fear’s our instinct for self-preservation.” Then my right. “Love ensures we care for our offspring?—”
The words stall on my tongue. Not all parents are capable of love. And yet we still survive.
I clear my throat. “In theory, anyway. Both emotions drive us. Fear pushes us to avoid pain and danger. Love—or maybe lust—pulls us toward connection.”
My brow furrows as I line up the next thought. “Every choice we make, every action, traces back to one or the other. Toward what we love. Away from what we fear.”
I glance at the statue again. “Two people can face the same situation—fear sharpens one’s vision, love expands the other’s. Both can be irrational, bypassing logic. Fear sparks phobias of harmless things.” I huff another laugh. “And love? Love makes us reckless.”
My eyes fix on the Widow’s tear-streaked face.
“Maybe that’s her warning. That love and fear are two sides of the same curse.”
I ease closer. A hard chill wraps my wrists in freezing cuffs. An overwhelming sense of grief and fear encases me. My mouthdoes that penny thing again. Metallic. The taste of an old coin pressed to my tongue.Yuck.
“Note to self,” I murmur, “check run-off patterns. See if the green forms after heavy rain. Wind exposure on this hill could push moisture across the face in streaks. Add local history deep dive—any mills, tanneries, or other charming nineteenth-century polluters leaving their love notes in the soil?”
I reach out with my free hand and hover my fingers a breath above the statue’s cheek. The lines on her face seem to deepen. Up close, she doesn’t looksad. She looks…angry? For a second, her hollow eyes seem to find me—cold, unblinking, and somehow staring straight into my soul. The skin on my knuckles tightens. Tiny prickles race over my arms, raising each little hair.
Static. The air is dry. It’s just static. Probably.
My flashlight flickers, then brightens.
Above me, a crow lets out a cranky squawk. Then another, closer. Perfect. I couldn’t ask for better sound effects.
“Hello there, gentlemen. Always nice to see you.” I tip my head back, aiming for a jaunty tone. “No need to heckle the talent.”
Wings swishabove me but it’s impossible to see anything in the foggy darkness.
Silence descends. Not even the chirp of a cricket.
