The Green Shawl

In the autumn of 2019, I was a recently divorced woman living alone in a rented cottage at the edge of a small town. My name is Clara, and I had always been sensitive to the supernatural, but I never expected what happened next. The trouble began with a recurring nightmare about my grandmother’s house, a place I had not visited in years. In the dream, I would walk through the overgrown garden, past the rusted swing set, and into the house through the back door. The kitchen was always dark and cold, with a faint smell of mothballs and old wood. I would feel an overwhelming dread, as if something was waiting for me in the attic. I always woke up with a gasp, my heart pounding, before I could reach the attic stairs.

After a week of these dreams, I started noticing strange things in my cottage. A ceramic cat on the shelf would be turned to face the wall. The radio would switch stations on its own, playing crackly old music. And then, I found a green shawl on my bed one evening, a garment I had never seen before. It was soft and delicate, with a pattern of intertwined leaves. I tried to remember if it belonged to my grandmother, but I couldn’t be certain. The shawl felt warm, almost alive.

I decided to visit my grandmother’s house, which had been abandoned since her death a decade ago. It was a two-hour drive into the countryside, where the road turned to gravel and the trees closed in. The house was a Victorian relic with peeling paint and a sagging porch. I entered with an old key I had kept. The inside was musty, but strangely, the kitchen was exactly as in my dream. The attic stairs were in the hallway, hidden behind a door. I felt a pull to ascend.

The attic was cluttered with boxes and old furniture. In the corner, under a dusty sheet, was a trunk. Inside, I found letters, photographs, and at the bottom, a matching shawl, but it was stained with something dark. Beneath it was a journal written in my grandmother’s hand. The journal spoke of a spirit she had encountered in the woods behind the house, an entity she called ‘The Weeper.’ She wrote that The Weeper would sometimes take the form of a misty woman who cried tears that turned to leaves. My grandmother had tried to bind The Weeper using a ritual involving the shawl, but she failed, and the spirit latched onto her. The journal ended abruptly, with a warning: ‘If you read this, leave now, and never come back.’

I should have left, but I was curious. That night, I stayed in the house, wearing the shawl to keep warm. As I lay in bed, I heard a soft weeping outside the window. I looked out and saw a figure in the garden, a translucent woman surrounded by falling leaves. She looked up at me, and her eyes were black pits. She raised her hand, and suddenly I was in the attic again, but it was different. The walls were covered in roots, and the floor was wet with mud. The Weeper stood before me, and she spoke in a voice like dry leaves rustling: ‘You have worn my shawl. Now you must take my place.’

I tried to scream, but no sound came out. The Weeper reached out and touched my chest, and I felt a cold invade my body. My own tears began to fall, and as they touched the floor, they turned into leaves. I saw my hands becoming translucent, and I knew I was being transformed into the next Weeper. In a desperate act, I tore off the shawl and threw it into a small puddle of water. The shawl sizzled and dissolved, and the Weeper shrieked, a sound that split the air. The roots withdrew, and I was back in the attic, gasping.

I fled the house, drove back to my cottage, and burned the other shawl. But I still feel a chill when I see leaves falling, and sometimes, in the mirror, I catch a glimpse of a green shimmer in my eyes. The dreams have stopped, but I know The Weeper is waiting, and one day, I will have to return.