The Hollow Vigil

I never should have agreed to cut through the old parish grounds. My friend Dana swore it was a shortcut, but the moment we stepped past the rusted gate, the air turned thick and cold, carrying the scent of wet earth and decay. The headstones leaned like crooked teeth, and the bare branches of the elms clawed at the bruised sky. Dana said, ‘Let’s just find the back fence, quick.’ But we both froze when we saw her.

She was a wisp of a woman in a threadbare black dress, kneeling before a fresh grave, her shoulders shaking as if she were crying. But as we drew closer, I noticed something wrong. Her body was too still, too rigid, and her hands didn’t touch the ground. Dana grabbed my arm, her nails digging in. ‘Look at her feet,’ she whispered. I did. The hem of her dress hung a full six inches above the grass, swaying gently, though there was no breeze. She was hovering.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I wanted to run, but my legs were lead. Dana’s face had gone pale as moonlight. The old woman turned her head slowly, and I saw her profile. The skin on the right side of her face was a patchwork of shiny scars and mottled burns, her right eye sealed shut. When she smiled, her teeth were crooked, with a gap right in the middle, and her left eye gleamed with a terrible, knowing light. She didn’t float away. She faded, like smoke unraveling, until only the grave remained.

We stood there, shaking, until Dana finally managed to breathe. She pulled me toward the gate, but I stumbled over a broken vase. As I steadied myself, I glanced at the grave she had been tending. The headstone was old, worn, but I could just make out the name: ‘Evelyn Marsh.’ And the dates: a birth, a death, and beneath them, one word—’Avenged.’

The chill didn’t leave my bones even after we reached the street. I glanced back at the cemetery, and for a moment I thought I saw the old woman standing behind the fence, watching. But when I blinked, there was nothing. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing that gapped-tooth smile. I kept hearing Dana’s voice: ‘She wasn’t standing.’ I didn’t tell Dana, but I later learned that Evelyn Marsh had been a recluse, burned in a house fire a decade ago, her husband accused of setting it but never convicted. He died last week, supposedly of a heart attack, but the paper said his face had a look of pure terror. I’ve never walked past that parish since. But sometimes, on quiet nights, I swear I hear a woman humming, and when I turn, there’s a shimmer by the fence, just out of sight, smiling that smile.

Dana moved away, and I don’t blame her. But I stay, because I have to know if the others see her too. Last week, I brought a stranger to the grave. When they looked, she was gone. But I knew. She’s always there, waiting, ready to smile for those who stop too long. And now, I think she’s come for me, because last night, I looked at my own feet, and I wasn’t touching the ground either.

I don’t want to join her. But I can feel the pull, like the grave is calling me home. Maybe I should have left with Dana. Maybe I should have run when I had the chance. But now, there’s only one thing left to do. I’m going to the grave, to ask her why she chose me. And I pray she doesn’t have the same answer for everyone.

I’m writing this now, in the dark, and the ink is cold on the page. If you’re reading this, and you see a woman hovering over a grave, don’t look at her feet. Don’t look at her smile. Just run. Because once she sets her eye on you, you’re hers, body and soul, until the day you find yourself floating too.

I just hope I’m not too late. But I think I am. I just saw the hem of a black dress at the edge of my vision. And my feet… they’re not touching the floor.