The Painted Bride of Ward 13

After the incident at the old paper mill, I thought my dealings with the unexplained were finished. For three months, nothing. Just the hum of my apartment, the squeak of the radiator, the ordinary groan of the building settling. I was almost beginning to believe it was all in my head.

Then came Thursday night. I had been restless, my mind churning with deadlines and unpaid bills. I tossed in my sheets, the streetlight casting a pale, sickly glow through the blinds. I stared at the ceiling, tracing the water stain that resembled a lopsided heart, until my eyelids grew heavy. I must have drifted off, because I woke with a jolt, my heart pounding, and a distinct sense of wrongness in the air.

I looked up. There, on the ceiling, was a woman. She was flipped, perpendicular to the floor, her long, elaborate gown of deep crimson and black spreading out like a parachute. Her hair was pinned in an elegant updo, with a single curl resting on her shoulder. Her face was pale, too pale, and her eyes were closed. She was descending slowly, as if lowered by invisible wires, her dress billowing as if in a breeze that didn’t exist in my room.

My breath caught. I knew this was not a normal vision. I had seen things before, but this felt different. This felt like a performance, a deliberate act. I squeezed my eyes shut and yanked the blanket over my head. My heart thundered in my ears. I tried to recall the prayers I hadn’t said since childhood. ‘Our Father, who art in heaven…’ I muttered, my voice shaking. I begged my guardian angel, whom I never truly believed in, to shield me from whatever was in that room.

For a long, agonizing moment, the air grew cold, and I could feel her presence hovering just above me, like the weight of a falling tree about to land. Then, the pressure eased. The cold vanished. The room felt normal again. I waited, counting to a hundred, before I dared to peek out.

The ceiling was empty. The water stain still stared at me, indifferent. I let out a shaky breath, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was not the end. I got up, turned on every light, and sat in the kitchen until dawn, nursing a cup of cold coffee.

The next day, I tried to dismiss it as a stress-induced hallucination. But as I walked to the corner store, I passed an antique shop I had never noticed before. In the window, partially obscured by dust, hung a portrait. It was a wedding portrait, the bride in a deep crimson gown, her hair up, a single curl on her shoulder. The face was the same. The eyes in the portrait were open, dark and knowing, and they seemed to follow me as I hurried past.

I stopped at the store anyway, my curiosity overriding my fear. The shopkeeper, a wizened old man with clouded eyes, told me the portrait was of a woman named Elara, who died in the 1920s on her wedding day. She was found in her bridal suite at the old Grand Hotel, her neck snapped, the dress soaked in blood. ‘Her spirit lingers,’ he said, ‘searching for her groom who never showed. She appears to those who are alone, hoping to find a new one.’

I laughed nervously and left, but I couldn’t shake his words. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting. And then I saw her again, her gown billowing as she descended, her eyes now open, staring at me with a desperate hunger. ‘You are alone,’ she whispered, her voice like rustling silk. ‘Join me.’

I screamed, but no sound came out. She reached out with her pale fingers, and I felt an icy grip on my ankle, pulling me upward. I fought, clawing at the mattress, but I was lifted, weightless, spinning until I was upside down next to her, the ceiling now the floor, my hair hanging like a chandelier. ‘It’s time for the wedding,’ she said, and smiled a smile that was too wide.

I don’t know how long I hung there, suspended in that reversed world, until her grip loosened and I fell back to my bed, gasping. When I looked up, she was gone. But I knew she would return. And I knew that next time, she would not let go.

Now, when I sleep, I keep one eye half-open, watching the ceiling. I keep a crucifix by my bed, and a photograph of my mother, and a recorder to capture any evidence. But I know it’s only a matter of time. She’s waiting for me to let my guard down. She’s waiting for me to be alone. And I fear that one night, I’ll wake up not on my bed, but on the ceiling, with her beside me, ready to say ‘I do.’