The Red Weeping

My friend Elara told me a story I wasn’t supposed to repeat. She’s always been a bit strange, with her wild hair and eyes that seem to see things that aren’t there. But this… this was different. She made me swear on my own life I’d tell no one, but I’m terrified for her, so I’m writing it down, hoping someone will understand.

Elara lives in a crumbling old farmhouse on the edge of a dying town called Gray Hollow. The house has been in her family for generations, and her grandmother, a woman everyone whispered about, made her home there until she passed. Elara never believed the rumors about her grandmother being a witch, not until the old woman died and left her a tarnished silver key and a warning: ‘You have the sight, child. Use it or lose yourself.’

Elara tried to ignore it. She wanted a normal life, with normal friends and a normal job. But the house wouldn’t let her. It’s been months now, and she’s become obsessed with the things that share her home. She calls them gremlins, but they aren’t. They’re small, no bigger than a cat, with skin like wrinkled leather and heads that taper into pointy, unnatural shapes. Their eyes glow like embers in the dark.

They speak English with a guttural accent. She was lying in bed one night, trying to sleep, when she felt a cold, clammy touch on her leg. She kicked out instinctively and heard a hiss. Then, a voice, thin and cracking, said, ‘You! The one on the bed! She kicked me!’ Another voice, drier, replied, ‘Serves you right. You shouldn’t have touched her.’ She froze, listening as they scuttled across the floor, their nails clicking on the wood.

But the gremlins aren’t the worst part. There are others. Five of them, she says, are ghosts. She’s only told me about three. One stands outside her bedroom window every night, a tall, faceless figure that points at her with a long, bony finger. When she closes the curtains, she can still feel it watching. Another haunts the hallway, a woman in a ragged dress who floats and weeps silently, leaving wet patches on the floor that never dry. The third appears in the corner of the kitchen, a man with a hat pulled low, and every time she enters, he tilts his head as if to say, ‘I see you.’

At first, she tried to ignore them all, just like she ignored her grandmother. She’d hum loudly, turn on all the lights, and pretend they weren’t there. But they grew bolder. The gremlins began leaving red marks on the floor, streaks of something like blood that vanished as if they’d never been. She’d wake up with bruises on her arms, and once, she found the silver key hanging from the kitchen faucet, dripping with a thick, dark fluid.

Last week, something changed. She was in the bathroom, looking at herself in the mirror, when the reflection wavered. Her grandmother stared back at her, lips moving silently. Elara leaned closer, and her grandmother’s mouth formed words: ‘They are drawn to you because you see them. You must learn to bind them, or they will bind you.’ The mirror fogged up, and when it cleared, her grandmother was gone, but her own eyes looked hollow, as if something had been taken from her.

Now Elara is afraid to sleep. She says the red marks have started appearing on her own skin, in the shape of handprints. And the pointing figure at the window has begun to tap on the glass, a rhythmic, insistent sound that doesn’t stop until dawn. She called me this morning, her voice trembling, and said, ‘I think they want me to join them. The key fits a door in the cellar. I’m going to open it tonight.’ I begged her not to, but she just whispered, ‘I have to, or they won’t leave me alone.’

I don’t know what to do. I’m not brave enough to go to that house, but I can’t shake the feeling that if she opens that door, something terrible will be unleashed. I’m writing this down because I need to believe that someone, somewhere, might be able to help her before it’s too late. The last thing she said to me was, ‘If I don’t come back, remember the weeping.’ And then the line went dead.