The Second Mourner

My aunt Vera had the sight, or so the family said. She never called it a gift; she called it a burden wrapped in a shroud. Her visions came as a cold draft in a sealed room, or the sensation of a hand brushing her shoulder when no one stood behind her. And when death was close, she’d see the woman in grey, a small, hunched figure whose weeping filled the air like a leaky faucet in an empty house. We children knew her tales weren’t just stories—they were warnings, and we listened with a mix of terror and fascination.

Vera lived in a dusty, two-story house on the edge of Hollow Creek, a town that time seemed to forget. The house had a wraparound porch and a cellar that always smelled of wet earth and old apples. She’d sit us down by the fireplace, the logs crackling as she spoke, her voice low and steady. ‘The Grey Woman comes when a soul is about to slip,’ she’d say. ‘She stands at the foot of the bed or in the corner of the room, and she cries. The crying is for the life that’s ending, but it’s also a comfort—she’s there to guide them across.’ She’d tell us about her grandmother, who’d seen the Grey Woman before the influenza took half the town, and about her uncle, who’d seen her before a mill accident claimed three men. We’d shiver, not from the cold, but from the weight of her certainty.

When Vera’s own sister, my mother, was dying of a slow, withering illness, Vera sat by her bedside. One evening, as the sun bled orange through the curtains, Vera felt the familiar chill creep up her spine. She looked up, and there she was—the Grey Woman, in her tattered shawl, standing near the wardrobe. But this time, there were two of them. One was the usual, weeping softly; the other was smaller, almost translucent, as if it hadn’t fully formed. Vera’s breath caught. She’d never seen two before. She squeezed my mother’s hand and whispered, ‘I see them, love. Two of them. That’s odd.’ My mother, too weak to respond, just stared at the corner of the room, her eyes wide. The next morning, she was gone. Vera later confessed to my father that she thought the second Grey Woman was a mistake, a shadow cast by a flickering lamp.

A week later, my cousin Liam, Vera’s grandson, a boy of nineteen with a laugh like a drum, was driving home from a late shift at the lumber mill. A deer ran across the road, he swerved, and his truck rolled into the ravine. He died before the ambulance arrived. At the funeral, Vera stood by the grave, her face like stone, but her eyes glistened. She told me privately, ‘That second Grey Woman, she wasn’t for your mother. She was for Liam. The Grey Woman always comes in pairs when two souls are set to leave close together.’ I didn’t know how to respond. I’d never seen the Grey Woman myself, but I’d always believed Vera, felt it in my bones.

After that, I started to notice odd things. Cold patches in rooms that made no sense, a faint sound of sobbing when the wind blew through the eaves. I’d shake them off as grief, as my imagination making sense of death. But then my best friend, Nora, a vibrant artist who painted sunflowers and storms, died suddenly—a brain aneurysm at the age of thirty-one. It was a shock to all, but something in me knew before I received the call. On the night she passed, I woke at 3 a.m. to a feeling of absolute dread, as if a hand had pressed against my forehead. The air in my bedroom was freezing, and I could have sworn I heard a woman weeping outside, just beyond the window.

I flew to Brisbane for her funeral, staying at my aunt’s old house, which had been vacant since Vera passed away six months prior. She’d left it to me, saying I had the ‘sight’ too, though I always doubted it. The house was just as I remembered: the creaking stairs, the smell of mothballs and dried lavender, the heavy drapes that made every room dim. The first night, I went to bed exhausted but restless. As I lay under the quilt, the familiar chill wrapped around me like a second skin. I turned on the lamp, and there, in the corner near the dresser, stood the Grey Woman. She was just as Vera described—small, dressed in grey rags, her face obscured by a hood. But unlike Vera’s stories, she wasn’t weeping. She was silent, and her head was turned toward the door. I felt a scream lodge in my throat, but I couldn’t move.

The Grey Woman took a step toward the door, then looked back at me, as if waiting. She raised a thin, pale hand and beckoned. Despite every instinct in my body screaming to stay, I threw off the covers and followed her. She glided down the stairs, through the foyer, and into the kitchen, stopping at the cellar door. The door was old, with a rusty latch that I hadn’t opened in years. The Grey Woman pointed at the door, then vanished, leaving me cold and trembling. I stood there for a long time, my heart pounding, and then I heard it—a muffled sob from below. Not the Grey Woman’s cry, but a human one. I fumbled with the latch, the metal biting into my palm, and swung the door open. The stairs descended into darkness, the smell of earth and rot rising up.

I called out, ‘Hello? Is anyone down there?’ A faint, ragged breath answered. I grabbed a flashlight from the counter and descended. The cellar was narrow and low, filled with old jars, broken furniture, and a workbench covered in tools. And in the far corner, hunched behind an old boiler, was a figure—a woman, thin and disheveled, dressed in tattered grey. It was the second Grey Woman, but she wasn’t a ghost. She was a living woman, pale and gaunt, her eyes wild as she looked up at me. She was shivering, and her lips were blue. She spoke in a hoarse whisper, ‘You saw me. You saw me, didn’t you? No one’s ever seen me before.’

I knelt down, my heart torn between terror and pity. ‘Who are you? How long have you been down here?’ She shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘I don’t remember. I was just walking down the road one night, and I felt so tired. I saw this old house, and I thought I could rest for a moment. But the door opened, and I came inside. I’ve been hiding here ever since—I don’t know how long. I’m so cold.’ She was the second mourner, the living counterpart to the Grey Woman’s spirit. She’d been feeding on the house’s energy, on the grief that lingered, and she’d become a sort of anchor, pulling death closer. When my mother was dying, she was here, and when Liam died, she was here. She was the reason Vera saw two.

I helped her up, my hands trembling. I wanted to call someone, but I didn’t know who. I led her upstairs, into the living room, and wrapped her in a blanket. She kept sobbing, saying she was sorry, that she didn’t mean to cause harm. But as the minutes passed, the house grew colder, and I saw the Grey Woman again, standing in the doorway, now weeping silently. The living woman looked up, and for the first time, she saw her own double. Her face twisted in horror. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t want to die. Please.’ But death was already in the room, waiting. She grew paler, her breathing shallow. I grabbed her hands, trying to keep her warm, but it was no use. She slipped away before the sun rose.

The police found her body that morning, an unidentified woman who had died of exposure. They traced her missing person’s report from a town four hours away; she’d left her home months ago and never been seen again. I told them she must have broken in seeking shelter, and they believed me. But I knew the truth. She was the second mourner, and her death was a kind of justice—she’d been dead inside for so long, she finally let go. After that, the Grey Woman came to me less often, but when she did, she was always weeping. I’ve taken up Vera’s mantle, though I never sought it. I keep the house, and I watch for the signs. The cold touch, the sound of crying. And I know that when I see two Grey Women, I must prepare for two souls. I just hope I can help them cross without adding to the count myself.