The Tattered Veil

It was the summer of 2023, in the heart of rural Kansas, where the wheat fields stretched like a golden ocean and the heat shimmered off the asphalt. I was driving to an old airfield that had been decommissioned decades ago, just for a change of scenery. The GPS directed me onto a gravel road called Marker’s Lane, a narrow strip lined with sagging fences and a handful of crumbling farmhouses. The sky was a hazy blue, and the air was thick with the smell of dust and sun-scorched grass.

As I turned onto Marker’s Lane, I slowed to about twenty miles an hour to avoid the potholes. That’s when I saw her – a figure standing by a rusted gate, almost hidden by the overgrown weeds. She was dressed in a long, faded gingham dress that reached her ankles, and her dark hair was pulled back in a severe bun. A white cloth mask covered her nose and mouth, but her eyes – those eyes were visible, wide and unblinking. They were not the eyes of someone lost or in need of help; they were the eyes of someone who knew exactly what they were watching for.

I drove past, keeping my gaze fixed on the road ahead, but in my rearview mirror, I saw her turn her head slowly, tracking my car until I was out of sight. A chill ran down my spine, and I shook it off, attributing it to the strange way she was dressed. Perhaps a reenactor or a local eccentric. I continued down the lane, determined to reach the airfield, but my mind kept wandering back to her. There was something wrong about her stillness, something that didn’t sit right.

After a few more miles, the lane ended at a gate marked ‘Private Property.’ The fence was old and bent, but a sign read ‘Remington Airfield.’ I parked the car and got out, deciding to walk the rest of the way. The air was still and heavy, not a bird singing, not a wind stirring. The grass was tall and brittle, brushing against my jeans as I walked. In the distance, I saw the skeletal remains of a hangar, its roof partially collapsed, and a runway cracked and overgrown.

As I drew closer, I noticed something odd – a cluster of wooden crosses planted in a loose circle near the hangar. They were old, their paint chipped, but each one had a name carved into it. I knelt down to read them: Mary, Elizabeth, Thomas… all surnames and dates from the late 1800s. I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. This was not just an abandoned airfield; it was a graveyard.

A sudden sound made me freeze – a soft rustle, like fabric dragging through grass. I turned, expecting to see the woman from the road, but there was nothing. The silence pressed in on me. I tried to call out, but my voice caught in my throat. Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of white between the crosses. I blinked, and it was gone.

I decided to leave, but as I turned to go back to the car, I heard a faint whisper, almost indistinguishable from the wind. ‘He sees.’ I spun around, heart pounding. The airfield was empty, but I felt a presence, like a cold breath on the back of my neck. I started walking faster, then jogging, then running. The gate where I had parked was farther than I remembered, the distance stretching endlessly. I broke into a sprint, my lungs burning, but the car seemed to gain no ground.

Finally, I burst through the gate and slammed into the driver’s seat, locking the doors. I fumbled for the keys, hands shaking. As I started the engine, I glanced in the rearview mirror – and there she was, standing right behind my car, her mask now stained with dark spots. She was holding something in her hand – a hand that was gray and mottled. It was a piece of cloth, torn from a dress like the one she wore.

I floored the gas pedal, gravel spewing as I careened down Marker’s Lane. When I reached the main road, I didn’t stop until I was miles away. I pulled over to vomit, my body trembling. I tried to convince myself it was a hallucination, a heat stroke, but the image of her eyes stayed burned into my mind.

Three days have passed. I haven’t told anyone, because they’d think I was crazy. But last night, I found a piece of cloth in my back seat – the same gingham pattern. And in the corner of the cloth, embroidered in tiny letters, was my name. I haven’t slept since. The veil between worlds grows thin when you disturb the dead, and I have a feeling she hasn’t finished with me yet.