The Umber Cadence

In the autumn of 1987, Dale was driving his band’s beat-up van down Old Mill Road, a winding stretch of asphalt that hugged the outskirts of Harlow, a town known for its defunct textile mills and the sprawling Greenwood Cemetery that bordered the road. The sky had been bruised with clouds all day, and now a steady drizzle blurred the windshield, making the headlights of oncoming cars smear into watery halos. Dale was at the wheel, his fingers drumming a rhythm on the steering wheel to the tune of the band’s latest demo, which was playing through the van’s tinny speakers. In the passenger seat sat his girlfriend, Carol, who was trying to read a map by the dim glow of the dashboard. In the back, the bass player, Rick, and the drummer, Sam, were arguing about the merits of a particular guitar solo.

They were on their way to a rehearsal space in the next town, but Rick insisted they needed to pick up some vintage amplifiers from a guy who lived off a side road near the cemetery. Dale, who had grown up in Harlow, knew the area well, but he had always avoided Greenwood Cemetery after dark, especially on days like this. As they approached the cemetery’s wrought-iron gates, which were adorned with intricate, rusted patterns that looked like twisted vines, Dale noticed something odd. A woman was standing just inside the gate, partially obscured by the mist, wearing a long, dark coat and holding a black umbrella that seemed too large for her. She appeared to be staring directly at the van.

‘Do you see that?’ Dale asked, slowing down.

Carol looked up from the map. ‘See what?’

‘That woman by the gate,’ Dale said, nodding towards the cemetery.

Carol squinted. ‘I don’t see anyone.’

Rick and Sam had stopped arguing and were now leaning forward to look. ‘I see her,’ Rick said, his voice low. ‘She’s just standing there, like she’s waiting for something.’

Dale felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. He had a sudden, irrational urge to speed up, but the road was narrow and slick, and he didn’t want to risk sliding. As they passed the gates, the woman raised her hand, not in a wave, but in a smooth, deliberate motion, as if she were signaling them to stop. Dale’s foot instinctively hovered over the brake, but Carol said, ‘Don’t stop. Just keep going.’

He pressed the accelerator, and the van lurched forward. In the rearview mirror, he saw the woman lower her arm and then turn, slowly, to face the gravestones. A moment later, she was lost in the mist.

They drove in silence for a few minutes until Rick said, ‘That was weird. Who would be standing out there in this rain?’

‘Maybe she was waiting for a bus,’ Sam suggested, but there was no conviction in his voice.

The rain intensified, and Dale had to slow down to a crawl. The road turned sharply, and as they rounded the bend, the van’s headlights illuminated something lying in the middle of the asphalt. Dale hit the brakes, and the van skidded to a stop just a few feet from an object that looked like a dark, wet bundle of clothes.

Carol let out a small gasp. ‘Is that a person?’

Dale hesitated, then switched on the hazard lights and stepped out into the downpour. The rain was cold, and within seconds he was soaked. He approached the bundle, his heart pounding. It was a woman’s coat, dark and heavy, and underneath it was a black umbrella, still open, its fabric torn and frayed. But there was no body. Just the coat and the umbrella, arranged as if someone had simply removed them and left them there.

Rick had got out too, and he stood behind Dale, shivering. ‘This is the same coat that woman was wearing, isn’t it? And the umbrella.’

Dale nodded, not trusting his voice.

‘Maybe she dropped them and ran,’ Rick said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

They looked around, but the road was empty, and the rain showed no signs of letting up. Dale bent down and picked up the umbrella. It was heavier than it looked, and the handle was made of polished bone, carved into the shape of a serpent coiled around a staff. Despite the rain, the umbrella felt dry, almost warm. Dale felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to open it, to shield himself from the rain, but the moment he held it up, the fabric shredded further and the ribs snapped, leaving him with just the handle and a few tattered strips of cloth.

‘Let’s get back in the van,’ Carol called from the open window. ‘We should call the police.’

They returned to the van, and Dale stuffed the broken umbrella handle into his jacket pocket, not sure why he wanted to keep it. They drove on, but the mood had changed. Carol used the van’s CB radio to call the local police, and they agreed to meet them at the next intersection.

When they arrived, a patrol car was already there, its lights flashing. The officer, a middle-aged man with a weary expression, took their statement. When Dale mentioned the woman by the gate, the officer’s face went pale. ‘What did she look like?’ he asked.

Dale described her: dark coat, black umbrella, no distinguishing features, just a pale face. The officer exchanged a glance with his partner, who had been listening. ‘We’ve had reports of a woman matching that description for weeks,’ the officer said. ‘But she’s not real. She’s a ghost. They call her the Umber Lady. She appears only on rainy days, near the cemetery, and she’s always signaling for a ride. But if you stop, you’ll be the next one to die.’

The officer’s words sent a chill through the van. Dale’s hand instinctively went to his pocket, feeling the bone handle of the umbrella. He wanted to show it to the officer, but something stopped him. Maybe it was the way the officer was looking at him, with a mix of pity and fear.

‘She’s been there since the 1950s,’ the officer continued. ‘There was a car accident right near those gates. A young woman, newly married, was driving home in the rain when her car skidded off the road and hit a tree. She died instantly. Ever since, people have seen her on rainy days, standing by the gates, trying to stop cars. But if you’re foolish enough to stop, you’ll find yourself in the same place she is.’

They were dismissed, and they drove on, but the story hung in the air. Dale couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. He kept touching the umbrella handle, which radiated a faint warmth, like a living thing.

That night, in the motel room where they were staying, Dale couldn’t sleep. He took the handle out of his pocket and studied it in the dim light. Carved into the bone were tiny, intricate sigils, too small to read, but they seemed to shift and writhe under his gaze. He felt a strange drowsiness, and he dreamed of the woman at the gate. She was younger, wearing the same coat, her hair wet, her face blurred. She was running through the rain, chasing something, and then she disappeared in a flash of light.

When he woke, the handle was gone. Carol was asleep beside him, and Rick and Sam were snoring in the next bed. Dale searched the floor, his bags, but the handle had vanished. He tried to dismiss it as a loss, but a nagging sense of dread settled in his stomach.

The next day, they had a gig at a club in a nearby town. The performance was a blur. Dale’s fingers found the right keys, but his mind was elsewhere. During a break, one of the locals approached him and said, ‘You been to the Greenwood Cemetery lately?’

Dale nodded, surprised.

‘You met the Umber Lady, didn’t you?’ the man said. ‘I can tell. You got that look. Like you seen something. Be careful, man. She’s not done with you until you leave something behind.’

Dale thought about the umbrella. He had left it behind, but it wasn’t his. He had taken something that wasn’t his.

After the gig, they were driving back to Harlow to return the borrowed equipment. The rain had started again, a steady drizzle that matched the rhythm of the windshield wipers. As they approached the cemetery gates, Dale felt a pull, as if something were tugging at his chest. He looked at the gate, and there she was, standing in the same spot, her umbrella up, her face pale and indistinct.

‘Dale, what are you doing?’ Carol said, her voice sharp.

He realized he was slowing down. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, but his foot seemed to have a mind of its own. ‘I need to give it back,’ he muttered.

‘Give what back?’ Carol asked.

But Dale was already steering the van to the side of the road, stopping just in front of the gates. He unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out into the rain, ignoring Carol’s protests. The woman was there, not moving, and he saw that her coat was torn in places, and her umbrella was broken, its ribs poking through the fabric like broken bones. She didn’t speak, but her hand was outstretched, palm up, as if asking for something.

Dale reached into his pocket, and his fingers closed around a smooth, warm object. He pulled it out: it was the bone handle, but it had grown a new shaft and new fabric, as if it had regenerated. He handed it to her, and as he did, her hand closed around it, and she smiled. For a moment, her face became clear, a young woman with dark hair and sad eyes, and she said, in a voice that was barely a whisper, ‘Thank you.’

Then she was gone, and the gate was empty. Dale stood in the rain, feeling the cold seep into his bones. He turned to see Carol and the others staring at him from the van, their faces pale. He got back in and started the engine.

‘What was that?’ Rick asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Dale said. ‘But I think I’m free now.’

They drove away, and the rain eventually stopped. But Dale often found himself driving past the cemetery on rainy days, looking for the woman. She never appeared again. But he always kept a spare umbrella in the van, just in case.