The Weeping Conveyor

I have lived in the Meridian Heights complex for nearly two decades, ever since the concrete skeletons of these low-rise blocks were first painted beige and handed over to families like mine. We took the ground-floor unit in Block C, facing the central courtyard where the laundry lines stretch between the stairwells and the communal tap drips into a rust-stained basin. The windows of the flat look out directly onto the walkway that wraps around the courtyard, so anyone passing by can glance right into our living room. It never bothered me much, until last night.

It was past two in the morning, and I was lying on the couch in the living room, scrolling through my phone. My brother Theo had fallen asleep on the other couch, his breathing steady and deep. The only light came from the screen, casting a pale glow on my face. The estate was quiet, so quiet that I could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen and the occasional drip of the tap outside. I had just clicked on a video when I heard it—a low, creaking sound, like a heavy cart being pushed across uneven ground.

At first, I dismissed it as the wind, but the creaking grew louder, rhythmic, accompanied by a soft, wet scraping. I put down my phone and listened. The sound was coming from just outside my window, beyond the thin curtain. In our estate, truck-pushers sometimes work late, hauling scrap metal or produce through the alleyways, their carts groaning under the weight. But this sound was different. It wasn’t metal or wood; it was something heavier, and the scraping was too even, too deliberate.

Curiosity got the better of me. I crept to the window and pulled the curtain aside just a crack. The courtyard was bathed in the weak orange glow of the single streetlamp at the far end. And there, under the lamp, was a figure. It was hunched over a cart—a long, flatbed cart with tall sides, like the ones used to carry sacks of grain. But the cart was not filled with sacks. It held something covered in a dark, wet tarp that sagged in the middle. The figure was pushing the cart slowly, methodically, toward my block. As it came closer, I could see that the figure was wearing a heavy raincoat despite the dry night, and its head was bowed so low that its face was hidden.

The cart stopped right in front of my window. The figure straightened up, and I saw its hands—pale, thin, with fingers that seemed too long. It reached out and touched the tarp, and then it began to weep. The sound was low and guttural, like a sob torn from deep inside. The tarp shifted, and I realized, with a chill that crawled up my spine, that the shape under it was not cargo. It was a body. The tarp slipped slightly, revealing a pale arm that flopped out over the edge of the cart, the fingers twitching as if still alive.

I stumbled back from the window, my heart hammering. I wanted to wake Theo, but I couldn’t move. The weeping continued, growing louder, more desperate. And then, I heard a voice, not from the figure, but from inside my own head, clear as if spoken into my ear: ‘They always leave one behind.’ I didn’t understand it, but I felt an overwhelming urge to open the window, to step out and join the figure. My hand moved on its own toward the latch.

Just then, Theo stirred and muttered something in his sleep. The spell broke. I yanked my hand back and stumbled to the floor, trembling. The weeping outside stopped. I peeked through the curtain again, and the figure was gone. The cart was gone. But on the walkway where it had stood, there was a dark stain, wet and glistening, spreading slowly toward the drain. The next morning, I went outside to look. The stain was still there, but it was dry and dark, like old blood. The gardener, a man I had known for years, was sweeping the walkway with a broom. When I asked him about the stain, he just shook his head and said, ‘That’s from the weeper. He comes for those who watch.’ I asked him what that meant, but he only smiled and walked away, leaving me standing there with a cold knot in my stomach.

Since that night, I haven’t slept with the curtains open. And every night, just after two, I hear the creaking of the cart and the faint, mournful weeping outside my window. It grows a little closer each time. It knows I’m watching. And I can’t stop.