The Weeping Lot

It was late October of 1998, and I’d just moved to the small town of Hollow Falls for a fresh start. I’m not particularly religious, but my abuela had always insisted on keeping a small altar to Santa Muerte in the corner of any home she lived in, and I’d carried that tradition with me. So, I set up a little shrine with a candle and a faded photograph of my grandparents.

That night, after a long day of unpacking, I lit the candle and said a simple prayer. I wasn’t asking for anything specific, just guidance. I blew out the candle and went to bed, hoping for a good night’s sleep. But at 3:00 AM, I was jolted awake by the sound of weeping coming from somewhere outside. It was a high, thin wail, like a child lost in the woods. I got up and peered through the window, but the street was empty, the only light coming from a flickering streetlamp at the end of the road.

I tried to dismiss it as a stray cat or the wind, but the sound continued, growing louder and more desperate. I pulled on my coat and stepped outside. The air was cold and damp, and the weeping seemed to come from the direction of the abandoned supermarket at the edge of town. I’d noticed it earlier, a derelict building with a cracked parking lot and weeds pushing through the asphalt. Against my better judgment, I walked toward it.

As I got closer, the weeping turned into a singsong chant, a melody I didn’t recognize but that sent chills down my spine. The parking lot was lit by a single flickering floodlight that cast long, dancing shadows. In the center of the lot, where the yellow lines had faded to ghosts, stood a figure. It was a woman in a long, white dress, her back to me. Her head was bowed, and her shoulders shook with sobs.

I called out, ‘Hello? Are you okay?’ But she didn’t respond. She just kept weeping. I took a step forward, and the ground beneath my feet felt wrong, like it was seeping cold. The woman began to sway, and then, slowly, she turned around. Her face was a mask of grief, but her eyes were empty, black pits that seemed to swallow the light. She opened her mouth, and instead of a scream, a cloud of moths flew out, their wings brushing against my face.

I stumbled back, but the parking lot seemed to stretch, the supermarket looming closer. The woman began to walk toward me, her bare feet making no sound. As she moved, the weeds under her steps withered and died. I turned to run, but my feet were rooted to the spot, as if the asphalt had turned to tar. She reached me, and her cold, damp hands cupped my face. She leaned in, and I could smell earth and decay. She whispered, ‘You lit the candle. Now you must listen.’

Then the world dissolved into a cacophony of weeping. I saw the lot filled with ghostly figures, all of them weeping, all of them reaching for me. I squeezed my eyes shut, and when I opened them, I was back in my apartment, lying in bed, drenched in sweat. The candle on my shrine had burned down to a puddle of wax, and the photograph of my grandparents was face-down.

I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. In the morning, I went to the supermarket to see if it was real. The lot was just a lot, cracked and weed-choked. But in the center, where the figure had stood, there was a small pile of moth wings, and a single, fresh tear on the asphalt. I’ve never lit that candle again, but sometimes, late at night, I hear the weeping, and I know she’s still out there, waiting for someone else to listen.