Under the broken light I would see her while driving home. Lit as if the lamp still worked but it was a flickering light, though: more like a flame.
She would be dressed to the nines in old-fashioned clothes and looking towards town; with hope, expectation and excitement in her face. Always the same pose, always absolutely still as if frozen in time, the only movement that of her coat in the wind.
Each day the same impossible and improbable scene, and I longed to stop and become the person she was waiting for. Heavy traffic and double yellow lines pushed me on, though, and I would drive on ever more intrigued.
Until I finally decided otherwise. I switched my hazard lights on and pretended to break down. I got out of my car, took out my phone, and crossed the road as if searching for a signal and, while doing so, walked along the pavement toward her.
As I approached, the scene didn’t change at all, she remained frozen in that pose and looking right past me while the non-existent light continued to flicker over her.
It was only when I got right up close, when I started to feel suddenly much colder and as I prepared myself for nothing to happen, that she finally moved.
I was new to the town, then, I didn’t know the story.
There was a local tale about a woman who was left waiting on the bridge for her lover. Their families were opposed to their union and the pair had vowed to elope. She was to wait on the bridge that left town and he would arrive in a cart that would take them away, having fully packed it with all they would need.
Whether he came by or not no one ever really knew for sure. All that anyone knew was that he was never seen again while she was found frozen on the bridge, her cheeks covered in ice.
It was said that her ghost lingered on, forever waiting for her lover to come and take her away.
Except it wasn’t him that she waited for. And neither was it the cold that killed her.
The night she died he pulled up with the items he had gathered to leave town with. At his side was a hot drink that he gave to her in order to warm her through before they set off.
As her insides burned and she cried her life away he told her gently how he had grown bored of her, before thanking her, for he was always ever so polite, for helping gather the money they had ferreted away together for this departure. It would come in so handy, he said, was just enough to set up a business in London.
With her last breath, though, she vowed to continue waiting until she could take her revenge. Then her face turned strangely calm and turned to face toward town.
He knew he was cursed, but I did not.
When she did move, she did so to remove, incredibly quickly, a knife from her jacket which she plunged into my side. “Only the blood of his kin can release me,” she said, smiling the smile of someone driven mad from waiting for so long that gas light gone electric, horse-drawn carts and carriages had become cars and the bridge upon which she first waited had been rebuilt twice. And waited long enough for her murderer’s family to have forgotten they were not meant to return to their former home town.
As I expired she looked relieved and faded away.
All I could do was start my own wait and begin wonder if, and how, I could escape.
She would be dressed to the nines in old-fashioned clothes and looking towards town; with hope, expectation and excitement in her face. Always the same pose, always absolutely still as if frozen in time, the only movement that of her coat in the wind.
Each day the same impossible and improbable scene, and I longed to stop and become the person she was waiting for. Heavy traffic and double yellow lines pushed me on, though, and I would drive on ever more intrigued.
Until I finally decided otherwise. I switched my hazard lights on and pretended to break down. I got out of my car, took out my phone, and crossed the road as if searching for a signal and, while doing so, walked along the pavement toward her.
As I approached, the scene didn’t change at all, she remained frozen in that pose and looking right past me while the non-existent light continued to flicker over her.
It was only when I got right up close, when I started to feel suddenly much colder and as I prepared myself for nothing to happen, that she finally moved.
I was new to the town, then, I didn’t know the story.
There was a local tale about a woman who was left waiting on the bridge for her lover. Their families were opposed to their union and the pair had vowed to elope. She was to wait on the bridge that left town and he would arrive in a cart that would take them away, having fully packed it with all they would need.
Whether he came by or not no one ever really knew for sure. All that anyone knew was that he was never seen again while she was found frozen on the bridge, her cheeks covered in ice.
It was said that her ghost lingered on, forever waiting for her lover to come and take her away.
Except it wasn’t him that she waited for. And neither was it the cold that killed her.
The night she died he pulled up with the items he had gathered to leave town with. At his side was a hot drink that he gave to her in order to warm her through before they set off.
As her insides burned and she cried her life away he told her gently how he had grown bored of her, before thanking her, for he was always ever so polite, for helping gather the money they had ferreted away together for this departure. It would come in so handy, he said, was just enough to set up a business in London.
With her last breath, though, she vowed to continue waiting until she could take her revenge. Then her face turned strangely calm and turned to face toward town.
He knew he was cursed, but I did not.
When she did move, she did so to remove, incredibly quickly, a knife from her jacket which she plunged into my side. “Only the blood of his kin can release me,” she said, smiling the smile of someone driven mad from waiting for so long that gas light gone electric, horse-drawn carts and carriages had become cars and the bridge upon which she first waited had been rebuilt twice. And waited long enough for her murderer’s family to have forgotten they were not meant to return to their former home town.
As I expired she looked relieved and faded away.
All I could do was start my own wait and begin wonder if, and how, I could escape.
Written for Friday Fictioneers intially, from the following picture prompt, but I couldn't find an ending and missed the deadline. So I found one and extended it into this.
PHOTO PROMPT © The Reclining Gentleman
