Mate, you wont believe the craziness I lived through. So, picture this: my husband popped out to the corner shop one evening and never came back. Honestly, wed been living with his mum, the kids and all, for five years by then. When he didnt come home, I went straight to the local police station the very next morning. But you know how it isthey told me they wouldnt even take a missing persons report until three days had passed.
I filed the paperwork, did what I could, but nothing came of it. And then, three whole years went by. Three years! Every day Id half expect him to walk through the door like nothing happened. Living with my mother-in-law, Helen, was a nightmare. The woman never liked me, if Im honestthat is, she quietly despised me. And after my husband disappeared, she completely lost the plot. Shed start telling the neighbours wild stories, saying her son had been murdered by some bloke she reckoned I was seeing, dumped him in the old quarry outside of town, all sorts.
I tried to grit my teeth and wait it out, hoping Helen would snap out of it, but if anything, it got worse. Its true we have some old quarries at the edge of townbloody deep too. Sure, other men would look at me, but honestly, Id never even dreamed of carrying on with anyone. My family meant everything.
Still, things between Helen and me just kept deteriorating. Wed start arguing over absolutely nothing: where I put a spoon, what mug I usedpetty stuff. Eventually, I just snapped and started looking at ways to split the house.
Of course, Helen had something to say about that, too: I wont let you swan off to a nice flat! Dont even think about ityou murderer! Not even joking. Every time there was a decent option for us to move, she had an excuse. Third floor? Too many stairs, my knees cant take it. First floor? All that noise from the kids outside, itll be unbearable. Second floor? Wrong neighbourhood, miles from the shops. She was impossible.
Eventually, a flat right across the street came upsecond floor, good spot, shops nearby, the lot. But then she pipes up, Ill be able to see my old flats windowsthe last place my son was seen. You get the ideashe kept on until I was so desperate, I ended up taking a place in an ancient old building out on the edge of town, first floor, overlooking an actual cemetery.
Helen and I parted ways on terrible terms, despite all those years under the same roof. She clearly didnt care much for her grandkids eithernot bothered that every day theyd be hearing funeral dirges and watching heartbroken families weep at graves rather than play in a park. No, she just wanted to make my life hell, all because she thought I had something to do with her son vanishing.
Anyway, there was nothing left to do but settle in and try to make the best of it. First thing I did was buy some proper thick fabric and knock together some heavy curtains. Last thing I wanted was the kids looking out the window at hearses trundling by. By dinnertime, Id hung the new curtains and we lived almost in the dark, but at least we didnt have to stare at headstones every time we looked out.
A month went by. One day, I was making porridge for the kids when I heard a huge crash out on the landing. Popped my head out and found my neighbour, Margaret, sprawled on the stairs, groaning in painshed gone and twisted her ankle something rotten. Her shopping was everywhere. I helped her up and onto the sofa in her flat, went back out to collect her bits and bobs, and came back to see her quietly crying.
I offered to ring for an ambulance, but she just shook her head and said she wasnt crying because of the pain. She looked up at me and said, This place is cursed, you know. Not a day goes by without some mess happening. I reckon anyone who lives by the graveyard just gets bad luck thrown at them.
I tried to laugh it off and calm her down, told her she was being dramatic, that wed be alright. I even pointed out that wed been living there a month and sure, the funeral music was hard to get used to, but you adjust eventually. After a pause, she just said, I wont tell you anythingyoull work it out for yourself soon enough.
And she was right, because from that day forward, all hell broke loose for us. First, my eldest dropped a dumbbell on his foot and ended up in A&E with a cast on. Then my daughter got these awful stomach painsturned out to be gastritis. The worst of it happened the following week.
Middle of the night, I was woken by the most horrific sound, this scratching on the window like someone was dragging their fingernails down the glass. I checked my phone2am. Something just pulled me to the window. As I pulled back the curtain, I nearly fainted.
Right outside, barely a metre away, was a woman about my age. Her face in the moonlight was shockingly pale, almost blue, twisted into this grim half-smile. I was frozen on the spot, could barely breathe, let alone scream or move away. She just stared back, then turned ever so slowly and walkedno, glidedtowards the graveyard. Only when shed vanished through the gates did I feel like I could move again.
I didnt get another wink of sleep and spent the whole next day rattled, completely unable to focus on anything else. Couldnt even bring myself to mention it; I genuinely thought people would think Id lost the plot. I kept trying to make sense of itmaybe Helen paid someone to dress up and do it to freak me out, or perhaps some funeral director wanted to spook me out and buy the flat for a song to turn it into a flower shop or something. I was coming up with dafter and dafter theories, desperate for a normal explanation.
It only got weirder from there. Just a couple of days later at work, I was told I was being made redundant. No one cared that I had young kidsI was basically forced to sign my resignation or get dismissed for gross misconduct. I took the redundancy.
The day I got my final pay, I went home on the bus absolutely gutted. When I got home, I realised my purseliterally the last of my moneywas gone. Mustve been nicked on the bus. I burst into tears. I ended up pawning mine and my husbands wedding rings. The bloke in the pawn shop offered me a pittance, so I thought Id try selling them on the street for a bit more.
As luck would have it, a man was standing there with a cardboard sign reading, BUYING GOLD. He looked at my rings and gave me about £1500 more than the pawnshop. Well, I pocketed the cash and started to head home feeling a little less desperate.
Just then, a young lad raced past me, dropping a large envelope. I hesitated and shouted for him, but hed rounded the corner and was gone. I picked it up and peeked insidewads of cash, £50 notes stacked thick. Straight away, a gypsy woman appeared, shouting, Looks like we found some money together! She snatched it from me and insisted there was no point in handing it in to the police because they’d just keep it. She tore about half out for herself, shoved the rest at me and disappeared.
Im a bit ashamed to admit it but with bills piling up and the kids needing feeding, I shoved the rest in my coat pocket and tried not to think about how dodgy it all was. My relief didnt last thoughI turned the corner to find the young lad and a huge bald bloke waiting for me, the bloke swinging a baseball bat. They strode right up and demanded the cash back, calling me a thief and saying they knew I hadnt handed all of it over. They werent interested in my story about the gypsy womanthey just took the lot, including what Id got for the wedding rings.
I was totally broken. I must have walked home in a fog, sobbing the whole way. I kept hearing Margarets words in my head: This house just brings misery. And now, I reckoned she was rightit had never been this bad for me.
That night I was woken again by someone scratching at the window. God, I was terrified, but my feet carried me to the window anyway. There she was againthat ghastly woman. I stifled a scream, petrified of scaring the kids, and just stood there, hand over my mouth. We locked eyes for what felt like forever. For a second, I swear her face softened a bit. Then she turned and headed for the cemetery once again, disappearing beyond the gates. I sank to the floor and sat there in the dark until the sun came up, too shaken to even move.
The next day, someone knocked on my door. I opened it to find Margaret with the council tax bill. I burst into tears as she offered to pay for me since she was heading to the council anyway. I just crumpled and told her everythingmy rows with Helen, the kids illnesses, my missing husband, the job loss, even the absolute lack of money. Margaret, bless her, just hugged me tight.
When Id calmed down, I told her about the woman at the windowthe whole story. She listened, then said, Go wash your face. I want to show you something. Ten minutes later, we were walking through the cemetery. Margaret led me to a neglected grave and pointed to the photograph on the stone. It was herthe woman whod haunted my nights.
That her? Margaret asked. I could only nod.
Margaret led me away, and back at her flat, she admitted shed seen the ghost as well. Since then, her own life had fallen apart: her son died, her husband left, she developed diabetes, nothing but bad luck.
After that, the visits from the ghost stopped. But, weirdly, I started to feel a pull to go visit her grave. It got stronger and stronger until eventually I couldnt ignore it. One bright afternoon, I went. The grave was overgrown, forgotten. I tidied it uppulled away weeds and leaves, trying not to look at the picture. But after a while, I did look. In daylight, she didnt seem terrifyingactually, she looked quite beautiful in an old-fashioned way. I found myself wanting to talk to her, to ask, What do you want from me? What have I ever done to you? And then the words just spilled out. I talked, sobbed, shared all my troubles, as if she was some old friend.
I dont know how long I sat there, pouring my heart out. But afterwards, it felt like a weight had lifted. As I left, I almost waved goodbye to herlike we were two mates bound by misfortune: hers, because shed lost her life; mine, because Id lost my hope.
That night, I had the most vivid dreamso vivid, I can still recall it. The woman came to me, not as a frightening ghost, but as the lovely woman from the photograph. She sat beside me on my bed and spoke: Listen to me. You bear no guilt. Do what I say and youll be alright. Your husband is paying for his debtshe got hooked on gambling, owes more than you can imagine. He was taken up north and forced into labour, kept with others and drugged so he couldnt leave. Hes still alive, but you wont see him againhell stay there till the end. As for you, sell your flat to the funeral directors and move as far away as you can. Ill help you. Theres a new man coming for youhell love your children like his own. Farewell.
Then she faded away, as soft as smoke. I woke up gasping, and it all felt so realthe sound of her, the smell of earth and autumn leaves.
Just three days later, someone from the funeral parlour turned up, offering to buy my flat as their new office. The deal went through so quickly, I could hardly believe it. I got a decent new place in a nice part of town and moved as soon as I could.
Andblow me downit all came true. I met a wonderful man, and hes been amazing to the kids. Lifes settled now. I still remember my friend from the cemetery though. I wont ever forget her.
