The chapel held a profound, almost tangible silence. The air hung heavy with incense, tears, and that inexpressible sorrow beyond words. Folk sat hunched, heads bowed, each adrift in private grief. Time itself seemed arrested. Then—footsteps. Soft, barefoot. A lad of six rose. His movements faltered, yet his countenance held grave solemnity, as though years had settled upon him. He spoke not. Merely advanced through pews to halt before the coffin’s foot. He lingered near, awaiting permission unseen. Then, slowly, pressed his small ear to his mother’s breast. No sound. Yet he listened—as if something beyond silence might stir. One minute passed. Two. Whispers fluttered; a sob broke. Abruptly, he lifted his head. Terror swam wide-eyed within him, mingled with childish devotion. He turned, fixing the priest. “She said,” he whispered, “‘I didn’t bid thee farewell…'” Paralysis seized all. Even candles flickered wildly. A woman swooned in back pews. A prayer book clattered. The priest stepped forward—too late. “She says,” added the boy, “she’ll wait for me… tonight.” Tomb-stillness fell. Swift hands drew him away, murmuring of fevered fancies. But none slept soundly that eve. Come nightwatch—the neighbour below swore she glimpsed a mourning-garbed phantom ascending stairs, the lad behind. Neither was seen again. The coffin yawned empty at dawn.
Three days after burial, the mother-son cottage stood barred. Kin refused guardianship—too much terror hung upon that night. Too much felt… awry.
The boy was Arthur. Silent and thoughtful, he scarce spoke since his father’s passing—except to his mother. They understood each other unspoken. Often as she drifted into slumber, he’d clasp her hand—a talisman. She was his entire world. When illness claimed her, none foresaw such sudden fading. Two weeks—gone. Not age, nor mishap. As if something devoured her inward. Physicians murmured: heart. Arthur knew: more.
Post-funeral, a cousin-aunt took him. She’d ever despised Arthur’s mother and shunned the boy. Nights, she heard him whispering drowsy words. Once—he sat bolt upright: “She stands by the door. Don’t look. She calls thee not.” Dawn summoned the priest—that same man from the burial. He paled learning who petitioned him. “This child… isn’t right,” he breathed. “Best untouched. Pray. Bolt windows nightly.”
True horror dawned day four.
The cemetery warden, old Micheal, dashed panting to chapel. “The coffin’s void! Gone—body, garments… like she never lay there!” The priest went forth. Seals intact. Coffin shut. Inside… vacuum.
By dusk, village tongues wagged. Folk whispered Arthur’s mother hadn’t died—but crossed where return remains possible. Midnight brought children hearing feminine murmurs beyond panes. Some saw a long-haired spectre haunting moonlit gardens, sighing, “Where’s my son?” The aunt banished Arthur thenceforth—deposited him upon the church workhouse step, departing without glance.
The ancient priest, Father Michael, housed him near his cell. Life’s travails lay long behind him—but this case… “An ancient sorrow lurks here,” he murmured, beholding Arthur. “Heard thee her voice?” The lad nodded. “Every night. She summons. Says she’s cold—and… we left words unsaid.” “What words?” urged Father Michael. Arthur pondered, then whispered: “She vowed she’d be ever beside me… beyond thresholds.”
Seventh nights invite departed souls back, legend claims, if torn unwillingly from life.
Father Michael knew. Hence, he kept vigil.
Church bells chimed midnight. Wind screamed beyond windows. Cellar candles perished singly—as if blown by deliberate breath.
Then—Arthur vanished.
His cell’s door stayed bolted inside. No trace, no sound, no open casement. Simply, he ceased being.
Torch-flame trembling, Father Michael ran chapelward.
There, knelt at vacant altar-stone—stood Arthur. Before him—she. Black-clad, hair fallen sheer, face unliving—yet tears brimming. “I returned,” she breathed, “to take him where pain cannot tread.” “Not thy path,” countered Father Michael. “Thou disturbeth peace, stealing living breath.” Slowly, she turned. “He is mine. My oath protects him. Death couldn’t break it.” “Thy journey ended,” persisted Father Michael. “Release his soul.” She gazed unto Arthur. He lifted his head—and smiled for the first time in memory. “Fear finds me not,” said he. “With her, I’m home.”
Then chapel floor shuddered. Air thickened darkly—space, light, resonance dissolved into void.
When Father Michael stirred—altar-stone lay bare. Arthur vanished. The grave-coffin refastened. Now inside lay two: woman-child, hands clasped fast—as though ordained.
Since then, none shelters within that chapel. Yearly, upon fixed midnights, childish laughter echoes—and a woman sings lullabies.
O’er altar-stone, a shadow flickers oft: remembrance—that vows forged by love outreach Death’s grasp.
One year slipped past.
The old chapel endured hilltop—plaster peeling, stained-glass fractured. Service ceased after Arthur’s vanishing. Locals skirted wide, while Father Michael retreated inward, murmuring ceaselessly within his cell. Yet one grim Saturday, a woman journeyed village-ward—Miss Eleanor Greywood, London scholar delving folk-haunts and cursed groves. Rumours of “emptied tomb” and “phantom-child” drew her hither.
Villagers eyed her askance. Only one elder dared speak: “Believe it fancy? We dwell alongside it. Hear it. See it. Nightwinds off the hill whisper ceaselessly… of debts unpaid, of homecomings.” “Who?” queried Eleanor. The elder hushed voice: “The lad. Arthur.”
Late evening carried her chapelward. Doors gaped—as though expectant.
Dust-spun webs draped decay within. Yet life trembled faintly… or lingering pulse. Upon altar-stone lay child’s sketch—pencil-traced: dark-winged woman gripping boy’s hand. Beneath, script faint: “Mother and I. Awakening soon.” Eleanor froze. Aw
Yet Eleanor Greywood understood then, standing before the altar clutching that faded sketch, that the chill she felt was his small hand seeking hers, preparing to guide her—and the spectral woman watching silently from the shadowed doorway—back through the veil at last, accepting the cold weight of guardianship she’d inherited at dusk.
