A Friend from the Cemetery
Its still strange to think about those yearsI sometimes feel Ill never quite shake them off. One evening, my husband popped to the shop and never came back. Wed lived with his mother in her old red-brick terrace in Manchester for five years, sharing her cramped house with our two kids.
When I went to the local constabulary the next morning to report him missing, I was told Id have to wait three days before theyd take my statement. Eventually, they opened a file and three entire years have vanished since then.
For every one of those mornings, Id wait for the rattle of the letterbox or the turn of his key, hoping hed just walk in again. Living with his mother was never easyshed always resented me, though she was the sort to hide it behind forced politeness. After his disappearance, though, it was as if all reason left her: she started telling the neighbours Id killed her son and tossed him into the canal with one of my supposed lovers.
I bore it, thinking shed come to her senses. But things only grew worsearguments now exploded over the smallest things: a spoon in the wrong drawer, a mug not left on its coaster. Eventually, Id had enough and began to look for a flat to swap ours with, just to escape the madness.
She was dead set against it.
You wont get a nice place out of me, not a chancemurderess! shed hiss, quiet but venomous.
Every option I found was met with a new complainttoo many stairs, knees too sore for a third floor. The first floor was too noisy by the street. If it was the wrong area, she wouldnt hear of it, moaning that the shops were too far away.
Finally, a promising place came up just across the road: second floor, familiar area, close to the shops and schools. But nonever happy, she whined that shed have to look out the window at her old flat, the one my son disappeared from.
She wore me down until I was ready to move anywhere at all, just to end the screaming rows, so the kids wouldnt have to hear them. In the end, the only swap she grudgingly accepted was an ancient council flat on the edge of town, ground floor, perched right up against the sprawling city cemetery.
We left as enemies. It was as if the years wed lived together had vanished along with my husband. She didnt care about her own grandchildren, clearlynever mind that theyd now spend their days hearing funeral hymns or the weeping of mourners, never mind theyd see gravestones instead of swings when they looked from the flat.
I knew she was punishing me. But Id never hurt anyone, least of all her son.
We had to adapt, so I bought thick fabric to sew curtains, wanting to shut out the sight of hearses and coffins. By evening, the curtains were up, and our sunlight was gone. The flat felt like a crypt.
A month passed. One afternoon, as I was making porridge for the children, I heard a crash in the stairwell and peered out to find my neighbour sprawled on the steps, groaning in pain. Shed twisted her ankle and was unable to get up. Shopping spilled everywhere.
I helped her inside and fetched her shopping. She sat sobbing on her sofa; when I suggested calling a doctor, she refused, insisting it wasn’t the pain but the place that set her off.
This flat is cursed, you know, she said, after shed wiped her eyes. Trouble comes to anyone living by the graveyardevery single day, somethings wrong.
I tried to comfort her, told her she was overreacting, that wed been there a month and it was fine. Sure, the funeral hymns were grim, but you can get used to anything, cant you?
She simply replied, Youll see soon enough.
And she was right. From that day, it was as if bad luck stalked us.
First, my son dropped a dumbbell on his foot and was put in a cast. Then my daughters stomach pains were finally diagnosed as gastritis. But the real horror came a week later.
One night, I woke to a strange scraping noise, long and slowlike nails dragging down glass. It was just turning two a.m. on the clock. Before I knew it, I was drawn to the window. I pulled the curtain aside, and my heart nearly stopped.
A woman stood just outside, maybe my age, her face pallid and blue in the moonlight, twisted in a mocking, knowing sneer.
I stood frozen, unable to scream, rooted to the spot. She turned without a sound and drifted toward the cemetery. I watched until she disappeared through the gates, utterly paralysed.
Sleep was hopeless after that. All day, I obsessedunsure if Id been dreaming or losing my mind. I spun stories in my head, some wilder than others: perhaps my ex-mother-in-law had orchestrated this, or maybe the local undertaker wanted me out so he could turn the flat into a shop.
After that, the run of misfortune ramped up. I was made redundant at workhanded a choice between resignation and dismissal. No concern for my kids at home. I took the only safe option and resigned.
Just days after, I got my last pay packet and took the bus home. At home, I realised my pursemy last bit of cashwas gone, nicked on the bus. I sobbed until there was nothing left inside.
Out of desperation, I took our wedding rings to the pawnshop, but their offer was pitiful. Trying my luck out on the street, I came across a man with a sign: Buying Gold. He offered me more than the pawnshop, so I accepted, hidden cash now burning in my pocket.
Just then, a young lad dashed past and dropped a packet. I hesitatedcalled after him, but hed vanished. When I opened it, I found an inch-thick wad of fifty-pound notes.
At that moment, a Romany woman appeared behind me, plucking the money from my hands. We found this together, loveno need to tell the coppers, theyll keep it for themselves. Well split it, yes? She peeled off half the notes, thrust the rest at me, and disappeared as swiftly as shed come.
I hadnt even registered what happened when, around the corner, the young lad appeared again, now with a stocky, bald man clutching a cricket bat. In a flash, they cornered me.
Heard youve got my cash! he barked.
I thrust it back at him, and the pair didnt so much as listen to my talejust accused me of thieving, snatched every penny Id just scraped together, and stormed off. I barely remember getting home that day, sunk further in despair.
That night, I was awoken againnails on glass, the chill of terror flooding me, but still I found myself drawn to the window. There she was, the spectral woman, staring in, eyes hollow yet somehow alive. I pressed my hands to my mouth for fear of screaming and woke the children. After a long, dreadful moment, she turned and disappeared into the cemetery. I collapsed against the wall, shivering until dawn.
The next day, my neighbour came knocking with the council tax bill. I could barely keep my tears in. She watched in silence as I unravelled, then, out of nowhere, pulled me into a tight hug. Something in me broke. I told her everythingmy haunted nights, my husbands disappearance, my job, the endless string of ruin. She listened without interruption.
Come on, she said, gently, once I finished. Wash your face. Ive something to show you.
Minutes later, we were walking through the rows of old stones in the cemetery. She led me to a neglected grave, pointed at the faded portrait on the headstone. It was herthe night visitor.
That her? she asked.
All I could do was nod. My words were gone.
She led me away and, back at her flat, shared her own story: shed seen the woman herself, after which shed lost her son, her husband, her healthmisfortune piling up one after the other.
But after that, the midnight visitor no longer returned.
Days passed, and I found myself desperate to return to that gravean urgency I couldnt explain. One sunny afternoon, I caved in. Anxiety gave way to curiosity. When I found the grave, I tidied up, pulling weeds and brushing away dead leaves, unable to meet the womans gaze in the photo until Id finished.
In the daylight, she didnt seem frighteninga beautiful woman, delicate features, elegant in her dress. I wanted to blurt out, Why do you haunt me? What am I doing wrong? Vicky (her name etched softly into the stone), pleasewhat do you want from me? Im far from happy too, you know!
I cant remember how long I sat there, pouring out my sorrow, spilling my grief to a woman I had never known. Perhaps anyone watching would have thought me mad. But as I spoke, the burdens seemed to lighten. As I left, I said goodbye to her, like an old friend joined by misfortunehers, the loss of life; mine, a spirit broken by living.
That night, I dreamt of Vickynot as a ghost, but as her beautiful younger self, sitting beside me.
Listen and remember, she whispered. Youve done nothing wrong. Do as I say, and youll find peace. Your husbandhe was addicted to cards, ran up debts, and was forced into servitude far away, drugged and kept from running. Youll never see him again, but hes alive. You must sell your flat to the funeral directors and buy a new place far away. Ill help you. Soon youll meet a man wholl love you and your children as his own. Goodbye.
She faded away, leaving the scent of earth and damp leaves lingering in the room.
Two days later, the undertakers came knockingthey wanted to buy the flat as an office. I agreed immediately. Within a week, the estate agents found me a flat in a far better neighbourhood, for almost exactly what I got for mine.
We now live in a much nicer area. And, true to Vickys words, I soon met a kind man, someone who dearly loves me and my kids.
Everything happened exactly as foretold by my strange friend from the cemetery. And I wont ever forget her.
