W B Aodh Gothic Ghost Stories

The woman in the Shadow

John Sparrow was an early riser whose sleeping pattern was never tampered by the seasons. A storm could be raging. The sun could be blazing. The air could be cold or humid, he was still up by four am every morning. His morning ritual included a cup of tea, and biscuit before he left the house to walk Syd, his Cairn Terrier. Margot, his wife of fifty-one years, used to his ways, slept through as he dressed, and rumbled through the house in these early hours. Even before he retired, John made sure Margot’s tea and toast was ready for her when she came downstairs. This morning would be no different.

As John closed the garden gate he glanced up and down the village street. All was quiet. Then a cat howled, another answered, and Syd pulled on his lead eager to be on his way. As John strolled the streets at a leisurely pace, his mind began to wake. His head clearing as he took in his surroundings. It was late autumn, and an early mist covered the streets. Frost laid claim to the cars. Window screens sparkled in chips of diamond ice. The dull grey concrete of the footpath hidden beneath a layer of glinting rime.

As he released a stream of frosty breath, he slipped his free, gloved hand deeply into his coat pocket, and snugged his chin into his scarf. The cats continued to howl and screech as they continued to lay claim to their territory. Syd sniffed under the hedgerow. His tail wagging at the scents teasing him. The corner shop light was on. On his way home, John would call in to collect the morning paper, and Margot’s favourite, a bag of soft fudge.

When he turned the corner of the street, he caught view of the church, and smiled. This was his halfway mark. He would stroll around the graveyard. Then turn for home. Syd’s tail wagged with excitement as they crossed the road. The graveyard held a blend of earthy and autumn aromas Syd loved to sniff, and fallen leaves he could roll in. The early morning moonlight mixed with the hoar mist cast a low glow over the brickwork of the Saxon church.

A shadow caught his gaze. John’s breath hitched. Sometimes, if you were lucky, you caught a glimpse of her. Then there were days she never appeared. In all the years he walked this familiar path, he has never spoken to her. No matter how hard he tried to take the same path as her. To catch up with her. She always avoided him. By the time he reached the gate on the other side of the church, she was gone. Disappeared as a blaze of lights filled the road. Then the lights faded, and he was all alone once more. As he strolled down the path, Syd tugged on his lead and barked enthusiastically. In the doorway, although he had somewhere warm to sleep, lay the local drunk, Terrance Dobbs.

Maisy snuggled further into her coat. She may be wearing thick woollen gloves, but her fingers still tingled from the cold. She frowned as she recalled why she was huddled up beneath a window in the local graveyard. At four -thirty, Jase, who had dreams of being a paranormal investigator, woke her from a pleasant dream. Then dragged her to the church for some ghost spotting, the reason they were staying at the village. He had heard the tale of the woman who roamed the church, and eager to see her they were staking out the graveyard during their short stay.

Maisy shuffled. This was their third early morning, and they were still after a glimpse of her. As Maisy glanced around, she deeply believed whoever told Jase the story was winding him up. That hopefully, after today, they would return home. That there would be no more early morning starts to take her from her warm bed.

As she stared at her surroundings, Maisy concluded ghost hunting was not fun. That it had to be one of the dullest stake out jobs to be on. She thought about the long hours wasted waiting while nothing happened. Especially, on a morning like this. The moon was bright, and the frost on the grass glistened. Spiderwebs, the jewels of the church, draped from windows like diamond clustered necklaces. Maisy shivered. Her breath turned to mist as shadows danced all around her.

‘Here. Have a hot chocolate – I’ve added a bit of something to keep you warm,’ Jase said.

‘Thanks – Hot chocolate and a veggie roll. What a way to start the day,’ Maisy said, hiding her eye roll as she lowered her head to huddle into her scarf.

‘Only the best for my girl, and accomplice,’ Jase said.

Maisy smiled as she snuggled into Jase. Hot chocolate on a bitter morning in the middle of a deserted church yard with Jase, was the best, she thought. ‘Do you think she’ll make an appearance?’ Maisy asked.

‘I hope so.’ Jase’s gaze went to the gate as it opened with a squeak. ‘These early mornings take some getting used to,’ he said.

‘Is that her?’ Maisy asked. Her gaze on the shadow stepping into the graveyard.

‘I doubt it. Looks like a dog walker. You know, the bloke who told me about the ghost when I was in the pub when I visited Aunt Lilly in the summer,’ Jase said.

Maisy bit into her veggie roll. The flaky pastry melted on her tongue as crumbs fell from her mouth. Then she swallowed a mouthful of hot chocolate. She glanced around the graveyard. A cat howled as it slithered between the headstones. ‘How long are we going to wait?’ she asked.

Jase stilled beside Maisy. Then he grabbed the camera resting in his lap. His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Not long. Look. There’s a shadow.’ He glanced to the moon. ‘If it stays out. Doesn’t disappear behind those clouds. We should see her.’ He pointed. ‘Look.’

Maisy turned her gaze. A hazy shadow slipped between the trees.

With pursed lips, Connie blew through closed teeth as she rocked the baby. Her hand cupped the tiny head hidden in the old blanket whilst the other hugged the baby’s bottom. As the child continued to whimper against her breast, Connie held her breath. The slightest creak of a twig snapping, or the crunch of gravel had her glancing over her shoulder. He said he would be here by six, it was now five past. Connie searched the deserted path. Her shoulders drooped when she saw no sign of him.

A dog barked, and the hinge of a gate creaked as someone opened it. Connie stepped into the shadows. It was John Sparrow walking his dog. If he saw her, he would stop for a chat. To evade him, she pushed further against the wall. With a tail that wagged, the dog ran as he yapped into the mist. Connie closed her eyes. Her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes opened; she was about to release the air from her lungs when the dog stopped. His ears pricked up, and his head shifted from right to left. His nose sniffed the air. Then he was running again. Not stopping until he reached the church doors. His nose pushed against Terrance Dobbs; the village drunk as he lay prone on the ground.

The crunch of gravel had her gaze returning to the path, and she watched John Sparrow hobble past. His gait slow as not to slip on the ice. He stopped just in front of her. His head tilted as he listened to the mist. The baby stirred, and Connie pushed her deeper into her breast. The dog yapped again, and John Sparrow’s gaze followed the sound. To see why his dog fussed. With a shuffle and a grunt, he was on his way again.

When he was a little away from her, Connie turned the other way. With her body still pressed against the wall, she shuffled along the grassy verge. A twig snapped, she waited. John Sparrow, and the dog were too occupied by the drunk to notice. Believing they had no interest in her, Connie continued until she reached the edge of the church. Again, she glanced into the distance. The moon broke through the clouds. No longer did she have the shadows of dawn to hide behind. Now, she would have to use the trees until her ride arrived.

The dog yapped again; Connie turned to look. Her sigh heavy as John Sparrow and his dog wandered further down the path. Terrance never moved. As Connie looked towards the gate at the far end of the path, a bird tweeted a call out for a chat. From above, a blackbird lunged low as something on the ground caught its beady little eyes. With one last cry, it swooped down. Its beak pecked and prodded at the hard ground. After a hard battle, the bird pulled at a juicy worm.

Silence filled the air, and Connie strained her ears. In the distance, the low throb of an engine rumbled down the road. As close to the gate as she was, she continued to use the trees to hide behind. The baby was silent. She took a peep. Though she was warm, her eyes were closed, and Connie lowered her head. There it was the gentle breath. She was still alive.

The car was close. It was red. She knew this car. Again, her gaze flashed around the churchyard. As the silence remained, she stepped forward, opened the gate. Then waited as she checked the street. It was deserted. Too early to be busy with the residents of the village. The car was closer. She never waited for it to stop as she stepped from the path.

Terrance Dobbs hugged the empty bottle of a cheap brand of whiskey as he huddled into the old church doorway, gaining warmth from the shelter he sought from the early autumn morning. With the liquor in him. An old duffle coat he bought from a charity shop, pulled tight, and the gloves and scarf he found in the graveyard the week before, he no longer felt the cold. The candle he had been burning during the night was long spent. But he no longer needed it. The light of the moon cast a low smoky glow over his surroundings. He knew if he waited long enough, he would see them. It was the only time he saw them. The moments before they died. The moments before he killed them. He never meant to kill them. He shivered, not from the cold, but from the memory which haunted him.

Twenty years have passed since that morning. Through blurry eyes, he looked around. It was a morning like this the accident had happened. The mist had been thick. The moonlight turned everything grey, blurring his surroundings. The streetlamps. There had not been many. Maybe, three on that stretch of road. He knew he should not have been driving. He had been out celebrating his promotion the night before, and only got to bed just after two. Then the phone call came. His mother was in hospital. She’d had a heart attack. Delayed by the accident, she died before he had time to say goodbye to her.

His dreams were always the same. The child, no, the baby, had never made a sound. Yet, it was the baby’s eyes which haunted his dreams. Watching over him. Terrance Dobbs licked his dry lips. He wanted another drink, but the bottle was empty. As he stared at the shadows gathering in the graveyard, he rose. John, with his dog, was close by. He had said hello. Then as he turned to leave, dropped a sandwich in Terrance’s lap, which Terrance stuffed into his oversize pocket with the intention of eating it later.

Why he returned to the village, he never understood. He was only glad no one recognized him. If they had, would they give him the titbits they do. Would Mrs Phelps allow him to sleep in her dead husband’s abandoned shed.

Terrance looked around. He saw her, followed her shadow to the gate. He wanted to reach out. To warn her. To tell her how sorry he was. But she always faded before he spoke. 

©W B Aodh 2024

If you enjoyed this short story, clink on the below image and recieve your free copy of A Most Desirable For Sale, a collection of short Stories.

Did you enjoy the free short story collection. then check out Uninvited Guests

The Owl Toad Mole Publishing House™

BT66 8EY 2024 ©