Spine Chillers

1. The Weeping Woman-1

THE WEEPING WOMAN

Darren Clough checked the time on his watch. He had been out now for forty-five minutes. Time to head for the home straight.

In the last six months, jogging had become both his hobby, and his only form of exercise. Having tried everything from sports, to weightlifting, and even ice skating, jogging after work had proved to be the only recreation which he managed to stick with without losing interest after ten minutes.

What was more, as he worked the 4pm to midnight shift at the care home, it was the ideal activity for him to enjoy uninterrupted. All he needed was a decent pair of trainers, and off he went. Everything else he had attempted always seemed to involve having to join a team of some sort or the other, and it soon became apparent that the vast majority of members only joined as a way of improving their social life.

A couple of hours on a Sunday afternoon, and they expected him to join them in the pub for the rest of the day. Not to mention the endless invites for birthdays, and anniversaries, all of which involved drinking copious amounts of alcohol until a fight usually broke out.

Over time, Darren had become increasingly fed-up with having to make excuses as to why he could not attend. For one thing, he had never been a big drinker, and after a couple of pints he was ready to go home. Not to mention he did not appear to have an awful lot in common with the rest of his fellow team-members.

Most of them had high-paying jobs, and they were always boasting about the latest killing they had made, whether it was on the stock market, or because of something they had bought for a pittance at a house sale or auction, which they then went on to sell for an absolute fortune.

Some even boasted about how they had diddled some old lady out of a fortune because she did not realise what she was selling was so valuable.

As someone who worked in a care home, Darren had always felt that people who needed help were the most important, regardless of their status, and he had dedicated the last ten years of his life in a job which paid very little but due to the satisfaction he received from looking after his trusts, made him feel as if he were the richest man alive.

Of course, he realised that his circumstances allowed him to remain in his present position without needing to seek alternative work elsewhere. Since his mother had walked out on them when he was in his late teens, it had just been Darren and his father in the house, and although they had always been the best of mates, since Darren volunteered to work the late shift, they barely saw each other.

His father worked at the local car plant, and started work each day at six, so he was usually asleep by the time Darren arrived home after midnight. But at least on Darren’s days off they usually managed to share a take-away and watch whatever sporting fixture was on the telly.

At least Darren no longer had to feel guilty whenever he tucked into their take-away of choice.

As a child, Darren had always been on the plump size, and nothing he ever tried to do, or eat, or not eat, seemed to help. His mother had never been much of a cook, preferring to spend time down at the local bingo hall to sweating over a hot stove. Therefore, most of his meals came out of tins and packets, or, more often than not, from down the local chippie.

But the way he saw it, his mates all ate the same food, or so they said. So, it was still a mystery to him why he always seemed to be at least four inches ahead of them around the waist.

Then when he began shaving at the tender age of fourteen-mainly because of an embarrassing-looking clump of peach fuzz which sprouted out under his chin-he developed acne. The combination of the two assured him of never having a girlfriend when his mates paired off with the girls from the school across the road to go to the pictures, or the local fairground.

Inevitably, if there was a film he desperately wanted to see-especially a good horror flick-Darren would make an excuse, then go by himself, ensuring that he was not discovered by sneaking in after the lights went out, and leaving before the end credits.

So it was that his life continued in a never-ending spiral of failed diets and pointless exercise classes. It was only when he began to work his present shift at the home, that he discovered his new passion for jogging. As he finished his shift at midnight, it was always several hours before he had unwound sufficiently to contemplate falling asleep.

It was seeing a couple of other joggers pounding the streets on his walk home that gave him the idea. There was hardly anybody else around, and somehow, due mainly he supposed to the lack of traffic on the roads at that time, the air felt cleaner and crisper as he breathed it in.

His initial attempt was not exactly a great success. He managed to keep going for just over ten minutes before collapsing in a great heap, unable to catch his breath. But even so, the experience made him feel alive, and left him with a real sense of achievement. So much so that he found himself back on the streets the following night.

It was a long struggle, but eventually Darren managed to reach his goal of running for a full hour without stopping.

This became his nightly routine, five days of the week, straight after his late shift.

What’s more, as time passed, he began to notice his clothes becoming looser, and within a year he had dropped a full six inches from his waistline, and best of all, he had not even bothered to alter his diet.

To add a bit of variety to his routine, Darren began to plot different routes so that he did not have to see the same old sights each time he went out.

Tonight’s course took him out across the old railway depot, and back via the abandoned cemetery by the canal.

He kept to the lit paths as much as he could, for although he had never encountered any trouble, he did not wish to tempt fate by being too foolhardy.

As he came around the side of the railings which encased the old cemetery, he glanced at the house which had once been the home of the custodian. Word around town had it that once all the plots were full, the church tried to buy up some land on the other side of the cemetery, but they were outbid by a developer who intended to build an estate of luxury flats.

As time went on, the church decided that there was no need to keep a full-time custodian on site, and as the man who held the position was in his mid-seventies, they pensioned him off and placed him in a home.

Everybody presumed that the church would bulldoze the house and make way for some new plots. But to everyone’s astonishment, they gave the place a new lick of paint and ring-fenced the property from the rest of the cemetery, then put it up for sale.

People in the town often joked that no one would ever want to live there, because who wanted to look out of their bedroom window and see a lot of headstones staring back.

But the house did sell, and quite quickly.

In truth, it was a very spacious property, and if one could forget for a moment that it lay in such close proximity to a graveyard, it made for a rather splendid abode.

No one in Darren’s circle knew anything about the people who eventually owned it, partly due to the fact that they had no immediate neighbours, and you never saw them outside the house in the garden, other than when one of them drove through the main gates on their way out.

After a while, as with most things, people stopped contemplating who lived there, and carried on gossiping about other matters.

But still, that house had always fascinated Darren, especially when he saw it bathed in moonlight as it was now. It always reminded him of something out of an old horror film.

He glanced to one side as he was running. Through the railings he could see the silhouette of the house in its full glory. All the lights were out, as usual, so he presumed that whoever lived there had retired for the night.

As he was about to turn back to face ahead, he saw something move in his peripheral vision. He continued running, although it was becoming awkward to do so with his head turned at such an angle, but he was convinced that it was not his imagination playing tricks on him. He had definitely seen something white contrasted against the darkness.

As he neared the end of the road, he turned right and continued running alongside the main entrance to the cemetery. From here he could see the front of the house and having checked ahead to make sure that there were no obstacles or other joggers ahead for him to crash into, he turned his head to the side once more, to see if he could ascertain what had caught his eye moments earlier.

As he was about to pass the entrance, he saw it again.

From this distance, it appeared to be a figure, moving between the gravestones.

It was a woman, he was sure. A woman dressed in what looked like a nightdress, which billowed behind her, in the wind.

He watched her for a moment, then stopped running before he was too far along the road to be out of sight. The woman almost seemed to him to be drifting, rather than walking, between the graves, never stopping for more than a second or two, before moving on to the next one.

As she made her way along the path, she suddenly looked up towards him.

Darren felt a cold shiver run through his body.

The woman reached out her arms and began to move towards him.

There was something about the approaching figure which really put the fear of God in him. Even so, there were still a couple of hundred yards between them, so he felt like a complete coward for being afraid. For one thing, she was only a woman, and no match for him should it come to a fight.

But what if she had a weapon concealed behind her back?

As she drew closer, Darren could feel his knees starting to shake. He knew that he could sprint off at any moment, and he was confident enough that she would not be able to catch him. But still, he could not stop the feeling of impending terror which was building up inside him.

As she drew closer, Darren noticed that it was in fact a nightdress she was wearing. The weather had been incredibly mild for early October, but even so, it seemed odd to him that she should be outside, dressed as she was.

Also, he noticed that her feet were bare. It was one thing to come out in her nightie, God knows he had seen several people in his local supermarket at night who all seemed dressed for bed, rather than shopping. But for her to walk out without first putting something on her feet, he thought particularly strange.

“Please help me.”

The sound of the woman’s voice caught him unaware. She was now only about fifty yards away, moving closer with every second.

Darren found himself unable to move. It was as if she had managed to cast some kind of spell over him, binding him to the spot.

Even if he did now decide to run away, it was too late. She had him!

Desperately trying to take control of his situation, Darren stood straight, and stared directly at the approaching woman.

Within a few feet of him, she stopped in her tracks.

He could see straight away that she had been crying, and tear tracks streaked her face.

“Please, can you help me?” she implored. Her voice cracked from crying.

Darren cleared his throat. “In what way?” he asked. “Are you lost?”

The woman shook her head. “No, nothing like that. I live over there,” she indicated to the house in the cemetery, behind her. “And I’ve managed to lock myself out. Please would you be so kind as to help me get back in?”

Darren thought for a moment. Her excuse actually made sense as to why she was dressed the way she was. From his first impression, she certainly did not come across as some homicidal maniac. Just a poor woman who had locked herself out in the cold.