Who is the Lonely Widow?

I haven’t slept in three nights. Not really. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I need to write this down in case I lose track completely.

It started with a dream. Simple enough — I was lying in my bed, but I couldn’t move. Sleep paralysis, maybe. I remember hearing someone crying. Soft, quiet sobbing. It wasn’t coming from the hallway, or outside, but from the room itself. The foot of the bed.

I live alone.

I couldn’t see anyone, but I felt her. Cold. Heavy. Grief like a pressure on my chest. I chalked it up to stress.

But the next night, she was there again.

Same sobbing, but this time I saw her silhouette. A woman, sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders shaking. A white gown — a wedding dress? Her hair covered her face. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. When I woke, the sheets were damp.

Not from sweat.

That scent — faint, but there — roses and something old. Mildew and dust. My grandmother’s attic smelled like that.

I kept the lights on last night. Drank until I passed out. Didn’t matter. She came back.

Her veil was lifted.

I saw her face. Pale, sunken eyes like bruises. Lips cracked. A long gash across her cheek, like a rope burn or a tear that never healed. She leaned in and whispered my name. I know she did. I felt her breath in my ear.

How does she know my name?

I looked her up. It sounds crazy, but I did. “Crying woman ghost,” “wedding dress,” “appears in dreams.” Eventually, I found it:

The Lonely Widow.

An old story, supposedly. A woman who killed her unfaithful husband in his sleep and then took her own life. She’s said to appear to men who cheat. Shows up in their dreams, crying at the foot of the bed. Each night, she gets closer. Until one night, she crosses over.

I didn’t think it was real.

I didn’t think she was real.

But I did cheat. Once. Months ago. I told myself it didn’t matter. That it was nothing.

She thinks otherwise.

Tonight will be the fourth night.