The Woman in Black
Chapter One: The Woman in Black
Rain had started falling around noon, soft at first, then angrier, like the sky had something personal to say. Michael didn’t mind. The city always seemed cleaner in the rain, like it washed off the lies people told themselves. He adjusted his coat collar, pushed open the rusted gate to the old cemetery, and walked toward the headstones.
“Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad,” he muttered, brushing off the slick marble. “Still here. Still screwing up. Thought you’d like to know.”
All of his adult life he bounced from job to job, never really succeeding in life, just existing in it. Existing in a world that for some reason never felt completely REAL to him. It started when he was a child after he lost his parents, an event he couldn't quite recall, the memory even more distant than the mental image of his parents that he struggled to hold onto.
He stood in silence for a moment, watching droplets race down the side of the stone. Then, something shifted. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up—not from the cold, but from the sensation of being watched.
He turned.
A woman stood just beyond the twisted iron fence, half-shadowed beneath a warped black umbrella. Her dress clung to her like spilled ink, and a veil hid her face. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Michael blinked.
She was inside the cemetery now, standing just a few yards from him, despite the gate never having creaked. The wind whipped around her but did not touch her dress. Her presence felt like pressure, like something folding in around him.
“Michael,” she said, voice low and clear. “You’re late.”
He froze. “Do I… know you?”
“No,” said another voice—this one younger, trembling. From behind the woman stepped someone else: a girl, maybe mid-twenties, soaked to the bone. She wore a tattered coat over what looked like a school uniform skirt, the kind worn in convents. Her hands were gloved, but even from a distance, Michael could see she was shaking.
“You don’t know us,” the girl said. “But you will.”
Lightning cracked above. The flash illuminated something behind them—something wrong. Shapes that shouldn’t be there. Eyes in the dark. Mouths where there should be none.
The woman in black tilted her head.
“They’re early,” she said. “Iris. Stay behind me.”
The girl flinched but obeyed. Michael took a step back, his breath misting out like smoke.
“What the hell is this?” he said.
The woman raised one pale hand. Her nails, black and curved like claws, curled upward—and the space in front of her ripped, like the sky had been paper. From within the tear spilled light and fire, and something screamed—not with pain, but with hunger.
Michael’s legs refused to move.
He saw them clearly now—creatures crawling from the shadows, malformed angels with cracked wings and skin like charred bone. They were laughing.
The woman’s veil fluttered in the wind. A sliver of her face appeared—pale lips stained red, a hint of a scar at her jawline.
“I am The Mistress,” she said, her voice cutting through the rain like a blade. “And you, Michael, are marked.”
“Marked?”
Iris stepped forward again, despite the fear in her eyes. “You don’t remember the fire, do you?”
“What fire?”
The Mistress’s hand brushed Michael’s forehead. A shock went through him—visions of ash, a burning city, bodies with no eyes, and himself… crawling from the wreckage, unharmed, heart pounding.
“You were supposed to die,” she said. “But you didn’t. You were chosen. Alive… but Dead.”
Michael staggered back. One of the creatures lunged.
He raised his hand—instinct, nothing more—and the air fractured.
The creature burst apart in midair, evaporated into smoke and screams.
Silence followed. Rain. The sound of his own heart, hammering.
“What—what was that?” he gasped.
The Mistress smiled behind her veil.
“That,” she said, “was the beginning.”
