The Vanishing of the Weeping Woman: A Short Story
The Vanishing of the Weeping Woman
A True Unexplainable Event
“The very idea of supernatural magic — including miracles — is incoherent, devoid of sensible meaning.” — Richard Dawkins
To this day, I cannot explain what I saw or how it happened but it has haunted me for years since that frightful night. A night so unremarkable or vexed by any strange practice yet is beyond the possibilities of this realm. It was not midnight yet, and I had been sitting at my desk working on a paper after putting my infant son to sleep. My mind was completely bonded to the composition before me and my wife was in the living room on the other side of the wall sitting and watching television when it happened.
Sitting on my desk was the baby monitor, amplifying the sounds of my son’s rhythmic snoring and lulling constancy of white static noise. There I sat, in tranquil focus, tapping away at my keyboard until a faint sobbing began to echo from a distance. Being a man, who does not pry into my neighbor’s affairs, I determined to ignore the sound and mind my own work but the sobs increased to weeping moving closer to my sliding glass door. The back side of my condominium faced the street, separated by a small patio from the master bedroom and another from the living room.
The room grew colder as the weeping grew near and a feeling of dread and fear came over me, unwarranted to my rational mind, so I sought to anchor my feelings with reality. Despising the isolation, I inquired of my wife, “Do you hear that?”
“It sounds like someone is crying,” she answered absently, fixed on the television. Her disinterest eased my superstitious cowardice and I returned to my desk, resolved to pay the matter no mind.
As my fingers hovered over the keys, the woman’s wailing positioned her right outside of my patio and a shiver ran down my spine. The image of the figure standing beyond my window appeared monstrous and malignant in my mind’s eye, robbing my attention from work. I needed to see the weeping woman to abate the insensible fantasies running rampant in my head.
Standing up with quivering knees, ashamed of my angst, I pulled the curtain back slightly and poked one eye through the small crevice. She was a young slender woman, dressed in a white nightgown against skin so pale it shone grey under the moonlight. Her hair was as black as a crow draped long over her face, buried in her hands while she wept loudly. My fear turned to pity and I wondered at her apparent disregard for who might be watching or disturbed by her wailing.
“Hun, there is a woman in a nightgown crying out on the street,” I announced to my wife.
She eyed me suspiciously, “maybe she needs help, you should go check on her.”
“There is something very strange about her. I don’t like it.” By this point, the weeping had moved from our bedroom to the living room where I stood. I peered through the living room curtain where the woman was weeping and walking slowly, never lifting her face from her hands.
As she continued to walk down the street, the legend of the weeping woman, known in Mexico as La Llorona, was recalled to mind. She was a woman who drowned herself and her children in a lake and her ghost could be seen weeping for her children around town. She is used as a disciplinary tool against misbehaving children for she has been mythologized as a murderer of children.
Horror struck me as I realized she was creeping closer to my son’s nursery. While I could hear her wailing audibly from where I stood, my conscience urged me to check the baby monitor. To my astonishment, her weeping could not be heard through the monitor, only the serene sound of my son’s breathing. Superstition overtook my reason and I ran across the hallway to the nursery as the weeping grew closer and closer.
Bursting through the door, I entered the moonlit bedroom, where my son slept soundly but the silhouetted frame of the woman lingered knowingly on the other side of the blinds. The weeping continued as she stood there, tormenting me where I froze in anticipation. After a moment that seemed frozen for an eternity, she continued her slow walk around the corner outside of his bedroom.
Wanting to get another look at her to see where she was going, I looked out of the window of the adjacent wall, and to my shock, she had vanished. Wonderstruck, I ran out of the house and onto the street where she was before, leaving the door wide open behind me, but there was no one there. Not a car in sight that could have taken her away, a helicopter above, or a neighboring door she could have entered. Where had she gone? I stood scratching my head.
Suddenly, I saw the door wide open, and frantically ran back inside to check on my wife and son! My wife was on the couch, watching television lackadaisically and my son was unperturbed in his slumber. As for me, the hair on my arms was still standing and the confusion of all that had transpired had shaken me to the core. “She’s gone,” I declared solemnly.
“Good,” my wife responded, “maybe she is all better now.”
“No, like she just vanished.”
“What do you mean she vanished?”
“I mean, I followed her as she turned the corner around the baby’s room, and then she just disappeared. No more crying. No more girl.”
“Maybe her ride came and picked her up?” My wife tried to make sense of it all, turning her attention to me.
“I ran outside, hun. There was no car, I would have seen it and definitely would have heard it.”
“Huh,” She shivered. “That’s creepy.”
“I think I’ll sleep in the nursery tonight,” I said, grabbing a blanket and pillow.
“This really got to you, didn’t it? I’ve never seen you this spooked before,” my wife found the whole situation amusing.
“I just don’t really understand what happened tonight.”
That night, I laid down a blanket over the floor of the nursery and rested my head on the pillow where I could watch over my precious little boy. He looked so innocent and oblivious to any danger in the world and I envied him but appreciated his serenity. It took me a while but eventually, my eyes grew heavy and I fell to sleep. It wasn’t long before I woke in a panic! Eyes wide open, I saw my son asleep in his crib. My senses were alarmed by a presence in the room as cold as a winter breeze in the room, but my eyes refused to look. My blanket was soaked from the pool of water on the floor. I followed the flow of water to the door where two bare feet stood. There, in my child’s nursery, stood the woman in the nightgown, with her face in her hands but silent as death this time. I lied on the floor like a petrified tree cut down and left alone, lifeless. She slowly put her hands down from her face to her side, but the hair still draped over her face as it tilted downward. Then she lifted her head slowly as water continued pouring down her limbs. As the horrid disfigured features of her malicious scorn were finally revealed, I awoke.
It was a dream. The room was empty, the floor was dry, and the sun was beginning to seep through the sides of the curtain. Exhausted from the nightmare, I walked into the kitchen to find my wife already awake with a cup of coffee in her hand. “What a strange night,” she said, “you won’t believe the dream I had about that weeping girl last night.”
To this day, I cannot explain what I saw or how it happened but it has haunted me for years since that frightful night. A night so unremarkable or vexed by any strange practice yet is beyond the possibilities of this realm. It was not midnight yet, and I had been sitting at my desk working on a paper after putting my infant son to sleep. My mind was completely bonded to the composition before me and my wife was in the living room on the other side of the wall sitting and watching television when it happened.
Sitting on my desk was the baby monitor, amplifying the sounds of my son’s rhythmic snoring and lulling constancy of white static noise. There I sat, in tranquil focus, tapping away at my keyboard until a faint sobbing began to echo from a distance. Being a man, who does not pry into my neighbor’s affairs, I determined to ignore the sound and mind my own work but the sobs increased to weeping moving closer to my sliding glass door. The back side of my condominium faced the street, separated by a small patio from the master bedroom and another from the living room.
The room grew colder as the weeping grew near and a feeling of dread and fear came over me, unwarranted to my rational mind, so I sought to anchor my feelings with reality. Despising the isolation, I inquired of my wife, “Do you hear that?”
“It sounds like someone is crying,” she answered absently, fixed on the television. Her disinterest eased my superstitious cowardice and I returned to my desk, resolved to pay the matter no mind.
As my fingers hovered over the keys, the woman’s wailing positioned her right outside of my patio and a shiver ran down my spine. The image of the figure standing beyond my window appeared monstrous and malignant in my mind’s eye, robbing my attention from work. I needed to see the weeping woman to abate the insensible fantasies running rampant in my head.
Standing up with quivering knees, ashamed of my angst, I pulled the curtain back slightly and poked one eye through the small crevice. She was a young slender woman, dressed in a white nightgown against skin so pale it shone grey under the moonlight. Her hair was as black as a crow draped long over her face, buried in her hands while she wept loudly. My fear turned to pity and I wondered at her apparent disregard for who might be watching or disturbed by her wailing.
“Hun, there is a woman in a nightgown crying out on the street,” I announced to my wife.
She eyed me suspiciously, “maybe she needs help, you should go check on her.”
“There is something very strange about her. I don’t like it.” By this point, the weeping had moved from our bedroom to the living room where I stood. I peered through the living room curtain where the woman was weeping and walking slowly, never lifting her face from her hands.
As she continued to walk down the street, the legend of the weeping woman, known in Mexico as La Llorona, was recalled to mind. She was a woman who drowned herself and her children in a lake and her ghost could be seen weeping for her children around town. She is used as a disciplinary tool against misbehaving children for she has been mythologized as a murderer of children.
Horror struck me as I realized she was creeping closer to my son’s nursery. While I could hear her wailing audibly from where I stood, my conscience urged me to check the baby monitor. To my astonishment, her weeping could not be heard through the monitor, only the serene sound of my son’s breathing. Superstition overtook my reason and I ran across the hallway to the nursery as the weeping grew closer and closer.
Bursting through the door, I entered the moonlit bedroom, where my son slept soundly but the silhouetted frame of the woman lingered knowingly on the other side of the blinds. The weeping continued as she stood there, tormenting me where I froze in anticipation. After a moment that seemed frozen for an eternity, she continued her slow walk around the corner outside of his bedroom.
Wanting to get another look at her to see where she was going, I looked out of the window of the adjacent wall, and to my shock, she had vanished. Wonderstruck, I ran out of the house and onto the street where she was before, leaving the door wide open behind me, but there was no one there. Not a car in sight that could have taken her away, a helicopter above, or a neighboring door she could have entered. Where had she gone? I stood scratching my head.
Suddenly, I saw the door wide open, and frantically ran back inside to check on my wife and son! My wife was on the couch, watching television lackadaisically and my son was unperturbed in his slumber. As for me, the hair on my arms was still standing and the confusion of all that had transpired had shaken me to the core. “She’s gone,” I declared solemnly.
“Good,” my wife responded, “maybe she is all better now.”
“No, like she just vanished.”
“What do you mean she vanished?”
“I mean, I followed her as she turned the corner around the baby’s room, and then she just disappeared. No more crying. No more girl.”
“Maybe her ride came and picked her up?” My wife tried to make sense of it all, turning her attention to me.
“I ran outside, hun. There was no car, I would have seen it and definitely would have heard it.”
“Huh,” She shivered. “That’s creepy.”
“I think I’ll sleep in the nursery tonight,” I said, grabbing a blanket and pillow.
“This really got to you, didn’t it? I’ve never seen you this spooked before,” my wife found the whole situation amusing.
“I just don’t really understand what happened tonight.”
That night, I laid down a blanket over the floor of the nursery and rested my head on the pillow where I could watch over my precious little boy. He looked so innocent and oblivious to any danger in the world and I envied him but appreciated his serenity. It took me a while but eventually, my eyes grew heavy and I fell to sleep. It wasn’t long before I woke in a panic! Eyes wide open, I saw my son asleep in his crib. My senses were alarmed by a presence in the room as cold as a winter breeze in the room, but my eyes refused to look. My blanket was soaked from the pool of water on the floor. I followed the flow of water to the door where two bare feet stood. There, in my child’s nursery, stood the woman in the nightgown, with her face in her hands but silent as death this time. I lied on the floor like a petrified tree cut down and left alone, lifeless. She slowly put her hands down from her face to her side, but the hair still draped over her face as it tilted downward. Then she lifted her head slowly as water continued pouring down her limbs. As the horrid disfigured features of her malicious scorn were finally revealed, I awoke.
It was a dream. The room was empty, the floor was dry, and the sun was beginning to seep through the sides of the curtain. Exhausted from the nightmare, I walked into the kitchen to find my wife already awake with a cup of coffee in her hand. “What a strange night,” she said, “you won’t believe the dream I had about that weeping girl last night.”
