The Midnight Bride

The town of Willowshade had a legend whispered in hushed tones among its inhabitants. On every full moon, a ghostly bride appeared in the old cemetery, her presence heralded by a cold mist that snaked through the air like icy tendrils. In her pale hands, she carried a gleaming wedding ring that seemed to catch the moonlight unnaturally, casting an eerie glow. It was said that anyone who dared to take the ring was cursed with unimaginable misfortune.

Mira Jenkins didn’t believe in ghost stories. A rational woman and a journalist by trade, she had heard the tale countless times growing up. Now, as an adult writing for a regional magazine, she saw the legend as a perfect Halloween feature to drive up readership.

On the night of the full moon, Mira grabbed her camera and flashlight and made her way to Willowshade Cemetery. The wind whispered through the gnarled trees as she walked the narrow path, her boots crunching against fallen leaves. A strange unease settled in her chest as she approached the cemetery gate, but she shook it off.

“I’ve covered scarier stories than this,” she muttered to herself, gripping the flashlight tighter.

The cemetery was eerily quiet. The headstones, worn and cracked, loomed like jagged teeth under the pale moonlight. As midnight approached, a thick mist began to creep across the ground, obscuring her feet. The temperature plummeted. Mira shivered and pulled her coat tighter.

Then she saw her.

A figure in a flowing white gown emerged from the mist, moving with a grace that seemed both unnatural and hypnotic. The bride’s veil obscured her face, but her head tilted as if she were scanning the graves. In her hand was the infamous wedding ring, suspended on a delicate chain. It gleamed so brightly it seemed to pulse with its own light.

Mira’s heart pounded. She raised her camera, snapping photos in rapid succession. The flash illuminated the bride’s features briefly—a pale, skeletal face with hollow eyes that seemed to stare directly into Mira’s soul. She gasped and stumbled back, nearly dropping the camera.

But her fear quickly turned to resolve. “It’s just a ghost story,” she whispered. “And I’m going to prove it’s a hoax.”

Ignoring her instincts to flee, Mira stepped closer to the ghostly bride. The figure didn’t move, as if waiting. Mira hesitated, then reached out, her fingers brushing the cold, metallic ring.

The bride’s head snapped up, and for the first time, Mira heard her voice—a hollow, echoing whisper.

“Do you accept my vow?”

Mira froze. The question lingered in the air, heavy and ominous. Her pulse quickened, but she forced herself to nod. “I—I’ll take it,” she stammered, more out of defiance than understanding.

The bride extended her hand, the ring dropping into Mira’s palm. It felt heavier than it should, ice-cold and burning at once. The bride’s form shimmered, then dissolved into mist, leaving Mira alone in the suffocating silence of the cemetery.

The first sign of the curse appeared the next morning. Mira awoke to a sharp, stabbing pain in her hand. She looked down and gasped. The ring was on her finger. She didn’t remember putting it on, but it was there, clinging tightly to her skin.

She tried to pull it off, but it wouldn’t budge. Her skin beneath the ring burned, turning red and raw. Panic set in as she struggled, using soap and oil to no avail.

Her phone buzzed, breaking her focus. It was her editor, Marcy.

“Mira, the photos you sent—” Marcy’s voice was frantic. “They’re gone. The files are corrupted. There’s nothing usable. Did you mess with the camera settings?”

“What? No, I—” Mira stopped. A chill ran down her spine. She glanced at the ring, its surface gleaming mockingly in the light.

The misfortunes escalated. Over the next few days, Mira lost her job after a series of inexplicable blunders. Her bank account was drained by fraudulent transactions she couldn’t trace. Her apartment caught fire, forcing her to relocate to a dingy motel. Everywhere she turned, disaster followed.

Desperate for answers, Mira dove into the town’s archives. She discovered the story of Eleanor Grayson, a young bride who had died on her wedding night over a century ago. Betrayed by her groom, who had eloped with her maid of honor, Eleanor had thrown herself into the river. Her body was buried in Willowshade Cemetery, and her restless spirit had cursed the ring her groom had given her, vowing to share her misery with anyone who accepted it.

Mira knew she had to return the ring, but it wasn’t that simple. The curse demanded more.

The next full moon arrived. Mira, now gaunt and desperate, returned to the cemetery. The air felt heavier than before, pressing against her chest as she approached Eleanor’s grave.

“Eleanor!” Mira shouted into the night. “I return your vow! Take it back!”

The mist thickened, swirling around her as the bride’s ghost appeared once more. Eleanor’s hollow eyes stared at Mira, and her voice was cold and unforgiving.

“The vow cannot be undone. Another must take your place.”

Mira’s blood ran cold. She realized the truth: to free herself, she had to pass the ring to someone else.

As if in answer, footsteps echoed in the distance. A young man wandered into the cemetery, his expression curious. “Hey, are you okay?” he called out.

Mira’s mind raced. She knew what she had to do, but guilt clawed at her. “Leave,” she pleaded. “You don’t understand.”

The man hesitated, but curiosity got the better of him. “What’s going on here?”

Eleanor’s form loomed closer, and Mira’s hand burned as the ring tightened painfully. She couldn’t endure it anymore. With trembling hands, she held out the ring. “Please, just take it!”

The man frowned. “What’s this about?”

“It’s—it’s a gift,” Mira lied, her voice breaking. “For luck.”

As soon as his fingers brushed the ring, it slipped off Mira’s hand effortlessly. The burning ceased, and she gasped in relief.

Eleanor turned her gaze to the man, her hollow eyes locking onto him. He froze, confusion turning to terror as the bride moved toward him.

Mira didn’t wait to see what happened next. She ran, her heart pounding as the man’s screams echoed behind her.

Mira left Willowshade the next day, her hand still marked by a faint, circular scar where the ring had been. She didn’t look back, but the guilt stayed with her.

She tried to move on, but every time she saw a full moon, she swore she could hear the faint sound of Eleanor’s voice whispering in the wind.

And she knew—one day, her turn would come again.