The village of Ravensmoor had many tales, but none as feared as that of The Woman in the White Veil.
They said she appeared only on stormy nights — standing beside the old bridge, her veil fluttering in the wind, her face hidden, her sobs echoing through the fog.
Most called it a legend.
But Ethan, a young journalist, didn’t believe in legends.
He believed in stories — and stories needed proof.
It was near midnight when Ethan parked his car by the ravine. The wind howled like something alive, and the moonlight turned the river silver. He set up his camera and waited.
The village had warned him:
“If you see her, don’t look under the veil. Don’t let her know you’re watching.”
Hours passed, and the storm rolled in. Just as he started to pack up, the air turned freezing. The trees stopped moving. The world went silent.
Then — she appeared.
A woman in a tattered white gown, her veil torn but flowing like smoke. She stood in the middle of the bridge, head bowed, whispering softly to herself.
Ethan raised his camera, his hands trembling. The flash went off.
The woman stopped whispering. Slowly, she turned her head — not toward the sound, but toward him, as if she already knew he was there.
“You shouldn’t have come…”
Her voice was a whisper that crawled under his skin.
Back in his hotel room, Ethan couldn’t sleep. He uploaded the photos to his laptop — but what he saw froze his blood.
In every frame, the woman’s face was obscured — except the last one.
In that image, she was closer.
Too close.
Her veil had lifted slightly, revealing a half-rotted face, eyes hollow, mouth twisted in an eternal scream.
Behind her stood a man in a suit — decayed, ghostly pale — holding a wedding ring.
The file name had changed on its own: “DoYouRememberMe.jpg.”
Ethan shut the laptop. The power flickered. From the reflection in the dark TV screen, he saw her standing behind him — veil floating, face unseen.
He spun around. Nothing.
Only the faint scent of wilted roses filled the air.
The next morning, Ethan visited the old church on the hill. The priest, Father Abel, told him the truth.
“Her name was Eliza Thorn. She was to be married here, fifty years ago. But her groom died in a carriage accident on the way to the church. They found her on the bridge, still waiting — her wedding dress soaked in rain. She never left.”
Ethan felt a chill creep up his spine. “And the man in the photo?”
The priest’s eyes darkened. “Her groom. His spirit follows hers — they are bound to the moment of death.”
That night, Ethan returned to the bridge, one last time. He brought the ring he’d found near the church gate — engraved with initials E.T. & J.R.
He placed it on the railing and whispered, “He came back for you.”
The mist thickened. The woman appeared again — closer, gentler this time. Her veil lifted slowly, revealing sorrow, not rage.
She looked at the ring, then at him. A single tear rolled down her pale cheek before she and the mist faded into nothingness.
By morning, the river was still.
And for the first time in fifty years, no one saw The Woman in the White Veil again.
But on Ethan’s camera… the last image showed her smiling through the veil, whispering:
“Thank you.”
