Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
I don’t have to worry about whispering my love’s name in the statue’s ear. I’m single and after the brutal burn of my last relationship, I plan to stay that way.
I back off the bridge and swing the lens to catch the storefronts. The House of Ink & Iron catches my attention again. As if I’m drawn to the place, my feet move in that direction. A nervous giggle slips out of me. Maybe if this episode racks up over a million views, I’ll return next year and get a Weeping Widow tattoo to commemorate my success.
My steps slow as I near the shop. The window throws my reflection back at me—ghost pale in the fog, eyes too bright, smile teetering on unhinged. I stop. Stare.
Through the tinted glass, a man stands behind the counter, arms crossed over his broad chest. Dark, curly hair. Broad shoulders packed into a black T-shirt. Sleeves cutting tight over tattooed biceps. Ink crawls down to his wrists, alive in the dim light. He’s the best advertisement for body art I’ve ever seen. A scowl twists his already-too-handsome face as he talks to another man. I don’t even look at whoever’s annoying him—why bother when the grump behind the counter is built like sin and salvation?
And I cannot talk to him. Nope. He’s way too hot. Has to be the owner, right? Or at least works here, standing behind the counter near the register.
My phone pings with a text.
Wren: can you get a quick summary for the short?
Sure. Anything to avoid barging in to flirt with Armageddon’s tattooed poster boy.
I step a few paces away from the glass and raise my camera. “Sign-off,” I say, breath fogging the lens. “If myths are how a town mourns, then this bridge is basically a memorial—and the Weeping Widow might be keeping score.”
Did that even make sense? Whatever. I can fix it later.
I finish with my usual, “Stay curious and spread kindness.” My lips quirk, and I add something new to my sign-off. “Cause merry mayhem.”
I keep my gaze on the bridge while tucking the camera away, though my focus keeps sliding back to the black-painted brick of the tattoo shop. Fog thickens, swallowing the far end of the bridge like a page ripped out of the world. Somewhere upriver, a horse stamps and whinnies—an odd sound in this era of cars and concrete. Nothing spooky or magical about it, though.
Still, when I throw another glance at the tattoo shop, my tongue goes sour, metallic. I fish for a stick of my favorite cinnamon gum. The wrapper crinkles in my fingers. I pop it in my mouth and chew until cinnamon heat burns the unsavory taste away. Can’t very well introduce myself to Mr. Arm Candy with breath that smells like a reindeer’s armpit.
I start a new voice memo. “To do: Double-check what time the Widow ‘weeps.’ Cross-check with weather patterns. Ask sheriff for on-the-record comment about cemetery patrols after midnight. Find out if there are groundskeepers or someone who maintains the statue. Ask the guy at Ink & Iron about—”
Crows squawk and settle on a railing at the bridge, fluffing themselves against the chill. Beautiful black feathers gleaming.
Are they…larger than normal crows?
A bell tinkles as someone opens the door of the tattoo shop. It swings shut. Silence folds back around the brick like a cloak. I tuck my phone away. My gaze lingers on the tattoo shop. Despite the strange pull toward the wooden door and the hot guy inside, I turn away.
Never do right now, what you can put off for a few more hours.
Especially when it involves talking to a man hot enough to melt snow.
Frolicking through a cemetery instead of drooling over eye candy. That’s my priority now, apparently.
Under bare trees, a fancy iron fence with swirls and sharp points separates the gravestones from the town. I remain on the sidewalk. Somewhere in there, a bronze woman weeps when someone lies to her. Allegedly.
Of all the oddities I’ve investigated, this might be the silliest.
Tonight, armed with my camera and a spine of steel, I’ll pay her a visit. I don’t spook easily, and I don’t believe in ghosts, so I’ll be perfectly fine.
Might still bring a piece of old iron, though. Apparently, that’s what you do in Crowsbridge Hollow.
Maybe I’ll ask Hot, Inked Guy to come with me as protection? No. That crosses the line of journalistic integrity. I’m here for a story, not a date.
Several crows screech overhead. My body jolts, heart hammering.
Jeez, settle down.
I’m not my mother. She was the one who believed in everything—psychics, hauntings, demonic possessions, alien abductions, past lives. You name it, she bought into it. Spent her whole life savings chasing miracles and cons. I promised myself a long time ago I’d never be that gullible. And maybe through my channel, I can stop it from happening to someone else.