Red Shadows at Midnight

It’d been empty a while. The owner’s wife died young, and after he passed two years ago, the place just sat there and rotted. The owner had one son, working out of state, never came home. Typical story, really.

Nothing unusual about that. Folks around here leave for work all the time, and empty houses are everywhere—a third of the neighborhood, easy. It’s just how it goes.

Neighbors said that for about half a year, weird noises had been coming from the house, keeping people up at night. That’s when the haunting rumors started. Specifically, when everything was quiet, you’d hear a woman crying inside—off and on, echoing through the night. Gave folks the creeps, no question.

“Could someone have gone in, or is someone just messing around?” I asked, tossing the question out there.

“No one called the cops. We only found out recently. When we showed up, the yard gate lock was busted, but the house door was still locked. We checked inside—no sign anyone had broken in. There were some messy footprints in the yard, probably from those two boys who found the arm. It was raining, the yard was a swamp, but nothing else seemed off,” the officer said, sounding a little frustrated.

“That’s not even the strangest part,” the officer hesitated, glancing around like he was worried someone might overhear. “When we found the arm and asked the neighbors about the house, most of them shut down—just muttered about a curse, acted real secretive.”

“Turns out, everyone in the neighborhood knew something was off, and a few had even seen something themselves.” Gave me goosebumps just hearing it.

“What did they see?” I asked, leaning in, curiosity getting the better of me.

“They say it’s a woman in red, walking with a limp,” the officer said. “Nobody wants to talk about it, but after asking around, we pieced together a rough idea. According to the neighbors, she’s got long hair to her shoulders, a pale face, and wears bright red clothes. Gives folks the chills.” He shivered as he said it.

Red clothes—now that’s classic ghost story material. Everybody knows, in urban legends, if someone dies in red, they come back mad as hell. That’s just how the stories go.

Don’t ask how I know—when you work in a morgue, you hear all the stories. Some you wish you could forget.

With all the rumors swirling, everyone started believing the house was haunted, especially after dark. Nobody wanted to go near it. Not even the bravest.

But not everyone was scared off. Teen boys? They eat this stuff up—two brave kids pried open the gate, probably hoping for a thrill. They only got the yard gate open, couldn’t get in the house, so they poked around the yard, found nothing—until they spotted the arm in the well. Figures, right?

Those boys screamed like banshees and ran for their lives. Can’t blame them.

That’s how the limb was found. Pure dumb luck, really.

The officers questioned the boys, but there was nothing suspicious—just kids, parents off working somewhere else, no supervision, getting into trouble, and they stumbled onto something awful. Wrong place, wrong time.

Police resources here were thin. After a bunch of questioning and searching, they still had no leads. Getting evidence out of that well was tricky, so they called us in. Lucky us.

“Let’s check the scene again,” Big Tom said, handing the officer a cigarette with a crooked smile. “We’ll handle it. You go on—we’ll holler if we need you.” He always knew how to take charge.

After getting the rundown, we decided to go back to the scene. Just to be sure, you know?

This time, we searched every inch. When we pushed open the door, dirt crumbled down—this place was falling apart. Not ancient, but it felt abandoned, like even hope had packed up and left. Empty houses rot fast around here. The doors and windows were still there, but years of dust and cobwebs turned everything gray and lifeless. Made my skin itch just looking at it.

“The arm’s female. How old?” Big Tom asked, lighting a cigarette and watching a rat scurry along a beam overhead. He didn’t even flinch.

“Best guess: thirty to forty,” I said. “But with all the hard work and sun out here, she could be younger—country living wears you down.” I gave a little shrug, because that’s just the truth.

First order of business: figure out if this woman was still alive. We checked every room, but found nothing. Not a single clue.

But man, the neighbors’ stories were wild—like something straight out of a Stephen King paperback you’d pick up at a gas station. Gave me the creeps just hearing them talk.

Some said it was a vengeful ghost, some blamed bad luck or too much bad energy, others said the house was built on a graveyard and cursed from the start. Everybody had their own theory.

We found nothing new in the house, so we turned our attention back to the arm. Maybe the answer was right there, waiting to be found.

Local officers said nobody in the area was missing, so it couldn’t be a resident. To check for outsiders, we’d have to look at the roads in and out—no surveillance cameras here, just muddy tracks and guesswork.