Sometimes you hear a voice weeping in the darkness—she only appears in dark areas, where there are few cars and no lights at night. Her time isn’t midnight, but 2 a.m., when things are quiet and still and the sound of her voice carries for miles. She sounds like a girl sobbing like her heart has just been broken, just on the verge of hysteria. It’s the kind of crying that hurts to listen to, reaching through your chest to grab your heart and twist.
If she calls your name, don’t answer her. If you answer her, she’ll know how and where to find you, and then you’ll have no peace. She’ll follow you everywhere, even into the unforgiving light of day: you’ll hear her weeping wherever you go, whatever you do—you’ll see long dark hair out of the corner of one eye and turn, and she won’t be there, but her voice is in your ear, never stopping. Her courtship lasts one lunar cycle: on the next new moon, she comes to take you home.
Listen. She’s crying.