The locals still speak of her — the girl in the widow’s walk, hair black as coal, veil fluttering against the salt-wet glass.
She appears only on nights when the sea is angry.
They say she waits for her love to return from the tide, a sailor dragged under by something not quite human. Others say she was the one who dragged him. That her eyes gleamed crimson before he vanished into the depths.
No one lives in that house anymore.
It sits at the edge of the Whitby cliffs, shutters warped, ivy choking its frame. But sometimes, when the moon is bleeding through the clouds and the Abbey bells toll without a hand to ring them—
—you can see a candle flicker in the attic.
And if you dare step close enough, you might hear her humming. A lullaby for the drowned. A song meant for you.
Because it’s never been about the sailor.
It’s always been about the next.
