This is my last warningif you dont change the reception venue, Im not marrying you. There were only two weeks left until our wedding, and I clutched the invitations in my hand, hesitating to sign them.
What is it now, Emily? my fiancé, James, asked, his voice heavy with disappointment.
I have a terrible feeling about this!
He smiled, trying to soothe me. Of course you do. Getting married isnt exactly an everyday affair, is it? Anyone would be on edge, but itll pass. I promise you, everythings going to be alright.
How can you promise something you have no control over? I snapped back. Cant you just try to see it my way, for once? How are we going to live together if you wont meet me halfway?
We cant just throw money about, love, James said, sounding wounded. Ive already put down a deposit and arranged for the whole thing. If we cancel, we wont get a penny back.
Thats not the issue, darling. Please, just trust me.
I cant believe in old wives tales. Its impractical at best. Worse, well miss out on our honeymoon. Are you ever going to tell me whats really going on?
Alright, listen, I said, taking a deep breath. And dont you dare tell me its nonsense. Just because you dont believe in something doesnt mean it isnt real.
I promise to listen, James replied.
A new woman started at the firm recently. Her names Harriet. She keeps herself to herself, only ever wears black. Last week, she comes over and says, Ive a message from your gran Edith.
What? I nearly dropped my tea. Gran Ediths been dead for three years.
Would you like to know what she wants to warn you about? Harriet said. She insisted we talk after work.
I agreed. She told me a story.
Years ago, when our town was much smaller, someone built a fancy new restaurantChesterfield Hall. A young man called Richard drove lorries for the construction. He earned well and proposed throwing a grand wedding there for his fiancée, Sarah. She was thrilledshe came from a modest family, and none of her lot had ever set foot in a place like that. She wanted to give them a day to remember.
The wedding day arrived; Sarah looked radiant in her white dress and veil. Richard smartened up handsomely. After the ceremony, everyone piled into cars and coaches to the restaurant. The hall was stunning; mouths fell open when they saw inside. Only one elderly lady tutted and muttered, Fake blooms on the tablesnever a good sign. But no one really paid attention. Back then, fake things were everywherelinens, crockery, you name it.
But guests brought fresh flowers, and these were arranged at the newlyweds table. During the celebrations, Richard and Sarah got up for their first dance. When they returned, Sarah frozeher bouquet of roses had wilted to nothing in the space of a song.
Staff removed the flowers and the merrymaking resumed. Before long, though, Sarah turned pale, then fainted. They flung open the windows, thinking it was just stuffy, but she soon became unwell again. People started whispering.
Shes in the family way
Be grateful its only that; itll pass, others joked.
One cousin swore hed seen a bloodstain on her dress, but when her parents checked, there was nothing.
Then someone else claimed to have glimpsed a woman dressed all in black standing at the door. A few guests looked for her, but no one could find her.
Sarah and Richards first night as a married couple was a nightmare. They both felt as though someone else was present, heard rustling, footsteps. Richard swore he was being watched. By morning, they were beside themselves.
Honeymoons werent common then, so they went straight back to work. Richard didnt survive till the next weekend. He crashed his carperfectly fine weather, clear roads, veteran driver, yet no one ever figured out how it happened.
Sarah never got over her loss; she dwindled before everyones eyes. Then, a year later to the day, she left her home and disappeared. Despite searching, no one ever found her.
Spooky story, isnt it? James scoffed. But whats it got to do with us?
Its direct, I almost whispered, because that wedding took place in Chesterfield Hallin the very room youve booked for us.
He shook his head. So what? Bad things happen all the time, all over. Doesnt mean itll happen to us.
They say the restaurant was built on top of an old graveyard. The room you booked supposedly sits right above the grave of a bride who took her own life days after her own wedding. She found her husband cheating, or so the story goes. Since then, its said her restless spirit seeks vengeancetaking the groom straight after the wedding, the bride a year later. Maybe its our turn? Why else would Gran Edith warn me now?
I dont believe in curses! James looked fed up. If you wont marry me, Ill marry Sophie. (Sophie was my supposed best friend.) Sign the invitations, or I wont wait around.
After wavering, I called off the wedding. His threat to marry someone else unsettled me more than the ghost story.
James kept his word. And Sophiemy so-called friendwas all too willing. Less than a week after their wedding, James died in a motorbike accident when the brakes failed.
Now I fear for Sophie. I dont know if Ill ever forgive her, but I cant help but worry. I tried to find Harriet again, to see if there was any way to warn or help Sophie, but shed already left the company and the address in her records was fake.
Rumour has it that the notorious wedding at Chesterfield Hall took place sometime in the 1970s. Ive never found any written proof, but thats not surprising. Back then, things like this were quietly swept under the rug.
But if you ask locals, they all know the storyDespite everything, I sometimes still walk past Chesterfield Hall. I linger on the opposite pavement, heart thumping, watching couples pose for wedding photos outside its grand doors. Laughter echoes, music drifts on the air, but I always noticesomeone glancing over their shoulder, a shadow in a window that lingers too long, a bride clutching her bouquet as if afraid to let go.
Sophie never spoke to me again. I read the brief announcement of Jamess funeral in the papers, saw her nameSophie Carter, widowin the list of mourners. She wore black, just as Harriet did.
On the anniversary of their wedding, I received an envelope with no return address. Inside was a single, pressed black rose. No note. No explanation. As I turned it over in my hands, I thought I glimpsed, pressed into the petals velvet darkness, the faintest outline of a womans face.
I dont know if curses are real, or if guilt haunts us harder than any ghost. But every year, near dusk, Chesterfield Halls lights wink on and I sense something hungry watching, waitingnot just for bride or groom, but for anyone who dares to ignore old warnings.
Sometimes, when the wind is just right, I hear Gran Ediths voice on the breeze: Trust your instincts, love. Some places keep secrets you ought to leave alone. And I listen.
Now, when I hold a bouquet, I always check the petals for strange stains. And I never, ever dance by candlelight in a place with more shadows than guests.
