Short Story: Lady of the Night
On stormy nights, lonely roads can reveal things better left hidden. For decades, motorists travelling through the remote forests of Northumberland have whispered stories of a beautiful young woman dressed in black who appears without warning beside deserted roads, silently asking for a lift.
Most dismiss the tales as folklore, the kind of ghost story passed from one generation to the next. Yet some legends endure because they are rooted in truth, and some spirits linger because they have unfinished business.
When Jake Mercer encounters the mysterious Lady of the Night during a violent autumn storm, he finds himself drawn into a decades-old mystery that refuses to stay buried.
Lady of the Night
The rain hammered relentlessly against the windscreen as Jake Mercer guided his ageing Ford along the twisting Northumberland back road. It was well past midnight on a lonely June night and the countryside seemed utterly deserted, swallowed by darkness so complete that the world beyond his headlights might as well not have existed. The summer storm had arrived unexpectedly, transforming what should have been a straightforward drive home into an exhausting battle against sheets of rain, deep puddles and visibility so poor that he could barely make out the edges of the road. To make matters worse, his satnav had frozen nearly half an hour earlier, leaving him to navigate unfamiliar lanes by instinct alone.
When the figure appeared in the glare of his headlights, Jake almost swerved into a ditch. A woman stood motionless beside the road, her dark silhouette emerging from the rain as though she had materialised from the storm itself. She wore a black dress that hung heavily around her slender frame, her clothes were shining from the torrential downpour and the car’s bright headlights. Her dark hair fell across slim, bare shoulders in damp waves, framing a pale face that seemed unnaturally bright against the surrounding darkness. As his car approached, she slowly raised one hand in a silent, pleading request for help.
Jake’s first instinct was to keep driving. Every cautionary tale he had ever heard about picking up strangers flashed through his mind. Yet something about the sight of her standing alone on that isolated stretch of road stirred his conscience. There were no houses nearby, no villages for miles and no indication of where she might have come from. As he slowed, he noticed that she wasn’t wearing a coat despite the weather. More unsettling still, she was barefoot. Her pale feet rested directly upon the wet tarmac, exposed to the freezing rain and unseasonably bitter night air.
Against his better judgement, he pulled the car over.
The passenger door opened before he could say a word. The woman slipped silently into the seat beside him, bringing with her a sudden chill that seemed to drain the warmth from the entire vehicle as Jake felt goosebumps rise along his arms, they weren’t just caused by the sudden drop in temperature. The smell that accompanied her was even more disturbing. It wasn’t the scent of wet clothes or rain-soaked hair. Instead, it carried a faint odour of stagnant water, damp earth and something far older that reminded him of a neglected graveyard after heavy rain.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Her voice was soft and melodic, yet there was something peculiar about it. The words sounded distant, as though they had travelled a great distance before reaching his ears.
Jake forced a polite smile and pulled back onto the road.
“Where are you heading?” he asked.
“Home.”
The answer was simple enough but the way she said it sent a shiver through him.
“And where’s home?”
For several seconds she remained silent. She stared intently out beyond the windscreen, “Further than you can imagine.”
Jake laughed nervously but the sound died quickly in the silence that followed. Something about her presence felt off. The atmosphere inside the car had become oppressive, as though the air itself had thickened. Even the storm outside seemed quieter now, muffled beneath an unnatural stillness. It was clear she was in no mood for small-talk, it didn’t make him any more comfortable but Jake felt he should respect her wishes and remain silent. He simply stared ahead in silence and concentrated on the rain-soaked road ahead.
As the miles passed, Jake found himself stealing occasional glances at his passenger. It was during one of these brief looks that he noticed a dark stain on her bare foot. At first he assumed it was mud from the roadside but when the lights of an oncoming lorry briefly illuminated the interior, he realised the substance was blood. The stain was thick and blackened with age, crusted across her skin and extending up her ankle. It looked as though the wound that had caused it should have been severe, yet she showed no sign of discomfort.
“Are you injured?” he asked.
The woman lowered her gaze to the blood and smiled faintly, “Oh yes,” she replied. “Very badly.”
The smile lingered far too long, the awkward silence continued on.
As they travelled deeper into the forest, the road narrowed. Ancient trees crowded the tarmac on both sides, their twisted branches clawing at the darkness beyond the headlights. The storm seemed to intensify around them, rain lashing against the windscreen with such force that Jake could barely see twenty yards ahead. Beside him, the woman sat perfectly still, her pale hands folded in her lap and her dark eyes fixed intently on the road ahead.
Then, at last, she spoke, “Slow down.”
Jake eased his foot from the accelerator.
Ahead, emerging from the curtain of rain, stood the crumbling remains of an old stone cottage. The roof had long since collapsed and ivy smothered much of the structure, yet something about the place radiated menace. It seemed less like a ruin and more like a wound in the landscape.
“This is where I need to be.” the woman said quietly.
Jake stared at the cottage.
“There’s nobody living here.”
“Oh, There used to be.”, she said with a hint of anger in her voice.
Before he could reply, she opened the passenger door and stepped out into the storm.
Jake remained where he was, watching through the rain-streaked glass as she walked towards the ruins. Halfway there she stopped and turned back towards him. For a brief moment the headlights illuminated her fully, revealing the terrible truth hidden beneath her beauty. One side of her face appeared crushed and broken, the skin torn away to expose fragments of bone beneath. Dark blood stained her dress and bare feet.
Yet there was no malice in her expression, only sadness. Then she slowly raised an arm and pointed towards the rear of the ruined cottage.
A second later she vanished. Not walked away, not disappeared into the darkness – she simply vanished completely.
Jake fled the forest in terror.
The following morning, after a sleepless night plagued by nightmares of rain-soaked forests and pale faces watching from the darkness, Jake sat at his kitchen table with a mug of untouched coffee and began searching online for information about the ruined cottage.
What he discovered made his blood run cold.
In October 1983, twenty-three-year-old Becky Voss had vanished while walking home alone from a party in a nearby village. Despite extensive searches of the surrounding woodland, no trace of her had ever been found.
Over the years, rumours had grown around the case. Some claimed to have seen a dark-haired woman standing beside lonely roads on stormy nights. Others spoke of hearing cries for help in the forest after midnight. The stories had become local folklore, dismissed by most as ghost tales told to frighten children.
Then Jake found something else.
A photograph accompanied one of the newspaper articles. It showed a much younger Becky smiling into the camera, there was no mistaking her. It was the woman from the previous night.
Beneath the photograph was an older article detailing the original investigation. Jake read it twice before the significance struck him.
The prime suspect had been a local man named Malcolm Grieves. Although police had questioned him repeatedly, they had never found enough evidence to charge him. He had died three years earlier, taking whatever secrets he possessed to the grave.
Jake was about to close the webpage when another detail caught his attention.
The article mentioned that Grieves had owned the ruined cottage he had seen the night before. A chill crept through him, freezing his heart.
Without entirely understanding why, Jake returned to the forest that afternoon.
The storm had passed, leaving the woods unnaturally still beneath a grey sky. Guided by a growing sense of dread, he made his way to the cottage ruins. What had seemed sinister in darkness appeared merely abandoned in daylight, yet an oppressive atmosphere lingered among the trees.
Near the rear wall of the cottage he noticed a patch of ground where the earth appeared slightly sunken. Something about it seemed wrong. It looked like a long-abandoned grave.
He called the police.
Later that day they uncovered poor Becky Voss, her remains lay buried less than a metre beneath the soil.
The forensic evidence left little doubt about what had happened. Her skull showed signs of repeated blunt-force trauma. Several bones had been broken before death. After murdering her, Malcolm Grieves had hidden her body beside the cottage and lived with the secret for the rest of his miserable life.
The discovery of Becky’s body made national headlines. Her surviving family finally received the answers they had waited more than four decades to hear.
For the first time in forty-three years, she was laid to rest.
Jake attended the funeral.
As the service ended and mourners drifted away beneath a bright sunny sky, a light breeze washed through the leaves of the trees all around him. Jake remained beside the grave. He wasn’t entirely sure why, perhaps he simply felt he owed Becky that much.
As he turned to leave, he caught sight of a young woman standing among the distant headstones.
Long dark hair, black dress and pale skin.
His heart lurched.
The woman smiled gently.
This time there was no blood, no wounds, no terrible damage hidden beneath her features. She looked peaceful. She raised a hand in silent gratitude and then she was gone. Jake searched the cemetery grounds but there was nobody there.
Years later, he would still think about that night whenever heavy rain drummed against his windows. He never again saw the Lady of the Night, yet he took comfort in one certainty – she had never wanted to harm him…
She had simply needed someone to take her home.
© Colin Lawson 2026
© Colin Lawson Books