Along the shadowed bends of Cold Creek Road, a forlorn figure in a stained and weathered wedding dress wandered aimlessly. Her name was Anna, and though her mind was clouded by a fog thicker than the mist clinging to the roadside, her heart pounded with the urgency of a bride late for her wedding.
Every few moments, Anna would pause, her pale, hollow eyes scanning each approaching vehicle with desperate hope. She would step forward, her hand trembling as she reached out, hoping for someone to stop, to help her reach the quaint church where she believed her fiancé awaited.
But each car that passed seemed to slice through the fog with an indifference that deepened the cold settling in her bones. Their headlights would briefly illuminate her spectral form—a flickering ghost on the roadside—before fading into the distance, leaving her in darkness once more.
Hours turned to days and days into years, with Anna trapped in an eternal evening. The details of her life before that day had long since slipped away, leaving behind only the haunting urgency and a name—James, her intended, who never knew what fate had befallen her.
Unbeknownst to Anna, her tragic end had come on a stormy morning decades earlier, when her car had skidded off the road just miles from the church. She had died instantly, never realizing her journey had ended so abruptly. Her spirit, however, trapped in the throes of her last emotions, continued to replay her desperate attempt to reach her beloved.
Locals knew the road well and often spoke of the White Lady, a ghost said to haunt Cold Creek Road, forever trying to hitch a ride to her never-seen wedding. They’d whisper tales in the glow of firelight, of how she’d appear in the rearview mirrors of those brave—or unfortunate—enough to drive through after sundown, her eyes brimming with tears that seemed to never fall.
One particularly dark night, a young couple driving to their own rehearsal dinner spotted her. Moved by the sorrow etched into her features, they stopped, the first to do so in many years. The bride, heart touched by the ghostly figure, urged her to climb into the back seat.
Anna’s spirit, stirred by the presence of another bride, entered the car, her form chilling the air. As they drove, the couple tried to comfort her, but Anna’s gaze remained fixed forward, her lips moving in silent prayer to see James.
They reached the old church, its steeple shadowed under the moonlight, its doors long since locked to parishioners. As they urged her to find peace, Anna stepped out of the car, her figure gaining substance as she approached the church steps. For a moment, she turned, her eyes meeting theirs, a whisper of thanks lost in the wind.
As the couple watched, Anna walked toward the church, each step growing more transparent until the moonlight swallowed her form entirely, leaving behind no trace but the echo of her longing. The couple, shaken but stirred by the encounter, drove away, the story of the White Lady forever changed.
And yet, the legend persists, the story told and retold, of a bride on Cold Creek Road, forever walking, forever waiting, never reaching the warmth of the light that shone through the church windows, never to meet her groom.
