"I'm telling you. It's like Bloody Mary, but so much better, the young man with the outdated black sunglasses told me. "So we'll just wait here until She shows up?" I asked, for confirmation. He nodded. The loud bangs of the hammers were making it difficult to speak. The doors and windows were being boarded shut, the ghost freaks had invested so much time and money to finally get to witness the Wet Widow's appearance that they wouldn't miss it for the world, and going mad with terror and fleeing the apartment apparently wasn't an option. The young man Nodded. I think he was an american, though I wasn't sure. "I'm telling you, she's like a clockwork. Every single time when the time and date is right, and this time the calculations are perfect. On Great Britain's National Day, she'll appear on that very couch." The date was purely coincidental, of course.
I nodded as I looked at the dinky floral pattern sofa, the only piece of furniture in the abandoned apartment. None of the other paranormal enthusiasts dared to sit on it, though they littered the flat like ants on a half-eaten apple. The sofa itself looked like it smelled like mould, but not like the most legendary ghost of modern history would hold it as her haunting place.
The Wet Widow was a pop culture icon by this point, of course. Comic books and horror movies had been made of her, all with a different backstory. Most stories had her do something slightly more interesting than simply appearing on a sofa as a simple dead body. A child could tell you what she looked like, the greenish pallid skin, dripping wet black hair and equally soaked white dress stained with blood. It was said that her throat was cut open, and that she did not look like she had been drowned. But this time we would learn, this time we would get to study the body up close.
The day came.
As the exits were boarded shut - seriously, whose idea was that? - we hid. The hallway was taken. There was a curtain with a bump behind it, gesturing as if someone was behind it, crouched up and making digging motions. "A FEW MONTHS YOUNGER" said a pink note pinned on the curtain. I said nothing, and let the digger be, turning to the door oppisite of it.
"TWO WEEKS OLDER" said the sign. I still had no idea what that meant, but went in anyhow.
The bedroom turned out quite pretty, furnished to the taste of a person who would have liked the floral sofa. I hid behind the bed, opposite of the door.
Why did I not hid behind it?
"Or actually, a few days younger", sounded my sister's voice from somewhere.
Time struck.
The Wet Widow was laying on the bed.