THE WOMAN IN BLACK

The neon sign buzzed outside like a bad habit, flickering through the rain, casting sickly shadows that danced across the pavement. I stepped into the laundromat, the machines humming a tune no one cared to hear. This place was dead—the kind of dead that lingers when nobody's got anything left to lose.

And then, I saw her.

She sat in one of those cracked plastic chairs, her eyes like pools of ink, lips painted a red so vibrant it seemed to pulse in the dim light. Something about her was off—too perfect for this joint, too perfect for me. I tossed my shirts into the washer, trying to shake the chill crawling up my spine, like cold fingers tracing the back of my neck. But her eyes were locked on me, sharp as a stiletto.

I slammed the washer door shut, too loud for comfort. The sound ricocheted off the walls like a gunshot. Her gaze cut back to me, cold and piercing.

Our eyes locked, and that’s when it hit me. A punch in the gut. All my dirty laundry—every deal, every bad break, every life I wrecked—spun through my head like a broken record. The blood on my hands was permanent. You don’t wash that out, not in a hundred spin cycles.

She smirked, but not the kind of smile that warms you up. No, this one sent you six feet under, chilling your bones like she was in on a joke you’d never get.

I sat across from her, trying to play it cool, but the air felt thick with dread. There was a pull like I’d seen her before—not in a place you'd wanna remember. Maybe in the back of a smoky bar, or lurking in a shadowy alley when you turn the wrong corner. The kind of face that haunts you when the lights go out.

“You’re looking at me,” she said, voice low and sultry, wrapping around me like smoke.

“Yeah,” I muttered, leaning back, even though I could feel the walls closing in. “Hard not to. You don’t belong here.”

She gave a half-smile, all ice, no warmth. “Neither do you.”

She stood up, moving too smoothly for someone who’d seen too much. Her hand brushed my shoulder, and I felt it—cold, deep. The kind of cold that sinks into your bones, a premonition of what’s to come.

“Who are you?” I managed to ask, but my voice trembled like a leaf in the wind.

“You know me, Sam,” she whispered, her breath brushing my skin as she slipped into the night, fading like a wisp of fog.

I sat there, trying to piece it together. But the truth? I already knew. Somewhere between the whiskey and the sleepless nights, I’d seen her before. Yeah, I knew her alright.

She was Death.

She’d been tailing me for years. Watching me tiptoe the line, waiting for me to trip. Every time I stared down the barrel of my .38, wondering if tonight was the night, she was there, lurking in the shadows, a dark whisper in my ear, coaxing me closer to the edge.

Then I heard it—a screech, metal grinding, the sound of life flipping over on its head. My heart pounded, a frantic drum, driving me into the street.

I hit the pavement, rain-slick and glistening like fresh blood, and there it was—a car smashed into a lamppost. Smoke coiled into the night, steam hissing like a serpent ready to strike. People stood around, faces pale and frozen, too scared to get close. But my eyes weren’t on the wreck.

They were on her.

She leaned against the lamppost, calm and cool, tapping her wrist like she was checking the time. Time’s running out, Sam.

I froze. Her eyes locked onto mine, dark and final. A look that said there were no more deals, no running, no hiding. The wail of distant sirens grew louder, but we both knew they were too late. This was it.

She didn’t need to say a word. I understood it loud and clear.

As I stood there, cold and soaked to the bone, I realized something—I’d been waiting for this longer than I wanted to admit. Caught in a web of my own making, every thread tightening around my throat. I knew it. I’d been waiting for this moment ever since I shook hands with the devil and called him boss.

And now? My time was up.

The clock was ticking, and she was here to collect.

Anna Dearing is a writer based in Atlanta, balancing life as a full-time mother while finishing her college degree after a ten-year break. Her work often draws inspiration from her personal experiences and everyday life. When she’s not writing or studying, Anna enjoys drawing, playing video games, and attending conventions. This is her first publication in a literary magazine.