The Lady in Red – A Haunting Tale of Grief, Passion, and Ghostly Legends

When Matt Wolfenden, known in literary circles as “Woolfy”, drove up from Devon to the Scottish countryside, he was a shadow of his former self. Seven hours on the road, his mind replaying his sister-in-law Clair’s parting words:

“It’ll do you good, Matt. You need space, peace, time to think, and grieve. Maybe you’ll even get your writing mojo back.”

But Matt wasn’t convinced. He was a bestselling author, famed for dark, terrifying tales, the “Big Bad Wolf” of horror fiction. Yet grief had gnawed at him, hollowing him out, leaving nothing but a pale, haunted version of the man he used to be.

Two months. Eight weeks. That was all it had been since the accident that tore his world apart. A rainy night, a sharp bend near Bovey Valley Woods, a head-on collision—he survived with a gash to the head, but Jennifer, his wife, died on impact.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. The woman with the chestnut curls, vibrant blue eyes, and that unforgettable red dress she had worn that night. The dress that made her glow, the colour she always loved. He couldn’t even bear to hear “Lady in Red” anymore; it shattered him. Yet not a single tear had escaped his eyes—not yet.

Arrival at Greenmount

When Matt finally arrived at Greenmount, the grand Georgian house in the Scottish Highlands where he would stay for ten days, an involuntary shiver swept over him. A chill not just from the October air, but from something else—an instinct, a presence. His writer’s mind flickered to life, albeit dimly. Perhaps Clair was right.

The house was majestic, with its walled gardens and sprawling woodlands, and though it lacked modern amenities like a spa or gym, it held an old library that gave Matt a glimmer of hope. A setting like this should have inspired his writing, yet he felt empty.

Dinner that evening was a muted affair. Guests offered polite nods, some whispered his name, recognising the famed author. Matt ate in silence, then retreated to his room, where a maid had lit a fire against the creeping chill. As he gazed out of the window into the night, he thought he saw a figure—a girl in a red hooded coat, walking a large, dark dog. Perhaps a maid heading home? The bark of the hound echoed in the night as she vanished into the dark.

Later, when an old song played on the television, the walls he’d built finally crumbled. Silent sobs wracked his body, tears streaming freely as exhaustion and sorrow overwhelmed him.

Encounters in the Village

The next morning was gloriously autumnal. After a hearty Scottish breakfast, Matt wandered into the nearby village: a post office, a pub called The Cloak and Dagger, a church, and a few quaint cottages. At the pub, he indulged in local ale and a fine Ploughman’s lunch, followed by a glass of smooth Scottish malt.

Outside, through the pub window, he saw her again—the girl in the red coat, with the same scruffy black hound, waving before disappearing down the woodland path. Curious, Matt hurried back to Greenmount, hoping to catch up, but she had vanished again, swallowed by the forest.

Later days blurred with whisky, aimless wandering, and failed attempts to write. But on Halloween night, a costume party brought some levity. Matt, ever the Big Bad Wolf, donned a werewolf mask. Amidst the laughter, costumes, and candlelit revelry, he saw her—through the French doors, standing on the lawn. The girl in red. The hood drawn. She vanished before he could react.

That night, drunk and numb, he returned to his room. Yet he wasn’t alone.

She was there. The red cloak, the cascade of dark hair, icy blue eyes that pierced his soul. She whispered with playful malice:

“My, what big eyes you have.”

“And what lovely lips you have.”

The seduction was feverish, uncontrollable. Flesh, heat, whispers. A night of passion, grief, and delirium. By morning—she was gone. No trace. Just scratches on his back and a wound above his eye.

The Folklore Unfolds

In the daylight, clarity tried to return. In the library, Matt found an ancient leatherbound book about local legends. It spoke of the Lady in Red of Greenmount, a spectral figure, forever wandering the grounds with her black hound, sometimes accompanied by a child.

Was it her? Was she a ghost, a succubus, or his own fractured mind at work?

But then, Robbie the porter broke the spell. A red cloak was found, left behind by Marissa, a local girl known for her promiscuity, nicknamed “Missy” by the villagers. The pieces fell into place. She was real. Flesh and blood.

Or was she?

Yet even as relief washed over him, Matt couldn’t shake the feeling. When he later saw Marissa in the village, she was pushing a pram, her dog now limping beside her. The baby had big brown eyes, just like his.

Epilogue: The Piece of Red

Months passed. Matt wrote again. His book, “The Lady in Red,” became a bestseller, capturing the eerie experience. As he finally drove through Bovey Valley Woods, he pulled over by the fateful tree and saw it—a shred of red fabric, caught on a branch. Tatty, weathered, but familiar.

It was Jenny’s red dress.

He smiled through the tears, whispering into the wind, “You’re still with me, my Lady in Red.”

And though he dismissed the ghost stories as fairytales, part of him always wondered—did the Lady in Red truly walk among the living and the dead?

Moral of the Story

Grief blurs the lines between reality and imagination. Yet in that shadowed space, healing can begin—even through encounters we cannot fully explain.