Atop the chilly peak of a hill, somewhere in Northern Europe, sat an ancient church. It had been built in the late Eighteenth Century by the people who had lived in the neighboring town. Inside, mahogany pews were waxy and reflected the pastel scenery that was overlaid on the marble dome. From the outside, the building did not seem to be a church. Rather, it was a dark brown color and it rose like a towering snag above a village nestled in the mountains. Spires rose like massive swords from the roof of the church, and the whole thing sagged a bit from the snow that rested heavily on the old, wooden roof. The church was wholly abandoned, and the inhabitants of the village gave it a wide berth; they had heard the tales of what lurked above the peculiar building.
It was often said that years ago, not long after the church was initially constructed, the building held its first funeral. The funeral was for an old woman who had died of typhoid, and the fever had turned her body into a sickly, yellowing mass of bones. Her funeral procession was grand, as her charity work was well-known throughout the village. As the procession entered the graveyard behind the church to lower the casket into the icy earth, the priest scattered rose petals in a final respectful gesture.
From below in the village square, the children were playing with sticks and rocks when they heard the first screams. Men and women were scrambling out of the church and down the mountain, tripping over each other like animals. Dresses were ripped and faces were red and frightened as an apparition floated out of the old building. She wailed, and the church shook, and then she floated up to the sky above the building. The people below watched the spectacle with eyes wide with disbelief as she disappeared into the clouds.
Now the children say (during especially terrible thunderstorms) that she weeps in the skies.
