The Mourning Thing
(PDF, Audiobook & Gallery included)
The Mourning Thing
E.B-Lacey
(June, 2026)
Author’s Note
Special thanks to:
Farah Afzal-Lacey – for your unconditional and unyielding support in grief.
Horror Author, John Watson – for your review and feedback on this piece.
Leonie Mary Bernadette Bourke – for everything.
AUDIO
Please find below the Audiobook for this story. I have used ElevenLabs, then imported into GarageBand to edit and to include sound and music.
All soundscaping & music written, performed, recording and produced by E.B-L.
PDF DOWNLOAD
Please find below the PDF download of the story (with photo gallery included).
The Mourning Thing
Emmett stared at his phone vibrating on the kitchen table for an eternity. Maybe if he let it go to voicemail, the caller would leave a message that he would never listen to, and then never call back again. Problem was, the odds of this caller behaving that way were slim to none.
“You know babe, contrary to popular belief, merely staring at a problem doesn’t solve it.”
Anna, his devoted wife – way out of his league in aesthetics, charm and general intellect. She had a way with the truth, slapping it into him during moments of stress. Or more specifically for him, procrastination and avoidance.
“… Fffuck!”
“Oh, okay. That includes swearing at problems too,” Anna humourously tabbed on for good measure.
He rolled his eyes out of view. “Don’t know what to say to her anymore.”
“It’s early afternoon, Em! She’ll keep calling all day, and you know it!” Anna continued folding freshly dried clothes, placing them delicately in the basket.
He kept his gaze on the intruding device. “How long do calls go for these days before voicemail saves us? Jesus!”
Anna paused, towel half folded in hand, and bestowed upon him the ‘Really?!’ face; which he felt searing into the back of his head.
“Hmmm.” An expression of his discomfort, while also acknowledging her. He hated that she was right all the time. But she was.
He hadn’t spoken to his younger sister Elka for months. The screen lit up an old photo from a decade ago when she had visited. They took the ghost tour in the city. She was fifteen, with a black emo fringe and red streak through it. They were closer then, but now he couldn’t bring himself to call her. Drugs, alcohol, violence. Her struggle and self-inflicted trauma was the rusty spear that pierced through his chest. There it remained for years. Lodged. And when she called, and that photo appeared, it would twist inside him. But he couldn’t ignore her forever.
He exhaled hard, annoyed, spraying his anxiety over the table and reluctantly answered the call.
“Hello?”
A crackled line – wind – undetectable background static. God only knew where she was calling from.
“El?”
A sniffle – a quick shaky breath in. She was sobbing. Great. What now..?
“What’s going on, El?” “She’s gone.”
The words gripped his jugular, squeezing with murderous intent. Her whimpers were nails down a chalkboard. The feeling accosted him so quickly, giving his heart no opportunity to sink.
“Em? Did you hear me?”
“Aha… yep. What are you talking about?”
He noticed his voice: meek and apprehensive. There was nothing quite like throwing a question with the pure intention to stall; to buy time, to remain in that brief moment of denial. It was a small cupboard that never allowed him to hide for long.
“Mum!” Elka broke down into a blubbering mess, almost unintelligible. She continued, “She’s gone! She’s… dead!”
Since taking the call, he had made his way outside to the decking. His subconscious had ordered his body to sit amongst the fresh air. But now, the overcast burst into pulsing blues and greens; similar to the beginning of an ecstasy trip – while the hard lines of the outer walls of his home wavered like a distant pond in extreme heat. Adrenaline.
“El – try to calm down and tell me what happened.”
“Okay okay. I’m not there, I’m at the beach. But Candice just called me. She found her at home, on her bed.”
She’s finally done it. All those heartbreaking calls when she would scream and wail her frustrations about El and his younger brother. The threats of taking her life out of a pure loss of all hope. She’s finally followed through.
“But what happened?” he pushed.
“I don’t know yet. Heart attack, stroke. I don’t know!” “So she didn’t do this to herself?”
“No.” Elka’s tone acknowledging the same shared concern the family often endured. But yet, also with a strange sense of relief that it was not the case.
Sweat was pushing through his pores. His palms, forehead, pits. Feet. A wrong turn in his intestines. He needed to end the exchange.
He took command. “Look, I’ll call you back. I gotta go. I’ll find out what happened.”
“Wait...”
Elka’s holler faded as he let his phone fall to the deck, his stare locked onto the end of the yard. No one around him knew yet. This blanket, made of thick heavy chain, weighed down his entire body. Maybe if he told no one, it wouldn’t be real.
The calls to family and friends that night were a blur. He couldn’t recall the detail of any of them; only that they happened. Even the advice from the Coroner’s administrator was placed instinctively into his mind-box labelled ‘Too painful!’ He was surrounded by note pads, pages torn out and sprawled around him, filled with important scribblings. All of it seemed like a heinous nightmare.
It was late. The only other light source was the small salt lamp nestled among the indoor plants on the old buffet, on the far side of the room. The hours escaped him as he became lost in MSNOW. Pointless political dribble. He had failed to call Elka back. Call in the morning.
His face – crusted from tears, cheeks sore from rubbing. The TV gave its final flash and sucked into a small white dot as he collapsed on the couch.
The morning sun had been warming up the home’s skin for less than an hour. He shuffled as he woke gently. He was only starting to accept the new reality of yesterday, and the fact that mornings were always harder emotionally didn’t help. He remained horizontal, listening to the ensuing battle between the noisy minor and magpie families, fighting over the breakfast smorgasbord in the front yard. Leaves from the Birch rustling, garbage trucks streets away, white noise of the distant traffic on their early commute, footsteps… Wait. Footsteps? That was not on the list of usual morning sounds. He sat up. The steps became louder, closer. Leah from next door? Adam from across? Unlikely, too early. Onto his feet, he approached the window and peered through the cheap, pale white venetian blinds.
“What the?! It can’t be.”
He pulled back, squinted, peered again.
His mother! Alive and moving! Her shoes clumped and shuffling along the gravel driveway, heading directly for the stairs. There were two sets; the first running parallel to the street, the second turning ninety degrees in toward the front door.
What kind of sick arsehole lies to their sibling about their parent dying? Elka had vomited out a plethora of lies over the last ten years, but her motivations were usually to cover up her ruthless addiction. Otherwise, she was an honest soul, often to the point of tactlessness. This didn’t add up.
As he watched her negotiate the first step, he observed a limp – she was dragging her right leg severely. Breathing loud. In pain! It was almost like she’d been hit by a car and was pulling herself to safety. Every instinct screamed: ‘Run to her! Help her up the stairs!’ – But something was not right. Something was holding him in place. She gripped the handrail and started climbing, her neck jolting up, her glance meeting his. Eyes frantic; face grimaced; hair long and damp. Blood? Then everything turned upside-down. Inside-out. All physics and logic were ignored as she launched up the flight, skipping the remaining four steps. It was too fast. A chill ran down his throat into his chest. He ran toward the entrance, knowing it would be merely seconds before she was there.
The front door was thick paned frosted glass that admitted a dull wash of the morning’s light; designed to conceal whoever stood before it. He braced against it, even though it was locked. Trembling.
“Mum?!”
Her silhouette appeared. Breathing heavily.
“Mum, how are you here?” he unsuccessfully portrayed a tone of control.
She knocked against the glass four times.
He kept addressing her, “No, this isn’t right! You’re not alive! You’re not meant to be.”
Again, another four knocks. Heavier.
“Mum!?”
A second’s silence as her head tilted; detecting him.
Then it came …
“Let me in,” she spoke softly. Her voice warm, normal and loving.
“I can’t!”
“Why, darling?”
He paused, lips quivering. She knew the answer but wanted to hear her son say it.
“Because… you’re a ghost.”
His heart sank. He started to sob, just like Elka over the phone.
“You died, Mum. El called me yesterday. I don’t understand how you’re here!”
“Ooh that’s nonsense, my dear. Why would she say that? Silly girl.”
She had all the mannerisms and characteristics of his mother. Her delivery, the way she responded when met with ridiculousness, her neurotic idiosyncrasies. A ghost or alive, it was her. Elka had either pulled off the most bold and sickening lie of her young life, or he was inches away from Mother’s spirit. Confused, he took a step back, her figure still clearly before him. This can’t be happening. Am I finally going insane?
“No, no, no. You’re not, Em. You know El – she’s probably high on something…”
His left hand dropped toward the handle…
“…and you’re just tired from all that work. Please let me in, it’s cold out here. Please.”
…grabbing the keys, he started turning them.
“You know, I’ve always told you to take it easy and not work too hard…”
One click…
“You’re probably not getting enough sleep either…”
Two…
“…so, no. You’re definitely not going insane.”
His hand froze – I didn’t say that out loud!
“Hello? Are you letting me in?”
I definitely did not say anything about going insane out loud.
“Em! Open the door! I’m getting upset by this!”
Her voice dropped at least two tones – too far to maintain the deceit. The mask had fallen away just enough for him to realise that not only was his mother dead, but there was something wrong with all of it.
His voice shook, “I’m sorry, Mum. I’ve got to go.”
He backed further away.
“Let me in!” She assaulted the door, her breath fogging up the frosted glass.
Wait… breath? This is not happening.
She pounded against the glass, causing it to bend in, shaping around her knuckles and then returning to its hardened state.
Oh thank God, it’s a…
***
His eyes shot open, scaring the tears loitering in the bottom rims – new ones that had crept out during his sleep; still in the same position from when he had collapsed. The dim salt lamp offered its warm light with diligence: the kind you only get from an inanimate object. It was the dead of that same night.
His thumb scrambled for the remote’s red button. A new show – more political vile. Way Too Early was over, now presenting an incoherent, angry, rambling Joe Scarborough – his wife and colleagues in their boxes across the screen, waiting patiently for him to power down.
He shifted onto his back, heart rate elevated. The TV flashed against the ceiling and wall. A calming, chaotic and unpredictable light show, yet still a clear shot friendlier than the nightmare of his dear departed mother. His mind graced a reasonable thought, one that welcomed notions of dreams being the brain’s way of processing stress and grief. A reason proffered. It made sense that his sleep would be impacted. Especially now. He’d just lost her.
A slight movement caressed the couch, creeping over the edge of the backrest. His left hand swiped it away. Spiders. He and Anna had the exterminators visit two weeks ago. He had been complaining about that ridiculous ‘organic pest control’ company from the moment they left. It was within an hour, having been sent away for half the day, that a long-bodied black arachnid found itself trotting across the hallway rug. Fucking vegans. Their couch had seen many years for them both, and their late dog family of three. There was probably three or four entire families of creepy crawlies sheltered inside this thing, when the vegans came to ask them ‘nicely and ethically to leave’.
Again, movement over the backrest – same spot! What! Got to respect persistence! He opted for the version where this spider had crash landed onto the floor, then scurried back up to the exact same position; rather than realising how unlikely that was. He reached for his cushion and batted the crawler away. A sharp hiss in reply. Got ya! Yet this time, he caught a better glimpse. It was longer than a spider. Perhaps a cockroach. That would have explained the speed in which it returned. He probably should get up and find the spray. But he was so tired, and he had probably killed it. He could pick it up later and bin it before Anna walks in and starts screaming.
A scratching sound then emanated from behind the backrest. Slowly it travelled from the middle to the top. He watched the position where it appeared before, as the remainder of the room fell away into tunnelled vision. If anything appeared there again, he would run for the selection of sharp Japanese-forged kitchen knives. The scratching continued up, coming to a dead stop at the top. It was there. Waiting. It knew he was watching. It was determined to climb over and stick its middle finger up at him.
Before he could enjoy the take on a cockroach extending a middle leg at a human, the mysterious crawler shot over the edge; gripping the top of the backrest cushion. He was staring at a long, black, hard-knuckled finger! Fleeing to the kitchen and bearing arms with sharp steel didn’t happen. He couldn’t move; pushed down into the couch by a force. That force was fear. The sole finger was joined by another, then another, and so on. He was so transfixed on this hand, he failed to notice the other one creeping over just above his head. He was like a child watching his first horror movie, frozen in dread. Clenching his eyes and refusing to open them. It had to be another dream.
Scarborough continued to vomit from the TV speakers relentlessly. What was once an annoyance was now a sonic haven; a focus source; a pathway back to nightly reality.
After a minute, nothing had changed. He sensed no movement on the couch. If that thing was real, it would have killed him by now. He released to a squint, enough to let a blurry image back in. If it was blurry, it couldn’t hurt him. Blurry is ridiculous, funny and can’t inflict pain. He scanned the entire ridge of the back rest from his feet back up to his head. Nothing.
Oh, thank god. I don’t really believe in you. But thanks all the same.
His eyes opened gently to a safe surrounding.
This is what happens when you take all the mushrooms and acid tabs you can get your hands on in your late teens. And then you reach mid-forties to get randomly fuck-eyed with flashbacks. There’s real stories about this.
He took a deep breath with that internal dialogue and turned his head back to the remote. TV off. Head in a comfortable position onto the cushion that’s not meant for heads. Eye-lids down.
In an instant the back of his eyelids exploded with the face of his mother! She was demented, dripping wet, with slashed cheeks and rotted out teeth! She occupied his entire sensory space, forcing his eyes shut as she opened her mouth to let out the most pained, stench inducing, blood curdling screech. She was channelling everything malignant and wrong from the afterlife, straight into him. His body was stiff, a concrete board along the couch, convulsing in what would be perceived as a grand mal seizure to any helpless onlooker. Trapped. Tortured. Doused in searing lava. She kept screaming. It would not end, no matter how much he struggled.
“Em!” Anna called from their bedroom, the furthest end of the hallway.
“Em! Wake up and turn over! You’re not breathing!”
She could hear his struggle and assumed it was his sleep apnoea. It was common for her to push him onto his side, effectively saving his life most nights. And now, unbeknown to her the detail of how, she saved him once again. He gasped at the sweet purifying air, while grabbing consciousness like a rope slung overboard to haul him out of the deep.
“What!? No.” Emmett desperately tried to sit up.
Finally achieving it, he shook his head, almost dislodging it. He was drooling, panting and feeling completely railroaded.
“Side babe! You’ve got to sleep on your side. Come to bed here anyway,” Anna requested, giving up the notion of a full night’s sleep without apnoea fighting.
His ability to speak was still loading, but he could move. Departing the couch of hell, he slumbered down the hallway to her, finally collapsing diagonally across the end of their bed, face first.
“You okay my Emmett?” she half-whispered, stroking the back of his messy head.
He groaned into the quilt.
“I thought you were coming to bed hours ago. You fell asleep out there and forgot about me, huh?”
They had been married thirteen years and together eighteen. The occasional white lie to preserve feelings was endearing.
“I can’t save you from choking if you’re all the way out there, can I?”
“No, it’s not that. It was a bad dream. It’s nothing,” he assured. “Your mum?”
“Hmmm.”
She laid over him, hugging him tightly, whispering into his ear, “You know, I told you not to fall asleep by yourself. I told you earlier today after you got the call.”
“Yeah …”
“You’re best not to fall asleep at all actually, not after bad news like this.”
He turned toward her. “Why is that?”
“I don’t know. It’s just not a good idea,” Anna responded vaguely. “But why should that matter? I thought sleep is a good thing.”
Anna paused, remembering. “It’s just important. I don’t know. My grandmother used to say it, I’m not sure how she said it, just that, after someone dies, the home isn’t right for a while, you know.”
“Not right how?”
“It’s nothing babe, just something people used to say. Come on,” Anna assured him, tugging at his limp body, “we can’t have you across the bed. Up! Under the covers with me. We can sit and watch TV together. Maybe a calming mo–”
The sensor lights cut her off and entered through their window, peeking around the edges of their thick blinds.
***
“What’s that?!” Anna alerted Emmett. He sat up and watched the window.
“Probably a cat running around. Leah’s cat no doubt.”
“No, I think I hear movement out there, Em.”
“Yeah – like I said … cat. They move around too you know.”
Anna shoved him gently for the passive aggression.
“Just give it a few seconds, it’ll turn off,” he said with a pinch of uncertainty.
Anna never experienced any trauma or event to cause her nervousness about break-ins or attacks. None that were disclosed anyway. But for reasons unknown, lights turning on at night freaked her out. She would often rush to the blinds and peek out when hearing an engine, a distant voice, anything. The recent media attention on home invasions throughout the suburbs had been putting many on edge.
A minute had passed, yet the light refused to turn off.
“Come on Em! A cat wouldn’t keep it on like that! Go check please,” she pleaded.
“I’ve just woken from a nightmare and you want me going outside to battle monsters, eh?”
Anna’s ‘Really?!’ face followed.
“Okay sure,” he conceded. After the last hour, this will be a cake walk.
He turned the hallway light on. It was bright. He’d been meaning to replace them with softer bulbs since they moved in. But bright lights equated to safety, so ‘On’ they remained.
As he crept the hallway, he glanced through the second bedroom to his right; street facing. The blinds were up, giving a clear image of their front yard under the annoying, stupid, stubborn lights. No one was there dancing casually around on the grass. Good sign. But, this window provided a view of the steps leading up to the front door – he could sneak a peek from here with no need to walk any further. Then back to bed. Sleep.
He entered and walked by the foot of the bed toward the large window, sat on the perfectly thrown duvet cover and leaned forward, glancing to his left at the stairs. No one. He leaned further out to view the landing by the door. Not a soul. He then looked straight onto the front yard: a square patch of mowed grass surrounded by trimmed hedges with tall birch hovering over. Protective trees. Apparently. He scanned the yard for cats. Not a feline in sight. There simply was no sign of life out there that would set off the lights. There was a slight movement to his far right, by the fence adjoining them and Leah, under the wicker chair. Likely a possum scrounging around for a snack.
He found this chair recently by the side of the road. It was in perfect condition and reminded him of his mother’s chairs and furniture. She was a country girl at heart and all of her clothes, bags, things – if they could all be made of hemp, wicker or something natural, they would be. All of her worldly possessions were soon to be staring him in the face. He would have to take the two-hour drive to her house and sort through everything. His siblings would simply not get the job done.
It was clear skies and a beautiful early-summer day that weekend that followed. His mother came to visit them and stayed over. On the Sunday, they woke up early. She had her usual marmalade jam on toast and tea with milk. Emmett opted for his usual black coffee. Anna remained in bed. They headed out for a walk with no destination or plan. That was how she liked it. He gently guided them away from town, toward Bickleigh Vale Village. It was an estate developed by Edna Walling, homing seventeen heritage listed properties and thirty-one properties in total. Although the residences were private, one could stroll down the main guts and enjoy the front yards and overall scenery. That was exactly what they did. Due to the weather being perfect, most owners were out gardening and attending to general maintenance. His mother found a way to connect with everyone. They flocked to her. It was uncanny. Emmett, stunned by what he was witnessing, remained in the background watching his mother form bonds and share knowledge. Usually the residents were sick of locals storming through with their cameras, but they could just tell she was country. She was garden. She was real. People of that ilk just see each other.
They strolled home in the mid-afternoon and Anna had a picnic prepared for them to share in the front yard. A blanket was laid out and that’s when Emmett showed his mother the chair he found. He offered it to her, as that was his plan, but she declined. Her words:
“Darling, it’s beautiful! I love it. But let’s keep it here for when I visit, yes?”
She picked it up and placed it by the fence under the tallest birch; in the position where it sat to that day.
The memory turned sour as his mind jolted him back to the current. She was gone now. There would be no more ‘visits’. Tears started uncontrollably. He kept them quiet and stood up, and just as he turned – a noise. A scrape. A shoe across gravel. He scanned again. Nothing. But he couldn’t ignore that. That would involve going back to bed and lying to Anna. It would never be:
“All good, no one there.” “Oh great, but the light?”
“It’s probably faulty, I’ll fix it tomorrow.”
“Great! Oh, have I told you how much I love you?” “Actually, no.”
“And how sexy you are, and that you represent all that is man…” “Haven’t heard that from you yet. Proceed.”
His unrealistic internal dialogue was broken once again. The same sound, but closer. Although he was muttering under his breath like an old man about the local kids running around causing havoc, this was a front. He was scared out of his mind; particularly given the spit-roasting he’d received from those mind-fucking dreams. One thing was for sure, he had pinched his arm almost raw, ensuring he was awake.
The distance to the open-plan lounge, dining and kitchen was about three metres. This took about half a minute. He was too busy trying to listen from a hallway than walk closer to the problem. He stepped out and stood behind the couch, hoping to see ten dead cockroaches sprawled out on the floor – the final one’s dying words: ‘Sorry Emmett, we were just fucking with you!’ That hope was squashed by a clean, recently mopped floor.
From here he could view the front door. It was at the end of a short nook to the right. The far wall held a large handmade besom, lovingly crafted by Anna to protect the home – the door was situated to the left, facing the street.
The light was still on.
The frosted glass door was a bother. He’d rather not see anything through the damn thing. Better to stare at a thick, unbreakable steel-enforced door with no view. At least then he could shrug his shoulders and walk away. He waited and watched. The problem was, if someone was standing there keeping the light on, he could not tell from this angle. He would need to walk up and face it directly. He was not ready for that. The scraping noise had stopped, completely silent.
This is ridiculous! There’s clearly no one there, and I’m exhausted. I need to–
The door almost ruptured! The walls shook and let go of the plaster in wafts of white powder. A figure planted itself up against the glass, its arms up and hands almost reaching the top. Its fingers long. Cheek pushed against it. Mouth open! It started shouting obscenities! Growling like a possessed ape! Spraying the glass with its hot, dark burgundy breath; the heat causing the glass to splinter. Its nails started scraping manically. So fast! It was not moving like anything of this world.
“Em?!” Anna called from the bedroom. “Can you hear that?!” He couldn’t respond.
The Thing started thumping its body against the door. Its head, its hips, its legs. Over and over. Roaring, spitting, snarling – the door was about to cave in. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it stopped. Standing there. Not even breathing heavily. Deadly still. The silhouette was recognisable. He has seen this shadow before. But it couldn’t be.
Mum? Impossible. I’m not dreaming now. Impossible. It’s not actually her.
He took one step toward the door, then it vanished. Not into thin air, but backed away, in reverse down the steps.
Emmett was stunned beyond description. He glanced at his arm, his pinching point, and gave it one more infliction. He was definitely awake. Back to the door. No one there.
The lights then turned off.
His heart was sprinting. Lungs in overdrive. Adrenaline coursing. He couldn’t take his attention off the door. He needed to study it, assess it, understand it. It had to fit into the notion of his reality; his idea of what is real, and what is not.
He heard the creak of the floorboards up behind him, that familiar sound of Anna walking. She approached and stood behind him, her gentle breath caressing his back between his shoulder blades. In that moment, he finally felt like the protector. Whatever that was, it was not coming in. She would be safe with him there. They shared this togetherness with no words, both having been through the unexplainable. Finally the silence was broken…
“Em!” Anna called out from their bedroom, “The lights are off now, you’re right. It was probably a cat fight. Come back to bed.”
His muscles seized as the creaking on the floorboards behind rocked from left to right.
“Anna?” he whispered.
No response.
“Anna, baby?”… a little louder.
The breath on his back stopped.
You know you're in trouble when they start shouting obscenities. I do like that there was a little bit of humor mixed into the story. This was one of the better horror stories I've read on Substack. Truly unnerving.
The strongest aspect of this story for me was the emotional foundation beneath the horror. The frightening moments were memorable, but what stayed with me was Emmett's relationship with his mother and the complicated emotions surrounding her death. The memories of her, especially the smaller everyday details, gave the story real weight. Excellent writing here! By the time the supernatural elements intensified, I was already invested in the grief at the center of the narrative. That combination made the horror feel earned rather than simply shocking. What a read! I am subbing so I can read more of your work!