Chapter III: The Weeper and the Widow

The mudlarks who make their homes in the crumbling warehouses of Dunwall's harbours tell many frightening tales from the time of the Rat Plague. Of course, skittish and half-feral as they are, it is nigh impossible to tell if these stories are rooted in truth, or merely the ramblings of children gone half-mad with hunger. But if one is brave enough to venture into their territory, bringing with them an appropriate offering, perhaps they might recount the frightening (if unlikely) tale of the Weeper and the Widow...

In a damp little flat alongside the Millenary Canal lived an old woman. The plague had taken her husband and all of her family but, by some miracle or curse, spared her. The City Watch took the bodies of her loved ones away, and now her existence was a lonely one, as her former friends and neighbours would no longer go near her, for fear of catching the plague themselves.

One evening, the Old Widow was dusting the front stoop when she heard a strange, frightening sound. She stopped sweeping and, straining her ears, followed the sound to a nearby drain. She peered into the gloom, but the sun had already dipped below the roofline, and shadows gathered in the lonely corners of the streets. She could see nothing, but coming from the dark recesses of the drain was a moaning and gnashing of teeth, and a low, guttural voice;

"Oh, my love, my love, why did you let them take me?"

Beside herself with terror, the Old Widow banged on her neighbour's door and pleaded with him to help her investigate the noise in the drain.

"Go away, you old crone!" her neighbour rebuked her, "I'll not risk catching the plague from you!"

"Then will you at least lend me a lantern?" the Widow begged, but her neighbour had already slammed the door in her face.

She hailed a passing watchman, and again pleaded with him to help her, but he had heard about the old woman whose husband and family had been struck down with the plague, and drew away sharply.

"Get lost, lady," he snapped. Tapping the side of his head, he went on; "You're probably just hearing things. That's the first sign of the plague, you know." The watchman stomped off down the street before the old woman could even ask to borrow his lantern.

In desperation, The Widow turned to a gaggle of dirty children playing in the gutter, but they had been warned to stay away from the old crone who had survived the plague when no-one else in her family had, and so they ran away, shrieking and throwing stones.

Hopelessly, The Widow returned to her home and tried not to think about the terrifying noise in the drain, but that night, as she closed her eyes to sleep, she heard that low, guttural voice again;

"Oh, my love, my love, why did you let them take me?"

The Widow's heart felt as if it would burst out of her chest, but she knew that she would get no sleep unless she found out once and for all what lurked in the drain. Lighting a candle, she made her way out into the darkened streets. She wandered along the canal, until she came to a loose drain cover that opened into the sewer tunnels. Through the grate, she heard the sound of splashing footsteps.

Gathering up every scrap of courage she could muster, the Old Widow prised open the loose grate and ventured into the sewer tunnel. Just up ahead, she could make out the faint shape of a person moving back and forth, clutching its belly and moaning softly. As the Widow drew closer, it looked up and stepped into the pale light of her candle.

"No," she whispered, her trembling hand making the candlelight move, casting twisted shadows over the sewer walls. "It can't be… you're dead!"

"No," croaked the thing that was once her husband. "Not dead, merely dying. But my time grows short, and I have missed you so." The Weeper ambled forward and reached out a rotting hand, bloated and wriggling with maggots. "Take my hand, and we can be together…"

With a scream fit to wake the dead, the Widow dropped her candle, which guttered and died, and ran out of the tunnel into the street like The Outsider himself was after her. When she risked a glance over her shoulder, to her horror she saw the Weeper chasing her.

She ran out into Alder Street, and narrowly avoided being bowled over by one of those new-fangled Whale-oil powered carriages. There was a screech and a deafening crash, and when the old woman turned, she saw the carriage on its side, the Weeper lying a few feet away with its belly slit open like a hagfish. Its innards had spilled out onto the road. Even though it was her husband, the Widow couldn't help but sigh with relief. He had been put out of his misery, and now his spirit could finally rest.

Imagine her horror when he sat up, clutching his spilled guts, and lurched to his feet.

The Widow took off running again, her slippers smacking against the cobblestones of Alder street. She ducked through alleys strung with washing, hoping to throw it off her trail, but it always seemed to stay just a few paces behind her. In her panic, she ran all the way to the textile mill, where exhausted weavers worked through the night, producing fine fabrics for the swells to wear at their fancy parties.

Before anyone could stop her, the Old Widow burst through the doors and ran right onto the work floor, where machines rumbled and clanked endlessly. The Weeper followed close at her heels, but when she ducked beneath the moving arm of a loom, the Weeper lunged for her and caught its fingers in the warp. It let out an ear-splitting screech, and the Old Widow watched, horrified, as its arm was dragged into the machine.

But the Weeper was not to be so easily dissuaded. With the crunching of bone and tearing of flesh, it strained against the machine's grip until its arm ripped clean off at the shoulder. Still clutching its insides to its belly with its remaining hand, it sprang forward and gave chase once again.

The old woman had run such a long way, and her lungs and feet screamed for mercy, but the Weeper showed no signs of slowing. It dogged her steps all the way to the banks of the Wrenhaven River. Hysterical with fear, The Widow screamed for someone - anyone - to help her. Finally she came to a group of silt-diggers hunting for river krusts. In her desperation the old woman leapt straight into the mud, wading toward the diggers even as it clung to her ankles, her legs, her middle, threatening to drag her down.

One of the diggers spied the Weeper lumbering towards them by the light of his lamp. With a mighty swing of his shovel, he took off the Weeper's head, sending it rolling into the Wrenhaven, where it was swept out to sea.

Some folks say that the Weeper's body was carted off by the City Watch and burned, but others swear that on dark, moonless nights, they have seen a strange, headless figure lurking in shadowed places, stinking of rot and moaning in a low, hoarse voice…

"Oh, my love, my love, why did you let them take me?"