The weeping woman cried tears of blood. The tears burned her flesh and stained her cheeks crimson red.
No one could figure out why she cried. Was she sick? Was she insane? No.
She would pick the petals from the ripest roses, the roses that were as red as her tears.
Sometimes her weeps would transform into wicked screams keeping you up in the stormy nights.
The rain poured, and she wept louder than ever. She wore a white dress made completely from lace, a wedding dress stained with broken promises.
Tale is you only see her once a year in the black forest.
If you give a rose of red she smiles, but if you give her a rose of white she takes your soul until the one who broke her heart comes for her.