The Dress and the Scissors
I CAUGHT HER WEARING MY DEAD MOTHER’S DRESS IN THE KITCHEN AT 2 AM
She was humming in the dim light, swaying slightly, her fingers tracing the hem of the lace dress I’d kept in the attic for years. My throat tightened as I stepped into the kitchen, the smell of her cheap vanilla lotion mixing with the faint trace of mothballs clinging to the fabric.
“What the hell are you doing in that?” I choked out, my voice trembling. She froze, her hand still clutching the delicate lace, and turned to me with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s just a dress,” she said, shrugging. “It’s not like she’s using it anymore.”
My chest burned like I’d been punched. I could still remember my mother wearing it on her last Christmas, the way the fabric caught the light as she laughed. Now it hung awkwardly on my roommate, her shoulders too narrow, the sleeves dangling past her wrists. “Take it off,” I snapped, my voice cracking.
But she just tilted her head, her expression softening in a way that made my stomach turn. “You’re too attached to the past,” she said quietly. Before I could respond, she turned and glided toward the stairs, the dress swishing against her legs.
Then I noticed the scissors on the counter, the blades catching the light like a flash of warning.
👇 *Full story continued in the comments…*I lunged, adrenaline surging through me. “No!” I roared, but she was already halfway up the stairs. I pounded after her, my footfalls echoing on the worn wooden steps. Reaching the landing, I saw her standing in the hallway, the dress illuminated by the pale moonlight filtering through the window. She wasn’t holding the scissors anymore.
“You wouldn’t understand,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her back was to me, and the moonlight painted her in an eerie glow. I took a step, my hand outstretched. “Please,” I pleaded, my voice raw, “Just… give me the dress.”
She finally turned, and I froze. Her eyes, once familiar, were now wide and blank, reflecting the moonlight. The dress was no longer pristine. Jagged tears slashed across the lace, the delicate fabric ripped and shredded, hanging in tatters around her. The scissors were clutched in her hand, the blades stained crimson.
A low groan escaped her lips, a sound unlike anything I’d ever heard. Her skin began to ripple, like water disturbed by a stone. Her form shifted, elongated, her face contorting into something that was no longer human. Fear, cold and paralyzing, gripped me. This wasn’t my roommate anymore. This was something else.
It lunged, a guttural shriek tearing from its throat, its eyes now pools of black. I stumbled back, tripping over my own feet, as the creature began its descent. The torn dress billowed around it, a grotesque parody of my mother’s laughter.
I scrambled to my feet, desperate to escape. I knew I couldn’t fight it. I had to run. I bolted down the stairs, out of the house, and into the cold night air, the image of my mother’s ruined dress, and the creature wearing it, seared into my mind. I never looked back. The house, my home, now belonged to something hungry, something ancient, and something wearing the remnants of a life it had stolen. My mother’s dress, a final, horrifying act of possession.