MicroHorror

(For the girls at East in Morpeth)

It was close to closing time.

“Just be aware, madam, that this one has an inner slip.”

“Thank you,” I said calmly and pulled the curtain across. “I don’t expect it will fit, but…”

“Our sizes are quite generous, madam.” She smiled sweetly but I knew…

Generous for stick insects, I thought…

It was Wedgwood cotton; you know, the kind that’s cool and creamy and pale, dairy-maid cheesecloth and meant for summer–the perfect dress for such a hot day. I just knew it would have a soothing, fresh linen feel so I whipped off my clothes down to my underwear and slipped it over my head.

It was like being underwater, swamped by a sudden wave of frothy white. I could see the light above but I couldn’t get there. Between me and the light, a swathe of thin white cotton veiled the way. So I pulled upwards on the neck, back over my head to examine the inner workings.

“How are you getting on in there?”

The assistant was blond, slim, attractive. I couldn’t possibly admit…

“Fine.”

Once more I put my arms inside the dress. I could put them straight up through and out the neck. Carefully I lowered the opening over my head. It was like being wrung in a mangle. Something was twisted so the dress wouldn’t pull down and the more I pulled the tighter the twist became. I tried twisting it in the opposite direction. It didn’t work. Not only that but now I couldn’t get the dress to come back up over my body and the thin strip of silky connective ribbon threatened to strangle me. I swear this damned dress is haunted. At last a twist in the direction of spin loosened the garment’s grip and I was free.

“Any use?… Call if you need help.”

In your dreams, beanpole.

The only way to get in, it would appear, was to go in arms first. This time I made sure the inner slip was entirely in line with the dress. I looked down through. I looked up through. There was no one in there–nothing. It was as empty as a magician’s casket.

“Right,” I said with renewed determination. I raised the garment above me with both arms wide apart and in line with the sleeves. In this way the dress ought to slip down over the head as a natural consequence of the arms drawing into the sleeves. It worked–at first.

But the slip contrived to cling to my body and as I pulled the dress down, it protruded out of the head hole and covered my face. I couldn’t get at it now since my arms were outside of the dress–out and up to the sides like a Frankenstein monster. My head was so thoroughly encased in the ectoplasmic white cotton the only sounds I could make were muffled and indistinct. The head hole was blocked. The skirt fell over me like a tent. “Hemph,” I called. “Hemph!”

A sharp pain crumpled me. It was in my back, then my head, as if some evil had slipped inside me. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move.

It was the dress or me.

I became the Hulk. I heard seams rip and cotton tear. I flung my shoulders wide, hit out and recognized the sound of splintering glass. I wrestled the dress to the floor. And that is how she found us, the dress and me, engaged in mortal struggle. And she tried to make me pay, pay for the damaged dress, the wrecked changing room, the broken mirror. Bad luck. Very bad luck for her.

I expect they’ll find her tomorrow, tied up in the back of the shop with that malevolent dress. She may survive the night but I don’t give much for her chances. That damned dress is evil, you see… haunted… I’m sure of it.