Page 13 of She Haunts Me Still

Christina pushes the white dress into her hands. It has long, flared sleeves and a steeply scooped neck, and the entire gown is covered in lace florets. Mallory holds it to her chest, glancing in the full-length mirror. She can already tell that the bodice will cling to her curves perfectly, that the skirt will hug the fullness of her hips.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Would you mind trying it on? I’ll pin you anywhere we need to take it in.”

Mallory nods, returning the dress to the rack, and Christina starts for the exit.

“I’m gonna grab the veil from the sewing room—back in a minute.”

Christina slips out the door, leaving it cracked, a greenish glow spilling through the gap. Just as Mallory reaches for the hem of her sweater, her phone vibrates inside her bag.

She fishes it out, finding a text from Aunt Penelope.

Leaving for my wellness retreat but will be home for Thanksgiving! How are you?

Mallory twirls a lock of hair and contemplates her answer. When Aunt Penelope asks this, she means:Are you taking your anti-anxiety meds and staying out of trouble?Mallory has a hunch that once she graduates, the messages will grow further apart, if they even come at all.

I’m fine, Mallory finally texts back. Proof of life. That’s all Penelope wants. But for a singular, desperate moment, she contemplates adding:Do you know anyone named Lily?

She knows it would be useless. Penelope never listened to a word of what happened in the blue house, chalking up Mallory’s visions of a bloodied woman to her mother’s fanciful stories. And whenever Mallory insisted her mother was haunted, that she even referred to that dreadful woman asherghost, Penelope would wave her off with a crispGhostsaren’treal,Mallory Eleanor. Penelope scheduled her to see a child psychologist, but he didn’t believe her, either; Mallory once overheard them whispering in the waiting room after a session, catching phrases likemaladaptive daydreamingandchildhood fantasies,and she remembers lying awake that same night, trying to remember what it felt like to have a mother who truly listened.

What it felt like to be believed.

Mallory shoves the phone back into her bag. Tugging off her brown sweater and skirt, she carefully steps into the vintage gown, the zipper’s teeth loud in the thick silence.

As she’s about to turn to the mirror, the door slams.

“Christina?”

When hushed quiet is her only answer, Mallory reaches for the handle. Her breath hitches. It’s locked.

“What—?” Mallory rattles it, hard. “Christina!”

She closes her eyes, trying to calm her nerves. The latch is probably stuck, it’s an old building, it’s—

A creaking groan snags her attention, and she looks toward the mirror. Cobwebs cling to the wooden base, the glass layered in a thin film of dust. And when she spots her reflection, a scream rips from her throat.

Because the dress she’s wearing is covered in blood.

Just like her mother’s ghost.

Just like her mother, the last time Mallory saw her.

Mallory staggers, careening into a rack of clothes, hangers clattering to the floor. She barely registers the sound, eyes glued to the splash of crimson across her breasts, the way it spills down her stomach in rivulets of red.

Hands shaking, she touches the fabric, finding it wet. The blood is fresh.Real. Mallory lunges for the zipper. But her fingers slide over the metal, unable to get a firm grip.

She darts another glance at the mirror, this time focusing on her face. Her terrible, withering corpse of a face. Purple-gray flesh peeling from cheekbones. Sunken onyx eyes.

It’sher. That ghost. Just as she looked in the blue house, hovering in the corner of Mallory’s bedroom in the deepest parts of night.

But the more Mallory stares, the more the woman in the mirror blends with her own reflection, until she’s not sure who she’s seeing at all. The ghost? Her mother?Herself?The question paralyzes her, solidifying the suspicion that’s been growing roots since auditions.

Thisthingwore her mother down, coaxed her somehow toward death.

And now, it’ll do the same to her.

Before Mallory can process the theory, the woman in the mirror parts her lips, revealing slick, rotten gums. Her mouth forms a silent word.MINE.