The Last Dress

Tinkling bells heralded Angela's entrance to the bridal shop. She'd been trying for weeks to find the dress, but with no luck so far. This was the only store left.

A tiny old lady with a measuring tape draped across her shoulders and coke-bottle glasses emerged, shuffling, but determined, from the back room. She wore a child-sized cardigan sweater and compression socks rolled underneath a camel skirt. Orthopedic shoes rounded out her look.

"Hello, dear!" She said warmly. 

Angela thought the little old lady was adorable, but her hopes of finding a dress faded as she looked around. The shop smelled like dust, old fabric, and a hint of something sour beneath the potpourri wilting in an ancient dish on the table. Forlorn mannequins modeled yellowing dresses that must have been decades old. They reminded Angela of dying roses. 

"I'm looking for a wedding dress." 

"Do you have something specifically in mind?" The old lady approached, her hands folded primly. 

"I'd like something modern and simple," she continued. "Preferably in white satin." 

The old lady peered at Angela over her thick glasses, then shuffled to a rack toward the back of the store and selected a few dresses. She seemed to struggle under their weight as she draped them over her frail arm.

"Can I carry those for you?" Angela offered. 

“No!"

The outburst made Angela jump. 

The old lady's voice eased into a soothing, maternal tone. "I'd much prefer to handle the dresses myself until you try them on, dear." 

Angela felt hurt, and as her eyes began to tear, she scolded herself for her emotional reaction. "What the heck is wrong with me?" She thought. 

The old lady laid the dresses across the settee in front of the single-pane, aging pedestal mirror, and it occurred to Angela that this was where her mother would have sat, gushing at each selection. She repressed the urge to cry again. 

"Are you OK?" The old lady asked quizzically. "May I get you a glass of wine?" 

"She knows full well you're not," Angela's inner voice warned.  "A glass of chardonnay would be great if you have it, thank you." 

"Where is your mother now, dear?" The old woman called over her shoulder as she shuffled to the back room.

She died a couple of years ago," Angela answered pensively. She hadn't mentioned her mother aloud, had she? She didn't think so, but she was a little distracted by the wave of emotion, so who knows. 

The old lady emerged with the wine. "Shall we get started?" 

Again, Angela’s instincts insisted: “Don’t drink that. Leave.” 

“Is something wrong, dear?” The old lady peered at her intently. 

“Oh no! I’m excited to get started,” she answered. Not wanting to appear rude, she took a long sip of the wine and chose a dress. 

Angela tried on countless dresses. When she tried to re-center her thoughts, it dawned on her that she really had no idea how long she’d been there. Her throat was dry, and an unpleasant smell trickled into her sinuses. It was subtle, but unmistakable.

"Do you have some water?" She called from the fitting room. 

"Yes, I'll be right back!" The old lady called in a cheerful, singsong tone through the door. 

Angela heard muffled voices distantly somewhere in the shop; she had assumed they were alone. She looked around, but it was just her. And the mannequins.

The old lady returned with a paper cup full of tepid tap water.

"Thank you." She gulped down the water. "I don't know what's gotten into me, but suddenly I have the worst headache! I'm probably just dehydrated." 

The old lady smiled and said nothing. 

"Is there someone else here?" Angela asked as she stepped back onto the fitting pedestal. "I thought I heard voices." The room was beginning to spin, and splotches of grey swam before her eyes. She felt as if she might fall off. 

The old lady beamed at Angela through the mirrors' reflection. "What do you think of this one?" 

It was the last dress. "Umm... y-yes, I suppose..."

As she studied her reflection, Angela could’ve sworn the old lady was a solid two feet shorter than when she first arrived at the shop. "Has she shrunk since I got here?" She mused. “No, that’s ridiculous.” Another rush of lightheadedness hit her hard. 

"I have to sit down." 

"Stay still, I need to cinch your waist and bodice," the old lady replied impatiently. 

When she stooped to retrieve the pincushion, Angela realized something really was not right at all. The old lady’s spine bulged through her sweater. She looked less like a sweet old lady and more like a withered hag as she worked. It was as if she had aged twenty years in an... hour? Three hours? Two days? 

Angela studied the old lady’s face in the mirror and tried to focus as she pinned her dress. The coke-bottle glasses warped her eyes into black disks, and she flicked her tongue across her lips in deep concentration. It seemed too long for her face, and Angela could've sworn it was forked. A vision of a snake wearing thick glasses and a cardigan sweater flashed through her hazy awareness, making her giggle despite her dry throat and throbbing head. 

The old lady’s head snapped upward, and she met her gaze in the mirror. Her lips curled into a grin. "You've had too much wine, my dear!" She shrieked giddily. 

Too much wine? Angela couldn't remember having more than one glass. Or maybe she did? Yes, she definitely did; she remembered now. Angela tried, but it took all her willpower to keep from swaying. Something sharp stabbed her in the back. For a moment, her head felt clearer. 

"Keep still!" snapped the old woman. 

"You stuck me!" 

"Yes, I did," she hissed hatefully. 

The old lady stood behind Angela, her reflection gesturing to the mirror. "It's perfect." 

Angela blinked in a stupor. It was foggy, like after a hot shower, and a vaguely human form began to materialize on the other side. "Wait..." She croaked. It advanced, growing larger as it got closer. A hand pressed against the opposite side of the glass. Then another.

“He’s coming,” came the voice behind her. Over her shoulder, Angela saw the old lady’s form backing away. “Meet your new husband, my dear!” She didn’t sound like an old lady anymore. The voice was nasal and unnaturally high-pitched. 

Angela couldn’t tear her gaze from the mirror. She shrieked in terror, frozen with fear as the form pounded the glass from the other side. The mirror shook and nearly gave way. Adrenaline overwhelmed her. She swiveled and stumbled from the platform, screaming for help, but there was no one to answer. The store was empty except for the forlorn mannequins. Their painted eyes fixed on her, and through her panic, she thought she saw one of them smile. 

Her new husband was halfway through. She got to her feet and tried to flee, but it was too fast. It reached out, grasping her arm. She felt her bones crack as it yanked her to the floor. The pain was staggering. Sobbing, Angela clawed at the worn carpet with her free hand as the demon dragged her through the swirling mirror, grunting with satisfaction. She was blinded by an infinity of light, then her vision tunneled and faded to black. 

The next morning, the little old lady unlocked the door to a tidy, if not dated, shop. She sipped her tea daintily, waiting for the cheerful bells to signal the arrival of a new bride.