Gideon’s Ghost Story: The Whispering Wardrobe
[A lantern flickers to life. Gideon holds it under his chin, casting long, exaggerated shadows. His smile is sly, too wide, but his eyes are deadly serious.]
“Now, lean close. Don’t drift, don’t blink. This is not a tale to be wasted on half-listening ears.
It begins, as the best tales do, with an inheritance. Sarah, a quiet girl with a fondness for vintage lace and old velvet jackets, received her grandmother’s wardrobe. Not a dainty chest, oh no. This thing was a colossus. A Victorian monstrosity of black oak, carved with swirling vines so intricate that, in the moonlight, they seemed to slither and twist.
And when Sarah pressed her hand to those carvings… she swore they pulsed.
At first, she adored it. Her dresses, her coats, her treasures—it swallowed them all whole. But on Halloween night, when the storm outside clawed at the shutters and the house groaned under the weight of the wind… the wardrobe spoke.
Not loudly. No, no, no—whispers. Like wind through a graveyard keyhole. She pressed her ear to the wood, and what did she hear?
‘Join us… wear the veil…’
Her blood iced. She flung the doors wide—bang!—but inside? Nothing. Only hangers swaying gently, like bodies twisting at the gallows.
That night, her sleep betrayed her. She dreamed of a ballroom—rotting, cavernous, its chandeliers dripping with cobwebs yet somehow still aglow. Shadows twirled in pairs. Dancers in gowns so faded they seemed woven from dust itself. Their faces blurred, indistinct, but their hands… their hands were bone wrapped in lace.
And at the center stood a bride.
Her veil shredded. Her gown gray as parchment. And though Sarah had never seen her, she swore… she knew her.
Sarah awoke trembling, the dream clinging to her like a second skin. She told herself it was nothing. A fancy. A trick of nerves.
Until she opened the wardrobe.
And there it was.
A dress. White. Pristine. Hanging on the frontmost hook. Smooth, silky, gleaming like a spider’s thread in moonlight.
Sarah froze. Her breath grew shallow, her pulse a war drum in her ears. She hadn’t put it there. She knew she hadn’t. And yet it hung waiting, as though it had always been hers.
Her grandmother never owned it. The thought screamed louder and louder in her head: It doesn’t belong to me. It doesn’t belong to anyone.
Her fingers trembled as they reached out. The fabric was cold—colder than ice. Not the chill of a draft, but the death-cold of a corpse’s skin. She recoiled, tears burning at the corners of her eyes. She wanted to flee. To slam the wardrobe shut. To set fire to it, to the whole house.
But something… compelled her.
She lifted the gown. Its weight was wrong—too heavy, as though soaked in some invisible mire.
‘Just try it on,’ she whispered to herself, half-mad, half-terrified. ‘Just prove it’s nothing.’
And she slid it over her shoulders.
The air left the room. Her lungs seized, her breath a ragged gasp. The fabric clung to her like ice water, numbing her to the marrow.
She raised her eyes to the mirror—
And Sarah was gone.
In her place stood the bride.
But not some glowing, ethereal phantom. No—this was a horror made flesh. Her skin was parchment, puckered and torn, as though sewn from scraps. Her eye sockets were gaping caverns, rims raw and red, black tears streaking her cheeks in glistening rivers. Her lips, shriveled blue, peeled back to reveal teeth too long, too sharp, clenched in a grin that stretched wider… wider… wider than a human mouth should go.
And she smiled.
Slowly. Hungrily.
Sarah screamed, tearing at the gown, clawing it from her body, flinging it to the floor—but the mirror did not release her. The bride lingered, grinning, her jaw trembling in silent laughter. Then, slowly, her lips began to move.
Words formed. Words Sarah refused to hear. She pressed her hands over her ears, sobbing, begging the vision to stop.
But she knew. She knew.
The whispers had chosen her.
And from that night on, they never stopped.
The wardrobe remains locked now, nailed shut in her attic. But wood cannot silence whispers. On still nights, when the wind holds its breath, you can hear them through the keyhole…
‘Join us… wear the veil… come dance with the dead…’
[Gideon leans forward, voice a whisper, eyes glinting in the lanternlight.]
And perhaps… they are not calling for Sarah anymore.
Perhaps… tonight… they are calling for you.”