The Amber Dress

I never thought I’d be back in Grandma Ida’s house, not after the summer I spent here when I was twelve. But after Dad’s business went belly-up, we had nowhere else to go. Grandma had passed two years back, and the old Victorian on Maple Street had been sitting empty, collecting dust and memories. Dad said it was temporary, just until he found a job and we could get our own place. I tried to be grateful, but the house felt wrong from the moment I stepped inside.

It wasn’t the peeling wallpaper or the creaky floorboards or the smell of mothballs and old wood. It was the way the air seemed to thicken in certain rooms, like walking through a spider’s web you couldn’t see. Dad didn’t notice, of course. He was too busy drowning in his own sorrow, spending hours staring at his laptop screen or staring out the window. I was alone with my unease, and I couldn’t tell him. He’d think I was being dramatic, or worse, that I was cracking under the pressure. My mom would have listened, but she was states away, and I didn’t want to worry her.

The first strange thing happened my second week there. I’d been painting my nails a deep burgundy, and I’d fallen asleep on the couch waiting for the polish to dry. When I woke up the next morning, there was a message carved into the polish on my thumbnail, as if someone had taken a pin and scratched it: “LILA.” My heart stopped. Lila was my name. But who would write my own name on my nail? And why? I showed my dad, but he just shrugged and said I must have done it in my sleep. I knew I hadn’t.

I tried to brush it off, but it lingered in my mind like a bad taste. A few nights later, I was up late reading on the couch, the only light coming from a lamp in the corner. The house was silent, save for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. Then, without warning, a low rumble filled the air, like thunder rolling down the upstairs hallway, directly above me. The sound was so deep and heavy that the floor trembled, and the wooden rocker by the fireplace began to rock back and forth on its own, as if an invisible person were sitting in it. I froze, gripping my book, my heart pounding. The rumbling lasted a good ten seconds, then stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The chair continued to sway for a moment longer, then stilled. I waited, breath held, but nothing else happened. I didn’t sleep that night.

The next evening, I was walking through the living room to get a glass of water from the kitchen. It was around midnight, and again, I was the only one awake. I had just crossed the threshold when I saw her. She was standing at the end of the hallway, not moving, not speaking. A woman in a flowing gown, the color of burnt orange, trimmed with delicate white lace. Her hair was dark, pinned up in an old-fashioned style, and her face was pale, but I could see her features clearly, despite the dim light. She seemed to be looking right at me, and a cold dread washed over me. I blinked, and she was gone, as if she’d never been there at all. I stood there, unable to move, my mind racing. I knew her name before I even thought it: Ava.

After that, I started seeing signs of her everywhere, even when she wasn’t visible. A shadow-like mist would drift at the edge of my vision, always behind me, vanishing when I turned. The air in the hallway would suddenly drop in temperature, and I’d feel a presence, like someone was watching from the empty rooms. I started hearing soft footsteps at night, padding down the stairs, pausing outside my door. I’d lie in bed, paralyzed, listening, hoping it was just the house settling. But I knew it wasn’t.

I tried to ignore it, to convince myself it was grief or stress, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wanted me to notice it. I started researching the house’s history, sneaking onto the internet at odd hours. It turned out that a woman named Ava Whitmore had lived there in the early 1900s. She had been the wife of a wealthy businessman, and she had died young, under mysterious circumstances. Some said she drowned in the lake, others said she fell down the stairs. But there was a rumor that her husband had been cruel, and that she’d been locked away in her room. The more I read, the more I felt a connection. The gown I saw matched the description in an old photograph I found online, the lace trim exactly as I remembered.

One night, about a month after we moved in, I woke to the sound of the rocker in the living room creaking back and forth. I got up, my heart thudding, and crept to the doorway. There she was again, but this time, she wasn’t just standing. She was sitting in the rocker, her hands folded in her lap, her head bowed. She was crying, silent sobs that shook her shoulders. I felt a surge of pity and fear. I stepped forward, and she looked up. Her eyes met mine, and she opened her mouth as if to speak, but no sound came out. Instead, she pointed down the hallway, toward the stairs that led to the attic.

I understood. I don’t know how, but I knew she wanted me to follow. I hesitated, but I felt compelled. I walked past her, my legs shaking, and climbed the narrow steps to the attic. It was dusty and cluttered, with old trunks and furniture covered in sheets. A cold draft stirred the cobwebs. I looked around, and my gaze fell on a small, ornate wooden box on a shelf. I took it down, and inside, I found a diary, bound in leather, its pages yellowed and fragile. I turned the first page, and the handwriting was small and elegant, in ink that had faded to brown.

I couldn’t read it all that night, but I took the diary back to my room and stayed up until dawn, deciphering the faded script. It told the story of a woman trapped in a loveless marriage, her spirit slowly broken by her husband’s cruelty. She wrote about her dreams of escape, of flying away, but she never had the chance. The last entry was dated the day she died, and it was only a few lines: “He has locked me in. I am to be sent away. But I will not be forgotten. I will wait for one who understands.”

I closed the diary, tears in my eyes. I knew she had been waiting for me, someone who sensed her presence, who could see her. She wasn’t evil; she was lost and lonely. I felt a strange sense of peace. In the morning, I put the diary back in the attic, but I left a small, white rose on top of the box. And as I walked back down the stairs, I felt a warmth, briefly, across my shoulder, like a hand passing by. I didn’t see her again, but the house didn’t feel as oppressive. Sometimes, when I passed the living room, I’d catch a glimpse of the rocker swaying slightly, and I’d smile to myself. I still don’t tell my dad about it, but I know she’s still here, and somehow, that doesn’t scare me anymore.