The Apron of June Porter

I was fourteen when my mother remarried and we moved into the old farmhouse outside of Millbrook. The house had been in my stepfather’s family for generations, and it smelled of woodsmoke and dust. I didn’t mind it much, because the attic was full of old trunks and dresses, and I spent hours trying on clothes from a century ago. My stepfather, a quiet man named Arthur, was rarely home, and my mother threw herself into renovating the place, which left me to my own devices.

It started with a faint perfume in the hallway, like violets and old paper. I’d catch it near the kitchen, but when I turned to find the source, it was gone. Then I began seeing a woman in a long, dark skirt and a white apron, standing by the stove. She was young, with her hair in a bun, and she never spoke, just watched me with an expression of profound sorrow. I told my mother, who laughed it off as my imagination running wild after reading too many gothic novels. Arthur, when he heard, just frowned and said nothing, but I saw him touch a silver locket he wore under his shirt.

Months passed, and the sightings became more frequent. The woman would be in the pantry, or at the foot of the stairs, and once I woke to find her standing at the foot of my bed, her hands clasped in front of her. I grew used to her, even though she never communicated. My mother dismissed it all, calling me a ‘silly girl’ and saying that the farmhouse was just old and creaky. But I knew what I saw.

When I was seventeen, my mother announced she was leaving Arthur. They’d been fighting for months, and she’d had enough of ‘that gloomy house and its silent owner.’ Arthur took it stoically, but I saw him pack a small suitcase and leave the same weekend. That was when the house changed.

I was home alone now, and with Arthur gone, the woman in the apron became more assertive. It wasn’t just glimpses anymore. I’d find dirty dishes in the sink that I hadn’t used, and the smell of roast beef would fill the air at odd hours. Once, I came down to find the kitchen table set for three, with the woman sitting at the head, staring at an empty chair opposite her.

I tried to ignore it, but I couldn’t sleep. At night, I’d hear footsteps in the hallway, the sound of a broom sweeping, and low humming, like a lullaby. I started sleeping with the lights on, and I’d check every corner of the house before bed. But the worst was the reflection in the window: I’d see her behind me, her mouth moving as if speaking, but no sound came out.

One night, about a month after my mother left, I was in the kitchen filling a glass of water at the sink. The lights flickered, and I saw her in the window. She was closer than ever, her face pressed against the glass, her lips mouthing words I couldn’t understand. I spun around, but the kitchen was empty. A cold draft blew through the room, and the back door creaked open. I rushed to close it, and as I did, I saw a worn, yellowed envelope lying on the doorstep. It was addressed to ‘Arthur, from June.’

I picked it up and opened it. Inside was a photograph of the woman in the apron, with a man who looked like Arthur, and a baby. On the back, in fading ink, were the words: ‘Our family, 1937.’ Below that, in a different hand: ‘She never knew the truth.’

I was still staring at it when I heard footsteps behind me. I turned, and the woman was there, not as a ghostly apparition, but as solid as I was. She wore the same apron, and she reached out a cold hand and touched my cheek. Her lips parted, and for the first time, I heard her voice, a whisper like dry leaves: ‘He killed me. He said the farm was his, and I was in the way. But I made him pay.’

I stumbled back, dropping the photograph. She vanished, and the kitchen was silent again. But I knew what I had to do. I searched Arthur’s old toolbox in the barn, and in the false bottom, I found a birth certificate for a baby girl, born to June Porter and Arthur Hale, in 1938. And a newspaper clipping from that year, about a house fire that killed a young mother, but the child survived.

My mother left because she was pregnant with another man’s child, and Arthur blamed her, saying she was no better than the ‘faithless’ June. But June’s ghost wasn’t after my mother. It was after Arthur, and now that he was gone, it had settled on me to finish what she started.

I left that house the next day. I didn’t tell anyone, I just packed a bag and went to a friend’s house. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that June was still watching me, that she hadn’t finished her work. And sometimes, when I look in the mirror at night, I see her standing behind me, holding a photograph of Arthur, and she whispers, ‘You’re the last one.’

I don’t know what she wants. But I know I can never go back to that farmhouse. The apron hangs in my closet now, sent to me anonymously a week later. I can’t bring myself to throw it away, because sometimes it moves on its own, and I swear I hear a child crying. June’s child, who grew up to be Arthur’s only daughter, and who died in a car accident when I was a baby. I think she wants my body, but I’m not ready to give it to her.