The Apron of Lavender

It was a Tuesday night in late October, and the rain had been tapping against the window pane of my attic apartment for hours. I’d fallen asleep at my desk, chin resting on a stack of unpaid bills, when a chill crept up my spine like a spider’s legs. I woke with a gasp, my breath misting in front of my face. The room was dark, lit only by the dim glow of my laptop screen, and I could see my own reflection in the window – but there was something behind me.

I turned slowly, my heart hammering. The room was empty, of course, but the cold persisted, seeping through my thin shirt. I checked the windows – all sealed, the locks in place. The radiator was cold. I pulled my comforter around me and tried to convince myself it was just a draft from my old, creaky building. But then I saw her.

She was standing in the corner, half-hidden by the shadow of my bookshelf. A little girl, maybe eight or nine, with plaited hair and a dress that looked like it was made of old lace. Around her neck was a stained apron, splattered with something dark. She was smiling, but her eyes were empty – like the windows of a abandoned house. I blinked, expecting her to vanish, but she remained. I tried to speak, my voice a croak. ‘Who are you?’

The girl took a step forward, her bare feet making no sound on the floorboards. She stopped in front of me, and when she spoke, her voice was like the whisper of dead leaves. ‘I’m your friend, remember? We used to play together. In the garden behind the old bakery.’

I shook my head. ‘I’ve never lived near a bakery. My family moved here when I was five.’

The girl giggled, a high, brittle sound. ‘You changed your name, so you wouldn’t remember. But you left something behind. You left me in the cellar. I’ve been waiting for you to come back.’

I stumbled backwards, knocking over my chair. The girl tilted her head, her smile widening. ‘Don’t you want to play hide-and-seek? You always hid, and I always found you. This time, I’ll hide, and you’ll find me. Unless you’d rather I find you first.’

I ran. I didn’t stop until I was in my mother’s kitchen, clutching her arm like a child. She looked at me with concern, and I spilled everything – the cold, the girl, the apron, the bakery. To my horror, her face paled. She tightened her grip on the counter.

‘That can’t be,’ she whispered. ‘We moved away from that town when you were six. We never looked back.’

But I saw the fear in her eyes, and I knew the girl was real. That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat in my mother’s living room, watching the door, waiting for the girl to appear. But as the hours passed, I began to wonder – if she was my friend, why did I feel only terror? And why did the stain on her apron look so much like dried blood?

The next morning, I found a small, faded photograph in my mother’s drawer. It showed a young boy and a little girl standing in front of a bakery, both smiling. The girl was wearing the same lace dress, the same stained apron. I turned the photo over. On the back, in my mother’s handwriting, were the words: ‘Tommy and Lily, before the accident.’ But my name wasn’t Tommy – and I had no memory of a Lily. Yet when I looked at the boy’s face, I saw my own eyes staring back at me.

I dropped the photo as if it burned. The girl appeared beside me, her small hand touching mine. ‘You remember now,’ she said, her smile never faltering. ‘You found me. It’s my turn to hide.’

She vanished, but her laughter echoed through the room. And I knew, with a certainty that made my blood curdle, that I would be searching for her for the rest of my life – in every corner, in every shadow, in every reflection.

That was three years ago. I’ve since moved, changed my name, tried to forget. But every time I close my eyes, I see her tiny form, her lace dress, her stained apron. And I hear her voice, sweet as poison, saying, ‘I used to live with you. Remember?’

I’m writing this from a motel room, miles away from any bakery. But just now, I felt a chill sweep through the room, and I saw the door handle turn. She’s found me again. And this time, I don’t think I’ll be able to run.