The Derby Specter

It was a humid August night, and I was deep into a marathon of an old RPG, the kind with pixelated forests and endless fetch quests. My apartment, a two-bedroom on the third floor of a pre-war building, had that stale, closed-up smell of summer, and the only light came from the TV and the faint glow of a streetlamp through the blinds. I paused the game, my stomach growling, and decided to raid the fridge for a bowl of cereal. The kitchen was in the hall, just past the bathroom, and I shuffled there in my socks, the floor creaking in familiar spots.

I poured the milk, the sound of the cereal crunching in the bowl too loud in the quiet. As I walked back toward the living room, spoon in hand, I passed the doorway and glanced in. There, on the armchair by the window—not the one where my brother usually sat, but the old floral-patterned one that nobody used—was a figure. I froze, thinking for a moment it was my girlfriend, Claire, who had a key. But she wasn’t the type to sit in the dark, and the shape was wrong. It was too still, too upright.

I stepped closer, and my chest tightened. It was a woman in a vintage dress, the fabric a deep burgundy with intricate lace, and she wore a wide-brimmed hat adorned with feathers and a silk ribbon, like something from the 1920s. Her legs were crossed, one hand resting on her knee, the other holding a small, beaded purse. She was staring intently at the corner of the room, where I kept a glass display case filled with my collection of antique knickknacks—pocket watches, old keys, and a porcelain doll I’d inherited from my grandmother. She hadn’t noticed me, or if she had, she gave no sign.

My breath caught. I blinked, and for a fraction of a second, her head turned, but her face was shadowed under the hat brim. I took a step back, hoping to see if Claire was in the hallway, but the apartment was empty. When I looked back, the chair was vacant. The only trace was a faint scent of lavender and dust, and the faint impression of a dent in the cushion, as if someone had just stood up.

I didn’t eat my cereal. I set the bowl on the desk and called out for Claire. No answer. I checked the bathroom, the bedroom, the closets—nothing. The window was locked, the door chain was on. I spent the next hour convincing myself it was a trick of the light, a shadow cast by the passing car, but I couldn’t shake the image of that hat, the confident posture, the directed gaze at my display case.

Later, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the old building’s creaks, and I swore I heard a faint rustle from the living room, like a petticoat brushing against fabric. I got up and peeked through the crack of my door. The chair was empty, but the display case’s glass reflected a ghostly figure—the same woman, now standing beside it, her hand resting on the top of the case as if admiring a piece. She didn’t look at me. She just stood there, perfectly still, until I blinked and she was gone.

The next morning, I researched the building’s history and found that in the 1920s, a woman named Elsie, a young socialite known for her elaborate hats, had lived in this very apartment. She had been found dead in the hallway, a heart attack, or so the records said. What struck me was a photograph in an archive: she was wearing a dress and hat identical to what I’d seen. And in the background of that photograph, on a table, was a small silver locket. The same locket I had in my display case, the one without a picture inside, that I’d bought at a flea market years ago.

I don’t know why she chose to appear that night, or why she watches the case. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I’ll catch a glimpse of her from the corner of my eye, still as ever, her hat and dress vivid under the dim light, and I wonder if she’s waiting for someone to return the locket, or waiting for me to put it back where it belongs. I only know that I’ll never again walk through that hallway without a sense of cold, and that I might just give up cereal for good.