The Ironed Shirts

I was eighteen when I started staying over at my mother’s place in the city, but every Saturday night, I drove the twenty minutes to my father’s house on the edge of the marsh. It was a rambling, old Victorian that had been in his family for generations, and it always felt like it was holding its breath, waiting for something. That particular weekend, the unease was thicker than usual, a low hum of wrongness that followed me from room to room.

My father, a retired history teacher, was in his study as always, buried in his papers, and I was trying to keep busy. But the feeling was relentless. It was as if the walls themselves were watching me, and every creak of the floorboards made my heart jump. I knew I was being foolish, but I couldn’t shake the sense that something was going to happen that night.

By the time I decided to go to sleep, my stomach was in knots. I still felt weak from a horrible virus I’d caught the week before, so I went into the bathroom and sat on the toilet lid while I brushed my teeth. The bathroom was old, with a clawfoot tub and a small window that overlooked the black water of the marsh. The light above the mirror flickered once, twice, and then steadied, making me freeze.

Then I saw it. My father had ironed a stack of his shirts and hung them on the shower curtain rod to fix the creases. They were white and starched, and they began to sway as if a breeze had passed through the room, even though the window was shut and the door was closed. The swaying grew more pronounced, and the air turned icy cold, raising goosebumps on my arms. I sat there, toothbrush dripping foam, unable to move as the shirts whipped back and forth, like they were dancing in a violent storm.

I tried to call out for my father, but my voice was a strangled whisper. The shirts were moving so fast now that they were just a blur, and I felt a presence behind them, a darkness that seemed to be using them as puppets. And then, as quickly as it started, it stopped. The shirts hung still, but the cold remained, settling into my bones.

My father’s voice came from the hallway, ‘Everything alright in there?’ I managed to croak out a ‘Yes,’ and he shuffled away. I finished brushing my teeth with trembling hands, refusing to look at the shirts again. When I finally walked out, I kept my eyes averted, and the hallway felt like it was closing in on me.

I went to my room, but I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, listening to the house settle, but the silence was strained, like the house was waiting for something. The next morning, I found my father in the kitchen, looking pale. He asked, ‘Did you sleep okay?’ I lied and said yes. He frowned, then said, ‘I had the strangest dream. I dreamt I was in a field of white flowers, and they were all turning red.’

I felt a chill run down my spine. I didn’t tell him about the shirts, but I knew, somehow, that they were connected. I’ve never been back to that house since. I told him I was too busy, but the truth is, I’m terrified of what might be waiting for me there, and of what it might do next time.