The Jade Dress

The first time I ever saw a ghost, I had no idea it had happened because they were so ‘real.’ At nineteen, I was dating a guy named Carl who worked the early-morning delivery route for a regional dairy. It was the summer of 1994, and the heat was oppressive even at dawn. One Saturday, I decided to tag along to help him out, partly for the company and partly because the extra cash was useful for my art supplies. We were working a run through a cluster of old apartment buildings on the edge of town, the kind with peeling paint and communal stairwells that always smelled of damp concrete.

Carl parked the rattling milk float outside a low-rise block called ‘The Brambles.’ He handed me a plastic crate with two pints of semi-skimmed and a bottle of orange juice. ‘Top floor, flat 12. I’ll do the next building,’ he said, already jogging off with his own crate. The front door to The Brambles was heavy, with a spring that pulled it shut behind me with a loud clang. Inside, the stairwell was cool and dim, the only light filtering through a small window on each landing. I started climbing, my footsteps echoing on the concrete.

As I reached the third step, a little girl came around the corner from the first-floor landing. She was maybe six years old, with a shock of carrot-red hair and a smattering of freckles across her nose. She wore a jade-green sundress and bright green plastic sandals that squeaked on the linoleum. She looked up at me with wide, solemn eyes. ‘Hi,’ I said, smiling. ‘Are you heading out?’ She didn’t answer, just gave a tiny nod and continued walking past me, her small hand brushing the handrail. I turned to watch her, but she was already at the bottom, pushing against the heavy door. I lingered, expecting her to struggle with it, but the door swung open effortlessly, and she slipped out into the morning sun. I shrugged and continued up to flat 12, left the milk, and headed back down.

When I got outside, Carl was leaning against the float, sipping a carton of orange juice. ‘You see the little girl come out?’ I asked, pointing towards the door. Carl looked at me blankly. ‘What little girl?’ ‘Red hair, green dress. She came down as I was going up,’ I said. Carl shook his head. ‘Ain’t no kids live in that block. Just old Mrs. Penrose and a couple of students. You must’ve imagined it.’ I laughed it off, but something felt off. I couldn’t shake the image of her face, the way she had looked at me as if she recognized me.

A few weeks later, Carl had to cover the same route again, and I went with him out of a weird sense of curiosity. This time, I didn’t go in. I waited outside, watching the heavy door. After a few minutes, a woman in a beige cardigan came out, holding a small dog. I asked her if she knew a little girl with red hair who lived in the block. The woman’s face paled. ‘You mean the one in the green dress?’ she whispered. ‘That was Emily. She lived in flat 9 with her mother, but that was back in the ’80s. She died in a fire in the ground-floor laundry room. The fire was caused by a faulty dryer, and she was trapped. They say she still walks the stairs.’ My blood ran cold. I looked back at the building, and there, in the third-floor window, I saw a small pale face watching me. It was her, the girl from before, and she raised one tiny hand and waved.

I never told Carl I saw her again. But from that day on, whenever I passed The Brambles, I could feel her presence. And sometimes, when I closed my eyes at night, I’d see that jade-green dress and hear the squeak of her plastic shoes on the stairs, as if she was still waiting for someone to say hello.