The Long Hair at the Foot of the Bed

After his father sold the old funeral parlor on Summit Avenue, my partner Marcus and I rented a modest apartment in the quieter part of Duluth. We’d been there for almost a year, and the place had a peculiar smell—like old wood and dust, with a faint hint of something floral that we could never place. The landlord said it was just the previous tenant’s perfume, but it lingered, especially in the bedroom.

I worked days as a nurse at a clinic, while Marcus pulled second shift at the steel plant. He’d come home around two in the morning, shower, and slide into bed. Usually, I was deep asleep, but one night, his restless tossing woke me. He was mumbling, and when I touched his arm, he flinched.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, my voice groggy.

He stared at the closet, his eyes wide. “There was someone standing there,” he said, pointing. “By the door. Long hair. I saw her back.”

I looked, but the closet door was shut, and the dim light from the window cast only our own shadows. “It was probably me,” I said, my own hair falling over my shoulders. “I got up to get water.”

“No,” he insisted, his voice tight. “Her hair was past her waist. Yours is just past your shoulders.” His eyes were still fixed on the closet, as if she might still be there. I turned on the lamp, but the room was empty. We were both unsettled, and we lay awake until dawn, not speaking, the floral scent seeming stronger than ever.

A week later, Marcus came home with his back and legs aching from a long shift. He woke me up, asking for a massage. I knelt beside the bed and worked my hands into his calves, the muscles tight and knotted. He was lying on his back, his eyes closed, and I was focused on the pressure points when he suddenly stiffened.

“Honey,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “There’s a lady standing at the foot of the bed.”

I froze, my hands still on his leg. “Are you sure?” I asked, not daring to look.

He didn’t answer. His breathing had become shallow, and after a long moment, he fell asleep, as if the effort of seeing her had drained him. I slowly turned my head, expecting to see something, but there was only the familiar shape of the dresser and the mirror above it. Yet, for a split second, I thought I saw a figure—a woman in a long, pale gown, her hair cascading down her back, not moving. Then it was gone.

I didn’t sleep that night. I lay beside Marcus, listening to the creaks of the old building, the wind rattling the window. In the morning, I asked him about it again, but he said he didn’t remember. He thought it was just a dream. But I knew better.

Over the following weeks, the presence grew stronger. I began to see her myself—always in my peripheral vision, always that long, dark hair. At first, I thought it was sleep deprivation, the stress of work and the unsettling encounter. But then I started noticing small things: the bathroom door would be open when I knew I’d closed it; my hairbrush would be moved ever so slightly; and the floral scent—roses and something else, something sweet and heavy—would intensify at odd hours.

One evening, while Marcus was at work, I decided to investigate the building’s history. I found an old newspaper article online about a fire at the original funeral home that once stood on the site of our apartment complex. It mentioned a young woman, an embalmer’s apprentice named Emily, who had died in the blaze. Her body was never recovered. The article included a grainy photo of her: long, dark hair, a sad smile.

I felt a chill. I realized the presence might be Emily, trapped here, perhaps seeking something. But why our apartment? Why us? I started to research more, and I discovered that the funeral home had actually been moved, not destroyed—the current funeral home that Marcus’s father once owned was its successor. And our apartment complex was built on the old parking lot.

It made some sense: the land was hallowed, in a way, touched by death. But I still didn’t understand what she wanted.

Then, one night, Marcus came home early, exhausted. He collapsed on the bed without showering, and I knelt to rub his legs again. As I touched his skin, I saw her clearly—not in the corner, but right at the foot of the bed, facing me. Her hair covered her face, but I could see through the strands that she was beautiful, sorrowful. She raised a hand and pointed to Marcus, then to me, and then she opened her mouth as if to speak, but no sound came out.

I gasped, and she vanished. Marcus didn’t move. I knew then that she wasn’t malevolent; she was trying to communicate. I began to wake up in the middle of the night, feeling a hand brush my hair, a gentle touch, as if she were checking on me.

One night, I woke to find Marcus sitting up in bed, staring at the closet. “She’s still there,” he said, his voice flat. “She’s been there every night.”

“What does she want?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. But I think she’s waiting for something. Maybe for us to acknowledge her.”

The next day, I decided to try to communicate. I lit a candle and placed it on the dresser, and I spoke aloud, “Emily, if you’re here, we know you’re here. We’re sorry you’re trapped. Can we help you?”

Nothing happened. But that night, the floral scent was overwhelming, almost sickening. And in the mirror, I saw her reflection behind me, her hair hanging like a curtain, and for the first time, I saw her face: peaceful, but with tears streaming down her cheeks.

I reached out to the mirror, and my hand went through the glass. She reached out too, and I felt a cold sensation, like a kiss on my forehead. Then she was gone.

The next morning, Marcus was gone too. He’d left a note saying he couldn’t stay in that apartment anymore, that the visions were too much. He said he was going to stay with a friend.

I stayed, though. I knew Emily needed closure, and I was the only one who could give it. I researched her more, and I found that she had a younger sister who had died in the fire too, but her body was recovered and buried in a local cemetery. Emily’s remains were never found, so she had no grave.

I went to the cemetery, found the sister’s plot, and placed a small stone for Emily beside it, with her name and dates. I said a prayer, asking her spirit to find peace.

That night, when I returned to the apartment, the air was clear. The floral scent was gone. And in the mirror, I saw only my reflection. I slept soundly for the first time in weeks.

Marcus came back the next day, apologetic. He said he’d been a fool. He could feel that the heaviness was lifted. We hugged, and I told him about Emily and the grave.

From then on, we never saw her again. But sometimes, late at night, I’d catch a whiff of roses and remember the woman with the long hair. I’d look at the foot of the bed, and there’d be nothing there. And I’d wonder if she found her way home.

We moved out a few months later, but the memory stayed with us. And every time I see a woman with hair past her waist, I feel a shiver, and I can’t help but look to the foot of the bed to see if she’s standing there, waiting.