The Pale Dress

My mother worked at a flower shop in the old town of Oaxaca, and I spent most of my afternoons there, playing among the roses and baby’s breath. Next door was a bakery owned by her friend, Señora Vargas, and it was there that I first saw the girl.

It was a humid Tuesday when I tugged at my mother’s sleeve, insisting I needed to go to the bathroom. The flower shop had none, so she hurried me next door, where Señora Vargas’s daughter-in-law led us down a long, dim hallway to the washroom at the back. The air smelled of yeast and cinnamon, and the floorboards creaked beneath our feet.

I entered the small bathroom alone, the door clicking shut behind me. The room was narrow, with a single window high up, covered by a sheer curtain that billowed slightly from a hidden draft. I was about to step into the stall when a light—so bright it would have been blinding on any other day—flooded through the window. It was not the sun, but a cold, wavering glow that seemed to come from inside my head.

A murmur rose, a thousand voices whispering in a language I didn’t know, layered over each other like static. I felt my neck prickle, and something told me to look at the sink. I turned, and there she was.

A girl stood outside the window, in the overgrown field behind the shops. She was about six, with hair so pale it looked white against the wild grass, and skin like milk. Her dress was white, puffy, and knee-length, with tiny buttons down the front—so crisp it seemed to glow. She looked directly at me, her blue eyes empty as a winter sky, and raised her arm. Slowly, she crooked her finger, beckoning me closer.

I didn’t want to go. Every instinct screamed to run, but my feet moved on their own, stepping toward the window. The whispers grew louder, forming words I almost understood: ‘Come, we’ve been waiting.’

I reached the window, my nose almost touching the glass. The girl smiled, but her teeth were too sharp, and her eyes didn’t change. She pointed past me, into the bathroom, and I turned to see the mirror reflected in the sink’s faucet. In it, the girl was standing right behind me, her reflection smiling the same smile, only now her dress was stained with dark, wet patches.

I screamed, but no sound came out. The girl’s reflection raised both hands and pressed against the glass from the other side, leaving foggy handprints that traced downward, like tears. And then her reflection spoke, clear as a bell through the static: ‘Don’t tell Mama.’

I bolted out of the bathroom, slamming the door, and ran down the hallway, crashing into my mother’s arms. She asked what was wrong, but I couldn’t speak—I just pointed at the door, sobbing. When we went back, the bathroom was empty, the window clear, the white dress gone. But on the window, in the dust, were two small handprints, facing inward.

We moved away a month later, and I never went back to that town. But sometimes, at night, I still see her standing in that field, beckoning. And in my dreams, when I look into a mirror, her reflected self is standing behind me, forever waiting for me to come closer.