The Pale Gown

I grew up in a cramped apartment in the sprawling outskirts of Phoenix, where the heat pressed down like a physical weight even at night. My parents and I shared a two-bedroom unit on the third floor of a complex that had seen better decades. My older siblings, Marcus and Elena, had long since moved out, leaving me to navigate the sticky summer darkness alone.

One night, I woke in my parents’ bed, my bladder aching. The room was a furnace, the air conditioner wheezing in the corner. I whispered to my mother, but she only swatted the air and muttered, ‘Go back to sleep. Hold it till morning.’ The thought of crossing the dark hallway to the bathroom was terrifying, but the pressure was unbearable. I slid off the mattress, my feet meeting the cold linoleum, and padded to the door.

I peered out. The hallway was a tunnel of shadows, broken only by a sliver of light from the bathroom left ajar. I took a breath and scurried, my heart thumping. Halfway there, a wave of pure dread washed over me, stopping me cold. I spun to race back, but I collided with something solid, yet yielding. I looked up.

A woman stood there, her hair the color of desert sand, hanging in limp strands. She wore a nightgown so white it seemed to glow, but it was stained with dark patches that looked like old grease. Her face was blank, smooth, as if her features had been erased, except for her eyes—black, deep, and endless. She didn’t move, didn’t blink. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

Her hand, cold and dry, clamped over my mouth. ‘Shh,’ she breathed, her voice a dry rasp like wind through a dead saguaro. ‘You don’t want to wake the others.’ She gestured with her head toward the living room. In the dim, I saw shapes—too many shapes—sitting motionless on the couch and chairs. They were all wearing white gowns, all with the same blank faces, all staring at nothing.

She leaned in close, her breath smelling of dust and old copper. ‘We’ve been waiting for you. This is our home now. You’ll stay here, with us, forever.’ I tried to pull away, but my legs were rubber. She began to drag me toward the living room, her fingers digging into my arm. I looked back at my parents’ door, but it was closed, and no light seeped from underneath.

Then I heard a sound—a faint, rhythmic beeping. The woman froze. The beeping grew louder, more insistent. It was the smoke alarm from the kitchen. The woman’s face contorted, and she hissed, ‘No. Not yet.’ The lights flickered, and the room was thrown into chaos.

I tore free and bolted for the front door, but it was locked, the chain latched. I fumbled with the deadbolt. Behind me, the woman’s voice rose to a screech. I finally got the door open and stumbled into the corridor, slamming it shut. I ran barefoot down the stairs, the concrete burning my soles, until I burst outside into the parking lot.

I collapsed against a car, gasping. When I looked back, the window of our apartment was dark, but I saw a pale shape pressed against the glass, watching me. I ran to the manager’s office and pounded on the door until a groggy man answered. He called the police, but when they arrived, our apartment was empty. The oven was on, filled with smoke, but no fire. My parents claimed I had dreamed it all, a fever dream from the heat.

But I never slept in that room again. I moved into the living room, and I never went into that hallway at night. Years later, I moved away. I thought I’d escaped.

Last month, I got a package with no return address. Inside was a white gown, identical to the one she wore, and a note in a spidery hand: ‘We’re still waiting. It’s almost your turn.’ I burned the gown, but I can’t shake the feeling that she’s still there, standing in that hallway, waiting for me to come back.

I haven’t slept in days. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face, and I hear her say, ‘You don’t want to wake the others.’ Because they’re always awake. And they’re always watching.