The Paprika Dress at the Landing

The first time I ate at Julian’s parents’ house, I remember thinking how the dining room felt like a stage. The table was set with china that had little blue flowers, and the chandelier above cast a buttery glow over the turkey and the cranberry sauce. I was nervous, meeting the family for the first time, but they were warm, laughing, and passing dishes. I had just taken a bite of mashed potatoes when I felt an odd pull to look up.

My gaze drifted past the centerpiece, past the flickering candles, and settled on the staircase that climbed the far wall. It was a grand old staircase, carpeted in a faded burgundy runner, with a landing halfway up where a grandfather clock stood guard. And on that landing, half-hidden in the shadow of the clock, was an old woman. She was small, hunched over, with hair the color of ash that seemed to float around her head like a halo of smoke. She wore a long house dress, patterned with a paisley print in deep shades of orange and brown, like autumn leaves pressed in a book. She was still, just watching. I assumed she was a visiting great-aunt or grandmother, someone who preferred to stay out of the bustle. I gave her a polite smile and turned back to the conversation.

Months later, Julian and I were curled up on my couch, flipping through old family photos on his tablet. We were laughing at his childhood birthday parties, his dad’s terrible mustache, and then a photo of his grandparents’ house appeared. It was a snapshot from a summer barbecue: his grandfather grilling, his grandmother in a flowery apron. I paused. ‘That’s the house,’ I said. ‘The day I met you for dinner. I saw an old woman on the stairs. I never did ask who she was.’ Julian’s face went slack. ‘What woman?’ he asked, his voice suddenly thin. I described her: the faded hair, the hunched figure, and the dress with the paisley print.

Julian dropped the tablet, the screen cracking against the floor. He was pale, his hands shaking as he grabbed his phone. He called his uncle, and I could hear the muffled conversation from the other room. Julian asked about relatives staying over that week, but I knew by the tremor in his voice that something was wrong. When he came back, he wouldn’t look at me. He finally whispered, ‘That was my grandmother. She died in that house, on that landing. She had a heart attack there. And the dress you described? That was her favorite. She wore it all the time. But she was cremated in that dress. No one has seen it since.’

I wanted to laugh, to say it must have been a trick of the light, a shadow from the clock, but I couldn’t. Because I remembered, with unsettling clarity, that the old woman on the stairs had not just been standing there. She had been descending, step by step, and when I smiled at her, she had paused, tilted her head, and then continued down, as if she were coming to join us for dinner. But she never made it to the table. When I looked again, the landing was empty, and I had forgotten about her until now.

After that, I couldn’t shake the image. I started seeing her in peripheral vision, in mirrors, in the corner of my eye at Julian’s house. Once, I swear I smelled mothballs and cinnamon, a smell I associated with old houses, but Julian said his grandmother used to bake cinnamon rolls in that house.

A few weeks later, Julian’s parents asked us over for Sunday dinner. I tried to refuse, but Julian begged, and I agreed. The table was set, the food was steaming, and I forced myself not to look at the staircase. But after we sat down, I felt a cold draft from the stairs. I turned involuntarily. She was there again, at the top, wearing that same dress, her face in shadow. This time, she began to descend, slowly, one hand trailing the railing. I opened my mouth to say something, but no sound came out. Julian was talking, everyone was eating, oblivious. The old woman reached the bottom step. She stopped, looked at the empty chair at the table, then looked directly at me. Her mouth moved, as if she were whispering something, but I couldn’t hear it. Then she turned and walked into the kitchen, disappearing through the doorway where a pantry was, a room that had no other exit.

After dinner, I excused myself to the bathroom. On my way, I passed the kitchen. The door was ajar. I peeked inside. There was a pantry, and its door was open, revealing dark shelves. I walked closer. On the floor of the pantry, neatly folded, was a paisley dress. I screamed.

Julian came running. When I showed him, he went white. He said, ‘We cleaned out this pantry after she died. I donated all her clothes. No one has been in here since.’ He reached down and picked up the dress. It was warm, as if it had just been worn. And in the pocket, there was a recipe card for cinnamon rolls, handwritten in faded ink. Julian turned it over. On the back, in a shaky scrawl, was my name.

The dress is now gone. Julian burned it, and we moved across the city. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, I feel a presence at the foot of the bed. And in the morning, there is a faint scent of cinnamon in the air, even though we never bake. I know she is waiting for me, that I saw her for a reason. She wants me to join her for dinner. And in this house, we never sit with our backs to the stairs.