The Still Gown

When I traded the wide-open silence of my grandfather’s farmhouse for a compact condo in the heart of the city, I expected noise. I expected sirens at 2 AM, the rumble of the subway beneath my feet, and the ever-present hum of a million lives converging. What I didn’t expect was her.

My bedroom window on the fifth floor offered a perfect view of the cul-de-sac below, a circle of asphalt ringed by identical buildings. The driveway to our underground garage curved like a black tongue from the main road. It was there, on the second Tuesday after I moved in, that I first saw her. A figure in a white gown, so bright it seemed to drink the sodium glow of the streetlights, stood precisely where the driveway met the road. She was too far to distinguish features, but I felt her gaze like a physical weight pressing on my chest. I blinked, certain she’d vanish. She didn’t. I watched for five, ten, fifteen minutes. She never moved. Not a drift of the gown, not a tilt of the head. Just stillness, an unnatural, absolute stillness that made the city’s constant motion feel like a lie. Finally, my neck aching from the strain, I pulled the curtain and went to bed, convincing myself it was some night-blooming insomniac or a novelty performer.

The dream was thick and cloying, filled with the rustle of static and the scent of mothballs. I woke with a gasp at 3:30 AM, my throat dry. Without thinking, my hand reached for the curtain. She was still there. The streetlight had guttered, casting a sickly amber pool, but she stood in the dark, now slightly closer. She was at the edge of the property line, maybe twenty yards from the building, still staring up at my window. A chill, sharp and incongruous, climbed my spine. It was August, a heatwave smothering the city, the pavement practically shimmering. Yet the air around my window felt like a walk-in freezer. I snatched my phone and called the non-emergency police line, my voice shaking as I described her.

Two officers arrived within minutes, their cruiser’s headlights cutting through the dark. As their beams swept the driveway, I saw her outlined for a split second, then she was gone, swallowed by the shadows between the buildings. The officers walked the entire cul-de-sac, their flashlights probing every nook. They found nothing, no one. One of them, a woman with tired eyes, walked to the exact spot I indicated and stopped. She raised her hand, tracing the air. ‘You feel that?’ she called up to me. ‘Cold draft. Weird for tonight.’ I nodded, unable to speak. They left, suggesting I get an alarm system and avoid too much caffeine.

The next night, I didn’t sleep. I sat by the window, the curtains tightly drawn, peeking through the sliver of gap. She returned at midnight, same gown, same posture. But this time, she was nearer, standing at the base of the building, right by the lobby entrance. Her face was still a pale blur, but I could see she was smiling. A wide, wet smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Then, she slowly, deliberately, raised her hand and patted her stomach. The gesture was tender, possessive. I felt a violent lurch in my own gut, a phantom pain that doubled me over.

My neighbor, an elderly man named Mr. Chen from 4B, jolted me from my frozen panic with a knock. He was holding a tray of still-steaming dumplings, a welcoming gift he’d postponed. I let him in, rambling about the woman, her smile, the pat. He listened, his face growing pale. ‘You see her too?’ he whispered, his chopsticks trembling. ‘The Bride. The old residents know. A young woman, she lived in your unit, I believe. She was engaged. They found her gown, her wedding dress, by the foundations when we were building the parking garage. They never found her body. She was, how you say, with child. They took the baby before the wedding. She waits for the father. Or for a replacement.’ He looked at me with profound pity. ‘She’s attached to the spot, friend. And you’re her new one.’

The next evening, I packed a bag, intending to stay at a hotel. As I reached the lobby, the air turned to ice. She was standing directly in front of the glass doors, blocking my exit. For the first time, I saw her face clearly. It was beautiful, but wrong. The skin had a waxy sheen, like a mannequin that had been left in the rain. Her black hair hung in lank ropes. She was close enough that I could see her gown was not pristine white but stained with dark soil and what looked like old, dried blood. She reached out a hand, palm flat against the glass, and mouthed three words I couldn’t hear but felt in my bones: ‘You are mine.’

I retreated to my unit, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm. I called a friend who dabbled in the occult. He told me to burn sage, to draw symbols of protection. I did, but the cold persisted, and I could feel her presence, always just at the edge of my vision. That night, I lay in bed, every hair on my body standing on end. I hadn’t drawn the full curtain. I saw her silhouette against the window, her head tilted, watching. Then, she moved. She raised her hand again, but this time, it was holding something. A ring. A simple gold band. She pressed it to the glass, leaving a greasy smear.

I didn’t sleep for three days. The city noise became unbearable; every siren was her scream, every footstep her approach. I stopped looking out the window, but I could feel her weight on the fire escape, her breath on my neck. On the fourth morning, at 3:30 AM, I found myself standing by the window, my hands on the sill, my body moving without my consent. The window was unlocked. I opened it. The night air was stuffy and hot, but I felt a cool current, like a river of winter. She was there, at the foot of the driveway, waiting. She beckoned. My legs turned to lead, then to nothing.

I remember the sensation of falling, of landing on the concrete, and the sharp crack of my ankle. The pain was distant, like it was happening to someone else. I dragged myself towards her, my broken ankle scraping on the asphalt. She smiled, that wide wet smile, and held out her arms. The cold was unbearable now, but it felt like a blanket. She looked down at me, and I saw pity in her dark eyes. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ she said, her voice like the rustle of a funeral shroud. ‘You won’t be alone.’

They found me at dawn, curled on the driveway, shivering despite the heat, my fingers touching a gold ring that lay beside me. I was hospitalized for my ankle and severe hypothermia. They labeled it a psychotic break. I spent a month in a psychiatric ward, but I never spoke of her. When I was released, I moved away, across the country. I live in a small town now, in a house far from any other. But some nights, when the air is still and the moon is bright, I feel a cool draft, and I see her in the corner of my eye, standing at the edge of my property, waiting. And I know, one day, the gown will fit me too.