The Vanishing Garter

The first time it happened, I blamed the draft from the old boiler in the basement of our rented flat. It was a Tuesday, just past eleven, and I had laid out my clothes on the armchair by the window: a pair of worn jeans, a faded tee, and the practical cotton underwear I always wore. I locked the bathroom door—not because of my daughter, who was eleven and trustworthy, but because of the building’s handyman, who had a habit of letting himself in unannounced. The shower was quick, the water barely lukewarm. When I came out, towel wrapped around my head, the armchair looked exactly as I had left it. But when I reached for my underwear, my fingers met the rough denim of the jeans. The underwear was gone. I checked the floor, the folds of the towel, even the laundry basket. Nothing. I ended up wearing an old pair from the emergency stash in the bathroom cupboard, and I told myself I must have miscounted, that maybe I had taken them into the bathroom by accident. But I knew I hadn’t.

The second time was three weeks later. I had moved my clothes to the bedroom, on the quilt my grandmother had stitched, because the handyman had been fixing the radiator and I didn’t want him near my things. Same routine: lock the bedroom door, shower in the hall bathroom, come back. This time, only the underwear was missing again, but my bra and socks remained. A cold prickle ran down my spine as I stood there, dripping on the hardwood. I tore the room apart. I looked under the bed, in the closet, in the pockets of my coat. Nothing. I even checked the window sill, thinking it might have blown out—but the window was painted shut.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in the dark, listening to the building settle, the creaks of the pipes, the low hum of the refrigerator. And then I heard it: a soft, sliding sound, like fabric being dragged across a surface. It came from the closet. I froze, my heart hammering. I flicked on the bedside lamp. The closet door was slightly ajar, though I knew I had closed it. I got up, my legs weak, and pulled the door open. My clothes were inside, neatly hung, but folded on the floor was a pair of lace underwear—something I would never buy. They were dark red, almost black, and they looked new. I didn’t touch them. I shut the door and went back to bed, but I didn’t sleep.

The next morning, I told my neighbor Mrs. Kowalski, who had lived in the building for forty years. She went pale and made the sign of the cross. ‘There was a woman who lived in your flat in the seventies,’ she said. ‘A dancer, they said. She died in a fire after a gas leak. They say she still walks the halls, looking for her stage clothes.’ I laughed nervously and said that was just a legend. But Mrs. Kowalski shook her head and whispered, ‘She was buried in that red lace. And she always takes what belongs to her.’

I tried to ignore it, but the red underwear stayed in my closet. I threw them in the trash several times, but they would reappear, folded neatly on the same spot. My own underwear kept disappearing, one piece at a time. My daughter started having nightmares, crying that a lady was standing at the foot of her bed, wearing a red dress. My husband, who had always been skeptical, found a door in the basement that he swore wasn’t there before, and behind it, a small room filled with vintage clothing—gloves, stockings, corsets—all smelling of smoke. On a vanity mirror, smeared in dust, was a message: ‘Find me my garter.’

We moved out a week later, leaving most of our things behind. In the new apartment, for a few months, nothing happened. I began to relax, to think it was all a bad dream. Until one night, when I was unpacking the last box, I found an old photograph, yellowed and curled. It was a woman, laughing, wearing a skimpy sequined costume. In the background, I could see a dressing room mirror. And on the corner of the mirror, unmistakably, was the reflection of a man holding a garter—and his face was my husband’s.

I turned to look at him, where he sat reading on the sofa. He didn’t notice me. But I noticed the small red box on the coffee table, tied with a black ribbon. I had never seen it before. When I opened it, there lay the red lace underwear, and a note inside that read: ‘Welcome home. I’ve missed you.’