The White Gown of Hollow Creek

My twin sister Mira and I grew up in a house that creaked like an old ship, on the edge of a town that smelled of wet earth and pine. We were seventeen, and our home, which we called the Gray House, sat at the bottom of a dead-end road called Hollow Creek. The nearest neighbor was half a mile away, a winding dirt path through a thicket of blackberry bushes and thorny locust trees. That path was our lifeline to the Millers, who had a phone, and to the world beyond our small, suffocating existence.

Mira had always been the brave one. She’d climb the tallest oak, wade into the deepest part of the creek, and laugh at the things that made me freeze. But even she confessed she felt something watching from the tree line, something that made the dogs bark at nothing and the cows stop their grazing to stare at our house with wide, unblinking eyes. I told myself it was just the wind, just the rustle of leaves, just the creak of the porch. But deep down, I knew better. I could feel it, too, like a cold breath on the back of my neck, even in the middle of summer.

The first time Mira saw it, we were fifteen. It was a Sunday, and our mother, Elena, had sent Mira to fetch our younger brother, Leo, from the Millers’ house. Leo had wandered over to play with their kids, and mother, busy kneading bread in the kitchen, couldn’t leave her dough. Mira rolled her eyes but went, taking the path her bare feet knew by heart. She was halfway there when she turned back to wave at Mother, who stood on our porch, watching over her. Mother was wearing her favorite pink sundress, the one with the faded flowers, and she raised a hand in a lazy goodbye.

But when Mira reached the Millers’ and found Leo still glued to their ancient TV, she glanced back at our house out of habit. And there, on our porch, stood another woman. White. A white dress, billowing in the still air, the fabric so bright it seemed to glow even under the gray sky. The face was Mother’s face, but it was wrong. The eyes were too empty, the smile too thin, and the way it stood, perfectly still, as if waiting for something. Mira felt her blood turn to ice. She called out, ‘Mom!’ but the figure just stared, unmoving, a statue of flesh and bone. Mira’s voice cracked, then died in her throat. She grabbed Leo’s hand, her fingers trembling, and made him run all the way home without looking back.

When they burst through the kitchen door, Mother was still at the counter, her hands deep in flour, humming a song from her childhood. She turned, her brow furrowed, and asked why Mira was so pale. Mira stammered, ‘I saw you on the porch. You didn’t answer when I called.’ Mother laughed, wiping her hands on a towel. ‘I was here the whole time, you goose. You probably saw me in the window and thought I was out there.’ But Mira knew what she saw. She knew the pink sundress was crumpled in the laundry basket, and the woman on the porch wore white. That night, she made me promise we would never speak of it, but I felt the cold around her, as if the encounter had left frost on her skin.

The second time was last week. We were seventeen, and the thin veil between our world and the other one seemed to be wearing thinner. It was late afternoon, the light slanting through the blinds like bars of gold. Mira was in the living room, sketching in her notebook, when she heard the soft click of the bedroom door. She looked up and saw Mother, or a figure that wore Mother’s face, walking out of our parents’ room, carrying the old brass lamp from the nightstand. The same white dress, now almost translucent, seemed to float around her. Mira’s pencil dropped. ‘Mom?’ she called, but the figure didn’t acknowledge her. It moved down the hallway, its steps silent, and disappeared into the bathroom. Mira sat frozen, her heart hammering. She waited, counting her breaths, until she heard the flush and Mother emerged—same pink sundress, same flour-dusted hand from dinner prep—holding her phone. Mother smiled and said, ‘Oh, I forgot the lamp was in the bathroom. I was going to move it to the den, but then Leo called. You should see his new game.’ Mira couldn’t reply. She just nodded, her hand gripping the edge of the table until her knuckles went white.

That night, I found her staring at herself in the mirror, her reflection flickering in the candlelight (the electricity was out, as it often was in that old house). She spoke without turning to me. ‘It wasn’t her. It wore her face, but it wasn’t her. And now, I keep seeing it in the corner of my eye, in every window, every reflection. Last night, I woke up and it was standing at the foot of my bed, wearing that white dress, and its mouth was moving, but no sound came out.’ I told her it was a fever dream, the stress of exams, the mold in the walls. But she shook her head, and I saw tears streaking her cheeks. ‘It’s waiting,’ she whispered. ‘It’s waiting for me to join it.’

Two nights ago, the power went out again, and the house fell into a silence so deep I could hear my own pulse. I went to check on Mira, but her bed was empty. The moonlight spilled through the window, casting a pale glow on the floor, and there, in the doorway, stood a figure in white. It had Mother’s face, but its eyes were black, like empty sockets. It raised a hand, and in its palm was a small, folded paper. I felt a pull, an irresistible urge to step closer, to take it. But then Mira’s voice, sharp and clear, cut through the haze. ‘Don’t! It’s not her!’ The figure turned, and for a moment, it looked at Mira with something like hatred. Then it faded, like smoke, leaving only the paper that drifted to the floor.

I picked it up with trembling hands. It was covered in a script I didn’t recognize, endless loops and hooks, crawling across the page like worms. I stared at it, and the words swam, and I felt a cold dread creep into my heart. The message was simple, repeated over and over: ‘I see you. I hear you. I will wear your skin when you sleep.’

Since then, we’ve stopped speaking about it out loud, but we both know: the white-gowned thing is not done with us. It walks these halls, wearing our mother’s face, and it waits for the moment when we are weak, when our fear is a door. Tonight, as I write this, I can hear it outside my door, the soft swish of fabric. Mira is beside me, clutching a cross, but I know it won’t help. This thing, born of Hollow Creek and the darkness, it knows our names, and it wants us both.

We will not leave this house. We cannot. It’s been with us since we were children, woven into the wood, whispered in the walls. The only question is how long it will let us live before it asks us to wear white.