It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon when Ava wandered into the small boutique tucked between two abandoned storefronts downtown. The shop, called “Threaded Secrets,” had an old-fashioned wooden sign with hand-painted letters and dim yellow lights glowing from within. It hadn’t been there last week—Ava was sure of it.
She had just gotten off work and, still in her nurse scrubs, was desperate for distraction. Something about the old-fashioned vibe of the boutique drew her in like a moth to a flame.
Inside, the store was quiet. Too quiet. No music, no footsteps, not even a hint of chatter. The scent of lavender and something older—like mothballs and decayed wood—lingered in the air.
Rows of clothing racks stretched endlessly down narrow aisles. The clothes were oddly vintage but pristine—lace-trimmed dresses, long wool coats, black leather gloves, and intricate hats from another era.
“Hello?” Ava called out.
No answer.
She glanced at the counter, but no one was there. A small brass bell sat on the desk, so she tapped it gently. The ring echoed longer than it should have. Still, no response.
She shrugged and began browsing.
A pale green dress with a high collar caught her eye. It looked tailored, like it had been made for her. The material was smooth and cold to the touch.
She turned toward the back, where a sign marked “Fit-On Room” pointed to a narrow hallway.
The hallway was oddly long, with just one door at the very end. As she approached it, her footsteps sounded muffled, like the floor was padded. The air grew colder. The single door bore no handle—just an antique brass hook on the inside.
She stepped in and pulled the curtain closed.
The room was barely lit. The lightbulb overhead flickered softly. A cracked mirror covered one wall, and a rusted hook stuck out from the opposite wall for hanging clothes.
She slipped out of her scrubs and into the dress. It fit her perfectly. Too perfectly.
The fabric felt like a second skin.
She turned to admire herself—but the mirror didn’t show her.
Her reflection was missing.
Ava’s breath caught in her throat. She waved a hand. Nothing.
Suddenly, behind her in the mirror, the curtain twitched.
She turned—no one was there.
But when she looked back again, her reflection had returned.
Except… it wasn’t doing the same thing she was.
Her reflection stood completely still, staring at her with wide, expressionless eyes. Ava blinked and stepped back. Her reflection didn’t move.
Then it smiled.
A slow, stretched smile that didn’t reach the eyes. A cold, dead grin.
“Nope,” Ava whispered and quickly pulled off the dress. She grabbed her clothes, but as she reached for the curtain to leave, it wouldn’t budge. She pulled harder. It was stuck. The fabric wouldn’t even tear.
The light flickered more violently now. She heard faint whispering—dozens of voices overlapping in a language she didn’t recognize.
Then something behind her whispered clearly:
“You look perfect in that.”
She spun around.
Her reflection was gone again. But in its place was someone else—or something else—inside the mirror.
A woman. Tall, with stringy black hair and skin that looked like old porcelain. Cracks laced her face like spiderwebs. She wore the same green dress.
And she was watching Ava.
“You took mine,” the woman hissed.
Ava stumbled backward, slamming into the wall. She clawed at the curtain, screaming for help. But the fit-on room didn’t let sound out.
The light went out.
Pitch black.
She felt cold fingers brush against her ankle.
Then the light blinked back on.
Ava was alone.
The mirror was empty.
And the dress was gone.
She didn’t wait. She slammed into the curtain, which finally gave way. The hallway was darker now. Longer. The walls seemed closer.
She ran.
Clothes brushed her arms as she passed racks, though she didn’t remember walking through any on the way in. And the whispers—they followed her, now more aggressive.
“Wear it.”
“Stay.”
“Be her.”
She reached the front counter, panting, heart racing.
An old woman now stood behind the desk. Her eyes were completely white.
“You left it behind,” she said.
“What?” Ava choked out.
The old woman raised a hand. Hanging from her bony fingers was the green dress.
“You tried it on. It fits you. Now it’s yours.”
“I’m not taking that thing,” Ava said, backing away.
The woman dropped the dress on the counter. It didn’t fall—it slithered, like it was alive.
Ava ran out the door into the rain.
She thought she’d escaped. Thought it was just a nightmare. But the next morning, when she opened her closet—there it was.
The green dress, hanging neatly among her scrubs.
She burned it in the bathtub.
Watched the flames consume the fabric.
But the next day… it was back.
Hanging again. Perfect. Untouched.
And then the dreams started.
Each night, she woke up in the fit-on room. Alone. Except for the mirror. Except for her.
Her reflection was no longer human.
Her eyes turned white. Her smile twisted. Her body stiff, hands always reaching out for her. And each time, she’d wake up sweating, heart racing, the dress lying on the foot of her bed.
She tried moving.
She tried therapy.
She even tried a priest.
Nothing worked.
Until one night, she didn’t wake up.
The dream kept going.
She was in the fit-on room, staring at herself—or what she had become. She turned to run, but this time, the door was gone. There was no curtain. Just the mirror.
And her reflection stepped out of it.
Cold hands gripped her shoulders.
“You’re the new model now,” it whispered.
She screamed.
The next morning, a young woman named Julie walked into Threaded Secrets.
She was greeted by a smiling old woman behind the counter.
Julie marveled at the vintage clothes and made her way toward the back.
There was only one fit-on room.
Inside, she found a pale green dress.
It looked like it had been waiting for her.
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