Approaching the unfamiliar door, she nervously takes the key from her pocket. A deep breath, a spin of the tumbler. Closing her eyes and turning her head back, she pauses as if to make a wish or say a prayer. “Please, not again,” she whispers. Then, a twist of the hand, and it swings freely into the old, dark attic. The smells of dust and rotting cloth fill her nostrils. Her eyes slowly open. To her horror she sees the old wedding gown. Brown, stained, torn, and sagging.

So many times this gown has been discarded, burned, cut into pieces, thrown in the sea, and donated to little old ladies at thrift shops who were so determined to restore it to it’s original beauty. But, it always seems to return somehow. It always comes back to torture her.

And yet, this gown, which should be a memory of such a happy moment in one’s life, has become a thing of such complete and total, repeated anguish for her daughter — who never knew the real person who was her mother. Here, in the home she just moved into, it was found behind a mysterious door that led to nowhere, other than more misery and suffering.

The horrible memory could not be left to die. The torment of recalling, in vivid detail, the brutal murder of her mother at the hands of her newly betrothed. The police and coroner's reports did not hold back. It was a most horrible crime. Yes, on her own honeymoon she was horribly dismembered.

“It was the price of her sin for having me out of wedlock,” a subtle curse that would often haunt her, repeated by relatives who remained shocked at the maliciousness of the final pronouncement. A malediction from a wicked minister who could not avoid passing judgment on such a victim of utter, consummate evil. She wondered why such people should be ordained and sent out to punish poor, grieving people. It was something beyond her capacity to comprehend. If God is love, then this “minister” was surely a priest of Satan himself.

Now, once again staring at this horrid relic, she struggled to determine how to finally be rid of this phantasm of wretchedness. Her fists tightly balled up upon her breast, tears streaming down her cheeks as she quietly sobs. So many attempts have been made, all of them assumed to be the answer, and all of them failing miserably. Her helplessness begins to overwhelm her.

Suddenly, it occurs to her what she must do. Perhaps there was one place that could imprison her tormentor for good. Maybe she could make the arrangements if her plight could in any way meet with compassion. If only she could be persuasive enough to show how failure to solve this problem may likely mean the end of her sanity, or her life itself because she was not sure if she could go on living with this continual torture and soul-aching misery.

She takes down the gown and heads for the car. After a while of contemplating her reasoning and telling herself she would not be denied this most urgent request, with tearful eyes and shaking hands she put drops it in gear and slowly drives away.

After a short ride, she arrives. There it stands under gray skies. The trees barren in the winter air. Nearby an old wind vane swings back and forth, screeching to break the silence of eternal rest. Above the entrance is the arch that declares the name of this gloomy place: Cedar Hill Cemetery. And there lined up along the top of that rusty old arch sits a murder of crows. “How apropos,” she mutteres as she slowly pulls in and makes her way toward the grave.

Her rationale is simple. Perhaps, if this gown were to be buried with the monster that took her mother’s life, his spirit would never release it from the underworld, and perhaps he would take it to hell where he now must surely reside.

Her fists turn white-knuckled, tightly clenching the steering wheel with increasing anger and determination as the old car creakes, slowly rising and falling over the root-contorted macadam of the memorial lane.

Finding the undertaker, and after much tear-filled persuasion (and with not a small amount of money for his trouble), the old man finally relents and agrees to open the grave and place the gown atop the casket of the monster.

Before sealing the grave again, out of sympathy for the young girl he retrieves an old cross, grinds it to a point, and drives it through the gown, the dusty carcass, and deep into the casket.

From that day forward, she has never again seen the gown, nor been haunted with any ghostly presence. She has found peace, and the monster has been reunited with the very thing he apparently could not rest without, nor could he let anyone else rest until he possessed it in his eternal torments.

Because, you see, even monsters need mementos.

The Gown

© 2025 Bob Lee