Chapter 2 The Bride Who Whispers

Emily stepped back; her own breath harsh as she brushed away the shiver that rode up her arm. Mrs. Holloway's hold on her arm relaxed not at all, her fingers hard and dry as branches biting into Emily's flesh.

"You have to leave, now," the old woman growled, her eyes scanning towards the dress as if it would jump from the hanger itself.

Emily laughed nervously. "It's just a dress.".

Mrs. Holloway let go of her wrist. "That's what they all said... before it killed them."

The tension in her voice put another shiver down Emily's spine. She had been in many creepy places before-closed-down hospitals, murder scenes, rat tunnels where the air was thick with dust and death. But this was different. The Veil of Sorrow was not an urban legend. It had an existence, an unseen power hanging in the air like a whispered secret just beyond earshot.

Emily stood up, coughing. "Come on. I understand. The story is spooky. But I'm a reporter, and I need facts."

Mrs. Holloway's face twisted into something more like a scowl than a smile. "Facts? Fine. Here's one: twelve brides have worn the dress in the past 150 years. None of them survived their honeymoon."

Emily took out her notebook and opened it to a blank page. "Twelve victims? Can you give me their names?"

The old woman hesitated, then nodded. "I can do better than that." She turned and disappeared into the back room, leaving Emily to the dress.

The silence closed in around her.

The air was thick, filled with something intangible. Emily's gaze drifted over the intricate stitching on the dress. The lace designs resembled curled vines, but the more she gazed, they seemed to twist-curling, stretching. A trick of the fading light, she reminded herself.

Then, from the periphery of the room, she heard it.

A whisper.

Soft, almost singing.

Her heart racing, she spun around toward the noise, her pulse beating in her head. "Mrs. Holloway?"

No reply.

The whispering was getting louder.

Emily recoiled, her throat constricting. The dress didn't move on the mannequin, but its veil-delicate and filmy-shivered, as if a whispery breath had caressed it.

Then came a sound that made her blood run cold.

A laugh.

High. Feminine. And near.

Emily whirled around, her heart pounding in her ears. The store was deserted.

But when she turned back to the dress again, something was amiss.

The veil was no longer draped loosely.

It was now draped across the mannequin's face, as if someone had recently put it there.

There was the sound of a rustling at the back room, and the next moment, Mrs. Holloway emerged from there, cradling a dusty, aged book in her arms. Mrs. Holl