THREADS OF THE DAMNED

The lace adorned wedding gown displayed on the mannequin remained aged, but the silk bodice was untarnished. Time had not withered the gown, however, their was a shimmer in the fabric that did not look nice. Draped with silk, the edges had a dim shimmer, which emitted something odd.

A draft moving under her cloak caused Emily Carter to shiver as she caught eyes with the peculiar wedding shop. She remained in disbelief about the supernatural, but the legends and heresay about the Veil of Sorrow was something that couldn't be simply neglected.

In her late night newscasts, she had heard of a dress that so many people wore, but those who did were bound to death and Emily had to suffer through many quirky encounters as an investigative journalist, but they are nothing now compared to this one. The last sight of the dress was in Blackwood, a rural town which sat on the outskirts of nowhere.

After traveling on barren roads for kilometers with minimal satellite connection, she finally arrived at the building.

"Seems like you're lost in the wrong series of places," were the first Mrs. Holloway's words. She had sunken eyes and looked as if she'd been through years of endless struggle. "Your presence here isn't safe."

"I'm present to uncover the story."

With a simple shrug of her shoulders, Emily inched towards the dress. "There's always a how and a why; it's not spoiling anything if I tell you every starting point can keep you awake at the end," she said with evident sarcasm.

"You aren't the first to cross that path. That zealous hiker ended up in the graveyard," she continued, allowing a faint shudder to stem from her.

"Which makes me suspect you have something to recount, wouldn't it?"

Slow to respond, the old woman finally managed a draw out sigh.

"Backtracking towards my first tale. It starts in 1876. The first victim is Isabella Devereux. Defined by her gentle beauty, she was a young bride. Life never seemed pleasant considering she was literally slaughtered on her wedding night, courtesy of the man who loved her best."

"Murdered?" Emily asked, clearly confused.

Mrs. Holloway looked away from Emily with a lingering gaze at the dress. "Her spouse never desired to wed her. There was someone he adored. But the... Setting off the jealousy... "So, on their wedding day, he locked Isabella in their bridal suite and set the room on fire."

Emily grimaced, trying not to feel sick.

"That's distressing," she attempted to sound calm. Mrs. Holloway's grin vanished. "The townspeople still remember... the outfit was unharmed and survived the fire." Mrs. Holloway pointed a finger at each listener as she continued. "Isabella, along with all the women that wore the gown, died disintegrated into sadness."

Emily shivered the moment she touched the edge of the garment and slowly began to withdraw her fingers away from it. She felt her gaze turning sideways into oblivion.

She was gone from the shop for a couple of seconds.

She was standing in a fine ballroom with chandeliers lighting high overhead and beautiful music being played. But there was a smoky smell in the air. The walls grew darker as fire traced along the curtains. In the distance, someone screamed.

Emily was brought back to reality with a scream and pulled her hand back.

Mrs. Holloway took her wrist in hers. "You saw her, didn't you?"

Emily nodded and gulped hard.

"Then it's already too late for you."

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

Emily's fingers shook as she took hold of the dusty ledger on the counter. Its leather cover was cracked with age, the pages yellowed and brittle. The book stank of mildew and dust-of times past.

Mrs. Holloway watched her intently, her bony fingers curled against the wood counter.

"Go on," she breathed. "Look for yourself."

Emily hesitated before opening the book. The first few pages were made up of circular, antique script. Names, dates, cause of death. She read through the list, her heart racing.

Margaret Lively – 1903 – Found drowned in her honeymoon suite bathtub.

Elizabeth Carter – 1921 – Died from a fall off the balcony of her bridal suite.

Lillian Prescott – 1946 – Cut wrists on wedding night.

Charlotte Green – 1972 – Vanished without a trace; body never recovered.

Jennifer Holloway – 1999 – Found strangled with her own veil.

Emily's throat went dry. Holloway? She looked up at the shopkeeper. "She was your-"

"My daughter," Mrs. Holloway whispered, her voice barely more than breath.

Emily's stomach twisted. "I'm... I'm so sorry."

The old woman's lips pressed into a thin line. "Sorry won't bring her back."

A blast of cold air swept through the room, causing the pages of the ledger to rustle. The candle's flame danced, casting long, sinuous shadows on the walls.

Emily gritted her teeth and turned to the final name ever written.

Rachel Thompson – 2015 – Discovered in the bridal suite with her eyes ripped from her head.

Emily slammed the book closed.

A deafening squeak came from the shop.

Both women stood in front of the mannequin. The dress had changed. It remained on its stand, but the veil-which before had hung loosely over the figure-was now on the floor. The bodice looked tighter, as though something within the bodice had shifted.

Emily swallowed hard. "Mrs. Holloway... has anyone ever survived wearing this dress?"

The old woman slowly shook her head. "No."

A charged silence fell between them. Emily's mind was racing with possibilities-was this some diabolical trick? A inherited curse? Or was something genuinely wicked spun into the dress?

She couldn't question anything else before the front door of the shop slammed shut on its own.

The whispering resumed.

But this time Emily heard the words.

"Come find me..."

Her breath caught. The voice was husky, whining.

And unmistakably real.

Mrs. Holloway's eyes darkened. "She's picked you."

Emily's heart pounded. "What does it mean?"

The old woman's fingers stretched out but never made contact.

Because at that moment, the dress fell off the mannequin.

And when it hit the floor.

The fabric rippled-like whatever was inside it was breathing.