Tales From Behind Your Closet: The Vintage Peignoir Set

Hey Witches,

It's spooky season once again, and I don't know about you, but I am ready for a whole month of accidentally freaking myself out. Get ready for second guessing all of those bumps in the night that you usually sleep through, because this month I'm dedicating the blog to telling you all some fictional short stories that'll give you the creeps. So strap yourselves in-- it's going to be a bumpy ride. 

Oh, and don't forget to comment on the insta if you have any ideas for a story, or just want to tell me your theories! 

https://www.instagram.com/p/Cx8TiUQgHo3/

Lots of Love,

Raine

P.S. I low-key creeped myself out while writing this late last night, so I hope you enjoy.

                             The Vintage Peignoir Set

I’m not afraid to admit that I might be one of those girls who honestly believes that she was born in the wrong era. For as long as I’ve been alive, I’ve always loved finding old things around. Not the kind of stuff that my mother would call old rubbish that needed to be tossed, but the antique things, lovely things that had deep and complex stories behind them. The older it is, the better.

I had even made a whole career out of my love of antique items when I took a job downtown at one of the city’s historic houses, preserving Victorian oddities. But in my free time, I fancied myself somewhat of a collector of 20th century items, becoming a frequent guest at estate sales, thrift shops, auctions. I rarely had anything in particular in mind when I visited these events, until last year when I found the most beautiful mint green peignoir nightgown set at an estate sale. Unfortunately, it was out of my price range that day, and someone else had already snatched it up. Ever since then, I had been on the hunt for the perfect mint green 1970s peignoir set, searching online vintage marketplaces up and down for just the right one in my size. And then all of the sudden, three weeks ago, I found it.

I met Kim Prendergast at one of my favorite cafes on a bright September morning for a cappuccino and to pick up my online order. The site I found her on was on the shadier side of the internet, but the gown was so pretty and just the right size, which made it difficult to pass up. Besides, she included a lot of really great pictures of the item, so I felt better about the possibility of being scammed, and I knew better than to meet a stranger in private, and using my credit card on such a shady sight made me uneasy. So, when I mentioned that I would like to just meet up and pay for the nightgown in cash and we could do away with the shipping fees, she jumped on it and agreed right away. And she was nice enough when she finally entered the shop and sat down, ordering a caramel macchiato.

          “So…I suppose you would like to have a look at the gown then,” she murmured, reaching into a bag. Her voice was soft, with a pleasant tinkling quality about it, as if she never once raised her voice at anyone in her life.

          “Uh, yes. Yes! I’m very excited. I’ve been searching literally everywhere for a peignoir set like the one you have. I’m so excited to bring it home, and at such a great deal too…”

I was rambling, my own voice reaching an uncomfortable pitch. She simply gave me a tight-lipped smile in response, and though her features were exceptionally ordinary, her smile seemed to almost illuminate her face. Almost. And now that I think about it after the fact, the best way I could describe her looks was that she was the kind of person who could never be pointed out in a line up. There was absolutely nothing about her that made her memorable. Even I can’t quite remember exactly what she looked like, besides some brown hair, beginning to gray at the roots—but doesn’t that become what most women look like at some point?

She finally unwrapped the robe and nightgown from their plastic, bringing the set out. I touched the mint hued chiffon, running my fingers over its feather-light ruffles.

          “How beautiful,” I whispered, reverently.

          “Mmm, I always thought so. Actually, it was my mother’s back in the 70’s. I think my stepfather bought it for her when they first got married, so it’s a little special. I would never be able to part with it if I weren’t so strapped for cash.”

          “Oh, right. Here let me give you this,” I mumbled into my collar as I turned around for the envelope I had been keeping safely tucked in my purse.

A split second. It only lasted a split second. A trick of the eye, like when the sunlight makes you think you have a huge stain on your white shirt while out in public. Something about her face, and I can’t put my finger on what, as ordinary as it was, became the ugliest I had ever seen. Something about it was so nasty, as if the details of it, and only the details, were unnaturally twisted. My heart faltered for a beat and my body stilled, waiting.

And then it was gone. Just like that.

Quickly regaining my composure, I smiled and handed her the envelope, the urge to avoid eye contact weighing down heavily on me, despite the fact that I could feel her waiting for some sort of human response. I couldn’t be entirely rude, so I glanced up.

            “It should all be there.” A fake smile on my part.

            “And it is,” she agreed, discreetly counting the contents of the envelope. “Well, I guess I should get going, I’m meeting my daughter later for lunch. I hope you enjoy the nightgown as much as my mother did. Have a good one.”

            “Yes, thank you, and you too.”

I remember thinking that she was a bit strange, and that that one moment with her face was slightly off-putting, but at least I had finally gotten the nightgown of my dreams, and nothing about the item itself seemed incorrect. I had been working in a museum for a few years now, and I knew that every once in a while I would come across an item that had…residual feelings attached. Never anything truly terrible, but I knew what it was like to get the gut feeling that something was off about an object, and I was getting no such sensation about the peignoir set, so I went on with my day.

Later that afternoon, I arrived back at my apartment, a few groceries and my new peignoir set in hand. It was only 4:30, but for some odd reason, I felt completely sapped of all of my usual energy, as if most of the life had just been sucked out of me. So, I decided to skip dinner and after washing my new nightgown and robe by hand and hanging it up to dry, I went to bed.

The rest of the week that followed after I had met Kim that Sunday was nothing to write home about. I went to work, picked up some takeout, showered, put on my new nightgown set for bedtime, repeat. On Friday, I had promised some friends that I would meet them for dinner and drinks after work.

            “I just ordered the most fabulous over-the-knee boots for Fall,” gushed Kate. “I know I’m a little late because it’s already September, but they’ve been on my list for forever.”

          “Oh, what color?” asked Sloane, taking a sip of her espresso martini.            

          “Well they’re like a black suede, but the heel is hot pink, and it’s encrusted with these rough glitzy stones, and I—Don’t make that shady face, it looks a lot cuter than it sounds and I can even show you next week if you want, then you’ll wish you had them too.”

           “I wasn’t making any kind of face, they sound very chic,” side eye and another martini sip. “What about you, Dana? Kate told me you found a really nice quality vintage nightgown online, have you worn it yet?” Sloane changed the subject.

            “Oh, yeah that’s right! Do you like it? It was really pretty when you sent the picture,” Kate chimed in.

            “Honestly, it’s such a gorgeous set, I highly recommend. Something about wearing such a long nightgown with a dreamy matching robe every night is just chef’s kiss, and I’m so glad I finally found one in my size. But you know—” I hesitated.

            “What? Does it have a stain or a tear or something? Does it not wash up well anymore?” Kate’s perfectly shaped brows turned downward.

            “No, it’s not that. It’s just that I bought it in my size, for sure, for sure, but every night it seems like it feels tight on me. As if it’s getting tighter by the day. Or maybe I’m outgrowing it by the day? I don’t know. Maybe I need to hit the gym more often or go to one of the spinning classes you guys like.”

            “Well, you’re not washing it in the washer and dryer are you?” Sloane pursed her lips.

            “No, of course not. Hand wash, air dry only,” I was offended anyone would think I didn’t know how to care for vintage clothing.

          “Yeah, I have no idea then,” she conceded, lazily waving her hand.

          “Oh well, doesn’t matter I guess. Maybe I’ll just have to get back to exercising with you two again.”

          “Probably the best choice.”

After the night ended and we said our tipsy goodbyes, I made my way further downtown back to my apartment. Showered and dressed in my new favorite mint green obsession, I hung up the matching robe and hunkered down in my bed for the night, turning out the lights, and checking that the door was safely locked. Then it began.

It had gone like this for the past few nights, so it was nothing new. First, I would close my eyes and begin to drift off a little, entering that space between deep sleep and awareness. I would feel a tightening sensation around my chest, as if something heavy was gently weighing me down, binding me to the mattress, like a weighted blanket. Then it would feel as if the fabric were tightening around me, like a corset, squeezing my torso until I found it somewhat difficult to breathe, all at once. Then the sensations would stop abruptly, as if it were all in my head. I did believe that perhaps it was all in my head, that maybe I was imagining things, or in the midst of dreaming, because every night, after this little show that the nightgown seemed to put on for me, nothing else would happen and I would simply return to sleep, waking up as normal the next day. But something was different that Friday night. More intense.

I began to drift back off to sleep after the usual performance, thinking that it was over for the night. It was not. The fabric started to tighten once more around my chest, at first gently, but soon enough it became more and more demanding. I waited for the squeezing to stop, but soon each breath became a huff, and each huff became a gasp. Squeezing, squeezing, until I was sure I had no more air to give, until I was sure it would crack my ribs and crumble them. I could hear my heart thumping wildly in my head. 

Buh dum, Buh dum, Buh dum, Buh dum.

Oh somebody please, please make it stop! Make it stop squeezing!

Buh dum! Buh dum! Buh dum! Buh dum!

It was like my limbs were glued down to the bed and I couldn’t move, couldn’t writhe, couldn’t scream. I was being choked, swallowed alive by yards and yards of chiffon that began to wind around me like a snake, reaching up toward my throat and tying itself there, ready for a spectacular climax. Everywhere it touched, my skin felt like it was melting off of the bone. And I smelled something burning. What was burning? What’s—was that my skin burning?!

Buh dum! Buh dum! Buh dum! Buh dum!

Oh somebody please, please come, please! Cut this thing off of me!

My whole body was on fire, without the flames. The smell of burning flesh was enough to make me heave, what an awful smell. I was gasping for air, sobbing from the realization that this was the end for me. My door was locked, and no one was coming. 

Buh dum! Buh dum! Buh dum! Buh dum!

“This is impossible! I must be going insane,” my thoughts were ringing in my ears as the fabric gathered around me, crawling all over me like it was infested with insects. Pulling me down, down, down, off of the bed and to the floor. Biting at the sheets, at the mattress, at the bedpost, anything that could tear me away from entering an absolute hell.

Twisting, turning, struggling in the cocoon that had formed around me, my screams emerged as pathetic whimpers, and no one was coming.

It dragged me across the floor toward the open door of my antique wardrobe, and no one was coming.

I lived alone, the door was locked tight, and no one was coming.

No one was coming.

I stayed stuffed inside that wardrobe for what seemed like hours, my limbs bound together, unmoving, the long fabric wound tightly around my throat. It wasn’t until I heard the jingle of a set of keys and a muffled conversation between two feminine voices from the other side that a glimmer of hope appeared. Only a glimmer. My limbs were trapped, my air constricted, and I couldn’t move, couldn’t whisper. Seconds ticked by as things in the apartment were rustled and clanked, a muffled comment was made every once in a while. Then a sigh, and footsteps nearing the door.

No. No. No.

Please wait, please don’t leave me! Check the wardrobe, it’s the most obvious place! The footsteps were growing fainter each moment, and there was nothing I could do as the door clicked closed, locking in my fate. I let out a shuddering sob, a pitiful squeak from the back of my throat. I had been left behind.  I had been forgotten.

Hours passed.

 Then the keys jingled again, the muffled conversation a little louder this time, and the footsteps more purposeful. Then the door of the wardrobe was ripped wide open, with Sloane and Kate standing there in disbelief.

            “Cut.” 

My mouth moved, but no sound came out. Sloane looked me in the eyes and rushed off to the kitchen, returning with the scissors and setting to work, cutting, ripping, tearing the nightgown off of me. Kate helped her, gently peeling away the fabric which seemed to have melted on my skin, leaving greenish tinges everywhere. They worked for a long time until, finally I could breathe again.

            “What happened to you? Why were you trapped in the closet?” Both of Kate’s hands were clasped over her heart, her big eyes now almost bulging.

            “Inquiring minds want to know,” Sloane finished up the last of the ripping and tossed the scissors on the couch.

            “We have to burn this thing, we have to…we have to…we have—”

The words were just tumbling out of my mouth, mixed with tears and gasps until they made no sense at all.

            “Calm down now, calm down. Dana. Calm down,”

            “Where did you get the nightgown set to begin with?”

            “An online vintage market. I met up with a woman, Kim Prendergast, and she sold it to me for $300. She said that she was strapped for cash and needed to sell her mother’s old things. I’m telling you, something about that nightgown is evil. It’s ev—” It was as if I couldn’t breathe quickly enough.

            “Ok, ok. Did she say how you can contact her about any returns or if something is wrong with the item?

            “No, I found a small stain on it the second day I had it and I wanted to know if it had been stored anywhere damp so that I could treat the stain properly, but her account online had been deleted.”

            “Right. And did she say what her mother’s name was?”

            “No, I don’t think so.”

            “Kate, check the tag on the robe part of it, she might have sewn it in.”

Gingerly taking the robe off of the hanger, where it had been left at the beginning of the previous evening, Kate read the embroidered writing on the collar tag, “Yeah she did, it’s Eileen P.”

            “All right,” sighing and taking out her phone, Sloane, searched the name, and began to close her mouth tightly, rubbing her hand back and forth over it as she read something for the longest time.

            “What is it?”

            “Well, I’m reading her obituary, with some articles about her, and it’s not that great. Apparently, back in the 1970’s she was a divorcée with one child who remarried some guy named Charlie Golding. But they must’ve had a beyond toxic relationship because she attempted to suffocate him after he went to bed one night, and then shoved him in a locked closet before setting the house on fire, where she passed away too,”

            “Oh wow.” Kate raised her eyebrows and looked around at the mess of ripped sheets I had created last night. “Is that what—”

            “Uhh…” I cut her off, my trembling hands rubbing the back of my neck. “Does it say anything about her daughter Kim Prendergast? Or where we can find her?”

            “The obituary says that her sole remaining daughter, Kim Prendergast, owns a restaurant on the west side of town,” Sloane continued.

            “Why? Do you want to go and confront her or something?” Kate had been wringing her hands, on and off, the whole time.

            “I think I should. It’s at least worth a shot, and if nothing else, maybe we can figure out how to get rid of this thing properly. Will you guys come with me?”

So, we headed over to the oyster bar that the article said Kim still owned, nightgown thrown in a trash bag which we took turns holding, because no one wanted to be in contact with it for too long. The restaurant looked nice on the inside, black and white tiled floors, deep blue walls, marble countertops and tables, and the smell of fresh seafood. It looked like somewhere we would go for our monthly dinner meet-ups. It was kind of dead though, for a Saturday evening, with only a single couple sitting at a table by the window.

            “Is the owner, Kim, in today?” Kate asked the teenage hostess before she could grab the menus and seat us.

            “Oh, yeah, she’s just in the office. I’ll go get her.”

            “Thank you.”

            “No problem.”

Kate then turned back around to us and looked around the restaurant. “You know, this is nice. If we weren’t facing demonic possession, then we could probably pay this place a visit for cocktail hour.”

            “Well, you know I was thinking the same—”

And that’s when Kim Prendergast came out from the back. “I hear I have some visitors looking for me?”

She had a large mole under her left eye.