My Mom Sewed Me a Halloween Dress Days Before Her Death – What Happened to It Minutes Before the Celebration Was Unforgivable

My Mom Sewed Me a Halloween Dress Days Before Her Death – What Happened to It Minutes Before the Celebration Was Unforgivable

Days before she passed away, my mother’s shaky hands embroidered me a Halloween attire.

I loved it until my stepmother made a decision I will never be able to forgive one evening, just minutes before I was meant to wear it. What transpired later still chills me.

Mom made me the dress when I was eighteen.

She was skinny and pale, and the smell of hospital wipes stuck to her skin despite the lavender lotion she was wearing. She continued to smile, though, as if I were the only thing keeping her together.

With shaky fingers and a lap full of cloth, she would sit by the window every evening and weave magic into each stitch.

She muttered once, “You’ll be the prettiest witch in Maple Grove,” as she brushed the cloth across my cheek. “Not frightful. “Magical.”

While she measured my waist, I would whirl around and giggle. “But witches are supposed to be scary, Mom!”

She gave a sweet, weary grin. “Not my witch. I’ll bring illumination. Not gloom.

She would occasionally nod off while holding a needle. Whispering small wishes into the darkness, I would cover her with a blanket and watch her chest rise and fall, as if she might stay if I hoped hard enough.

She left three days after finishing the dress.

She was never even able to witness me wearing it.

In the first week of November, they laid her to rest.

I recall the lavender clinging to my coat as if she didn’t want to let go, the damp leaves beneath my shoes, and the coffin.

Then everything became hazy. casseroles. pitiful cards. Whispers from neighbors that they believed I couldn’t hear.

“What a poor girl,” someone said. She will always be marked by that. Then someone else said, “James’s falling apart.”

They weren’t corrected by me. They were correct.

Dad ceased to speak. For hours, he would sit on the porch with Mom’s favorite cup, as if she would reappear if he gazed into it.

Nobody brought up Halloween. No candy dishes, no pumpkins. Our home was silent and dark, while the neighbors continued to rejoice.

That year, I couldn’t bring myself to enjoy Halloween. I stuffed the outfit into a box and used it to seal away the memories.

It was handcrafted for me by Mom. That was sufficient.

Even yet, I was unaware of how difficult it would be for me to maintain it.

The next spring, Dad met Carla.

She was forty-two, courteous, and always grinning.

She enjoyed charitable endeavors, baking cardboard-tasting sugar-free treats, and repeating

motivational sayings.

They got married quickly. Too quickly.

In an instant, everything began to change.

Halloween was the first to vanish.

She would say, “The Devil’s holiday,” and wince each time she went by the confectionery section. “We

don’t play dress-up for demons in this house.”

Nor was it merely Halloween. The books that Mom had on the shelves vanished.

She disappeared from the porch with her wind chimes. Without a word, even her old tea set ended up in

a donation box. Like she was removing a stain, Carla wiped her away in fragments.

I once made an attempt to reason with her. “It’s just costumes and candy. Mom used to.

Her face was frigid and twisted. “Enough already, lady! Your mother had multiple illnesses. You have no idea what she allowed into your soul.

I held the dress to my chest and closed myself in my room that night. It still had that subtle scent of Mom: warmth, lavender, and thread.

I immediately put it back in the package after swearing that Carla would never touch it again.

Our home was transformed into a museum by her. It had to be neat and proper everywhere.

Let’s fast-forward to this year. I am now twenty. Rent is a joke, and Dad maintains that it’s “fiscally responsible,” so I’m still stuck at home. I don’t argue.

The alternative would be to leave him alone with Carla, not because I agree. I’m not that vicious, to be honest.

Halloween then arrived in a new way.

Perhaps it was the appearance of the leaves as they landed in the driveway. or the sensation of the air as I crossed campus.

Perhaps I simply missed my mother more than normal. I wanted to celebrate once more, though.

It was my first time dressing up for Halloween in two years. And feel my mother once more.

Flyers for the Halloween party on campus with costumes, cider, and music were posted. Nothing unusual.

However, I felt something stir when my buddy Kayla asked if I was going.

Perhaps I was still the one who spun around in the living room while her mother was sewing a frock. Simply buried.

That afternoon, I opened the memory box as soon as I got home. As I withdrew the old sketches, pictures, and condolence notes, my fingers shook, but at last, there it was.

The gown.

It still had that slight sheen around the hem, but it was softer than I remembered. And it still fit, somehow, magically.

I hardly recognized the girl peering back at me in the mirror. I appeared whole, not because I looked different.

“Hi, Mom,” I said in a whisper, and for a brief moment, I thought the air had changed. As though a warm object had passed by my cheek.

The footsteps then appeared.

The door suddenly exploded open.

When Carla saw me wearing the dress, she froze. Already sharp at the edges, her voice was tight. “What are you wearing?”

I didn’t back down. It belongs to my mother. She prepared it for me.

As if she had tasted something awful, her face pinched. “Take it off.”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said no,” I stated again, steadily. “I’m wearing it to the campus party tonight.”

I heard Dad’s voice, puzzled and far away, coming from below. “Everything okay up there?”

Carla did not respond to him. With her eyes burning, she turned back to me after storming halfway down the corridor.

You’re opening doors to a spiritual realm that you don’t comprehend. The darkness your mother brought into the house includes that clothing.

It nearly made me giggle. “It’s a Halloween costume, not a cursed relic.”

Like she wanted lightning to strike, she pointed at me. “Continue to laugh. But don’t claim I didn’t warn you when evil takes hold.

I remained silent. simply looked her down.

After that, I closed my door and folded the dress as if it were the most valuable item I had ever owned.

since it was.

Another two hours. In spite of everything, I was wearing it.

Finally, the much anticipated moment arrived.

Everything smelled of cinnamon and bonfires as the sun sank behind the trees in a burnt-orange glow.

I had a gut feeling that night before I left for practice on campus. I couldn’t get rid of the small knot of uneasiness.

Silence was never good with Carla, and she had been unusually quiet all evening.

I therefore made the decision to conceal the dress—just in case.

As if I were touching skin rather than cloth, I painstakingly smoothed out every crease as I folded it.

I then put it in a box, tucked it behind a pile of books in the very back of my closet, and wrapped it in one of Mom’s old flannel blankets.

I shut the door to my bedroom before I went.

And I felt a bit proud of myself for the first time in years.

For the next couple of hours, I assisted Kayla with hanging string lights and paper bats in the recreation room.

We consumed a whole bag of gummy worms intended for the trick-or-treat table, played music, and giggled uncontrollably while attempting to tape up a drooping ghost.

I then stopped briefly to get some candies and refreshments for the party itself. Simple things like

caramel popcorn, cider packets, and Reese’s. Nothing unusual. However, it was pleasant.

As if I would still be able to live the life my mother would have desired for me.

About nine o’clock at night, I pulled into the driveway.

I became aware of it at that point. There was no light on the porch. It was strange. Dad left it on all the time.

My heart pounding, I entered.

I was struck first by the silence. Usually, Carla is either humming to herself, lecturing herself, or both. The house, however, was oddly quiet.

Then I smelled it, faint yet distinct.

Smoke.

I ran to the backyard as soon as my heart fell to my stomach.

In her robe, Carla stood by the campfire with a metal poker in one hand. Like they were attempting to devour the stars, the soaring flames flickered orange into the fading sky.

And there are stripes of purple and black in them. Ash coiled around silver thread.

At first, it didn’t register. It was simply too much for my head to grasp.

But before the cry could reach me, my knees buckled.

“No. No, no, no, no…”

Calm as a statue, Carla turned.

She said, “I did what had to be done,” as if she were talking about trash day. “That dress was cursed.”

My voice broke. It belonged to my mother. She prepared it for me. That was all that remained of her.

Not even blinking. “She created it for the holiday of the Devil. In order to rescue your soul, I torched it.

The fire’s heat licked my face as I stumbled forward. “What? Are you insane?

She scolded, “You don’t understand what that dress held,” “Darkness. Her ghost has been haunting us. I witnessed it. Whispering through the vents are the shadows in your room. I needed to clean it.

“You had to do what?” With trembling hands, I gasped out. “You weren’t allowed to touch that! You weren’t supposed to destroy it.

Dad arrived outside, still looking confused, stumbling in his PJ trousers and barefoot. “What the hell is going on out here?”

Shaking, I pointed. “She set it on fire! She set Mom’s dress on fire.

The image of Carla beside the fire pit, the tangled silver threads among the flames, and me sobbing in the grass as if my chest had split in two made him freeze.

“What?” he asked, as if the word were painful.

Carla crossed her arms. “I did what was needed.”

He swiftly snatched up the water hose, his gaze fixed on the fire. “You destroyed the only thing she had left of her mother.”

Her tone become piercing. “Don’t you dare blame me for protecting this house.”

“From what?” he yelled as he sprayed water on the fire. “A mother’s memory in a dress?”

“Your daughter was opening doors,” she growled. “I’ve had the feeling for years. Don’t you see it in her resistance, the dreams, and the icy spots?

He retorted, “I see a woman grasping at control,” and moved in closer. “I see someone who can’t stand not being the center of every room.”

Carla’s gaze widened. “You’re defending that evil?”

“I’m defending my daughter.”

“You’d throw away your salvation for her?”

Face-hard, he strode directly into the fire’s glow. “For my daughter? Each and every time.”

Quiet.

Carla gazed at him as though he had developed horns. She parted her lips, then shut them again. She said in a chilly hiss. “You don’t mean that.”

However, he did.

He looked from her to me and back again. “Start packing, Carla.”

She blinked. “You’re choosing her?”

“No,” he categorically stated. “I’m going with peace and sanity. I’m going with the daughter I ought to have shielded years ago.”

Her pride kept her back straight even if her mouth shook. “You’re making a mistake, James.”

“No,” he replied. “I made one when I let you stay this long.”

Carla departed the following morning.

Of course, she turned it into a whole show. Talking about spiritual warfare, devils, and how Dad had “turned from the path.”

I didn’t even bat an eyelid when she called me a “witch child” as she was leaving.

I saw her drag her suitcase past the front door as if it were heavier than her morality while I stood by the stairs with my arms folded.

Dad remained silent. sat at the kitchen table and gazed into his iced coffee as if it were a means of escape.

The ensuing silence was strange, as if the home itself was struggling to breathe without Carla’s critical presence.

He eventually spoke at midday.

He added, “I should’ve stopped her sooner,” without raising his gaze. “I believed she would aid in our recovery. I reasoned that perhaps if I gave her enough reason to believe it, things would improve.

He drew a deep breath. “I was wrong.”

The smoke was still burning my throat. from yelling. and from suppressing everything I couldn’t express. I simply nodded and sat quietly with him.

He knocked softly on my door that night after I had taken a shower and attempted to go asleep.

He had something in his hand when I opened it.

Silently, “I found this,” he said. “In the dryer vent.”

A tiny piece of purple and black fabric that was singed at the edges but still had a slight sheen from the sun. It was the hem. Anywhere, I could identify that silver stitch.

I put my hand to my mouth. “I thought it was all gone.”

He gave a headshake. “Guess she missed a piece.”

I held it as though it were pounding.

“Your mother loved Halloween, you know,” he remarked quietly. I once heard that folks could be anything they wanted on that one night. Don’t wear masks. Just a disguised act of bravery.

Then, as if he were suppressing everything he had buried, his voice broke. “I think I forgot that.”

My eyes were moist as I gazed down at the paper in my palm. “But Mom didn’t,” I muttered to myself.

His voice was scarcely audible as he nodded. “No. She didn’t.

Carla attempted to sue Dad a week later. However, the court dismissed it in a matter of minutes.

However, karma? That came at the perfect moment.

In the mall parking lot, her automobile caught fire—apparently due to an electrical problem. Nobody was harmed.

However, the stack of framed “inspirational quotes” she habitually kept in the back seat—words she used to chastise people—was consumed by the fire.

A picture appeared online. She saw it all burn as she stood there in a state of shock.

When Dad noticed, he simply muttered, “Poetic.”

It has now been nearly a year.

Every day I still miss Mom. She used to sing that gentle tune while sewing, and on some evenings I think I hear her humming it.

I put the clothing scrap inside a locket a few weeks ago.

The wind changed the night I wore it, and I thought I smelled lavender. Dad also took note.

“She’s proud of you,” he said in a low voice.

I gave a nod. “Maybe she never left.”

His eyes gleamed as he grinned. “Perhaps she simply changed form. Isn’t that what witches do?

We chuckled.

I slept with the locket in my arms that night after tucking it under my pillow.

A sound I hadn’t heard in years awakened me up around three in the morning.

Tick, tick, tick.

A machine for stitching.

We don’t have one, though.

It came from the attic, and it was faint. My heart was racing. I gripped the sheets as I sat up.

Then I caught a whiff.

lavender.

“Mom?” I muttered into the shadows.

The noise ceased. For a moment only. Next, a final tick.

Quiet.

The scrap was gone in the morning.

But there was a silver bow hanging over my desk. There was nobody else home.

I have no idea if ghosts exist. Perhaps it was a dream.

However, I am aware that kindness endures. Love is not a fire. And occasionally, your loved ones manage to put everything back together after life takes it all away.