The Dressmaker of Northport

“Let’s go for a smoke,” my friend Harry suggests, downing his beer.

“Excellent idea,” I reply.

We stand from the sticky-topped table and squeeze our way through the crowded bar.

The cool air that hits me when we pour out the door feels good, sobering me up slightly. My friends are pretty big drinkers, and I’ve been trying to keep up, despite being a bit of a lightweight. Tonight, we’re in Northport, the city we attended university in.

I’m pretty familiar with the area, but it’s been a while since I was here, having moved to London after graduation. I get that strange feeling when you visit somewhere you used to live, that it isn’t ‘yours’ anymore. Pubs we used to drink at have shut down, new blocks of flats have been built, and things just feel… different, somehow. There’s one thing that’s still exactly the same, though.

“Hey,” I say, nudging Harry. “How the hell is that creepy dress shop still around?”

Harry looks across the street at the shop in question. “Clara’s?” He takes a long drag on his cigarette. “I dunno, man. I still get freaked out walking past it at night.”

Clara’s is a forties-style building, its dusty windows filled with creepy child mannequins standing on red velvet platforms, wearing frilly, old-fashioned dresses. The place seemingly hasn’t been renovated since it opened God-only-knows how long ago; the lettering rusted and missing several letters, so it reads ‘Clr’s’. It looks abandoned, but apparently it’s still going.

“It’s gotta be a front for something, right?” Harry ponders.

“Like what?” I ask, amused.

“Drugs? Or the Mafia or something.”

“You think the Mafia are running business out of a kids’ dress shop in Northport?”

“Yeah, maybe. No-one would suspect it, would they?”

“Are you guys talking about Clara’s?” A voice from behind us asks. Turning around, I’m faced with a woman a few years older than me, maybe early thirties. She has black hair with pink streaks and is inhaling furiously on a purple vape.

“Yeah,” I reply. “I mean, we were just saying how it’s kind of a weird place.”

“I’ve lived here my whole life and it’s always creeped me out,” she says, blowing out a huge plume of blackcurrant flavoured vapour. “I’ve never seen anyone go in or out.”

Come to think of it, neither have I. I’d walk past Clara’s almost every day on my way to lectures, and as far as I saw, they never had a single customer. How do they afford to stay open?

“There’s a lot of rumours about the place. Local legends.”

“Like what?” Harry demands, probably hoping she’ll confirm his Mafia theory.

The woman shrugs. “My dad used to say that every time a kid goes missing around here, a new mannequin turns up in the window.”

“Oh come on,” I laugh.

She smiles. “It’s just a rumour. But it’s definitely creepy.”

We continue to chat with her while we finish our cigarettes, but my mind keeps drifting back to Clara’s. In the early hours of the morning, on Harry’s uncomfortable sofa, I dream of an elderly woman sewing dresses in the dark, her hands like claws, the sounds of screaming children the soundtrack to her craft.

***

I’m sat in the open-plan living room/kitchen of my small flat, trawling through Netflix for something to watch. Eventually, I settle on a low-budget horror film called The Stepdaughter. I’ve always loved horror, ever since I was a kid. My older brother was responsible for looking after me while our parents were away one weekend, and he wasn’t exactly a model babysitter. We watched a VHS tape of Scream, and I was both terrified and completely hooked.

I watch as the child actor holds a pillow over her onscreen mother’s face, giggling delightedly. It takes a lot for a film to actually scare me these days - but there’s something about this girl that’s creeping me out. What is it?

Apart from the fact that she’s a psychopathic seven-year-old murdering her entire family?

It’s the dress, I realise. The little girl is wearing a floral dress that would look at home in the window of Clara’s. That dress shop is taking over my mind. I want to believe it’s just some outdated local business, but something is just off about the place.

I turn down the volume on the TV and grab my laptop, bringing up Google.

Clara’s dress shop Northport, I type in the search bar. A photo of the shopfront makes me shudder slightly, the uncanny valley style mannequins staring out of the window like they can see straight into my soul.

I quickly discover that the shop opened in 1983, but I struggle to find any information about the owner (though I assume her name is Clara), or how such a niche business has survived so long.

Reddit is where things get juicier. Amongst the rumours of hauntings and money laundering, a comment by EasyPeasyLemonSqueezy7348 catches my eye.

The reason why you never really see anyone go in or out of Clara’s is because it’s by appointment only. Ten years ago, my sister wanted a dress for my niece’s christening, and she made an appointment here. Always been curious about the place, so I tagged along. When we got inside the building, I had the weirdest feeling. Something about Clara’s is just not right. First of all, it’s absolutely freezing in there. It was the middle of summer, but as soon as we got through the front door I started shivering. It was like… I don’t even know, it just felt like a place we shouldn’t be. Anyway, someone had buzzed us in without saying anything, but no-one was actually in the shop that we could see. The decor was really creepy and old-fashioned.

Eventually we heard a woman’s voice call out from the back of the store, she said she’d be out in just a minute. You know when you have a feeling in your gut that you should leave somewhere? I had that, stronger than I’ve ever felt in my life.

Then we heard it. This noise… It came from the same direction that the woman’s voice had come from, and it was like a mix between a scream and a growl. My sister grabbed onto me and whispered ‘what the fuck’. Seconds later the woman called out ‘sorry, be right with you!’. The way she said it was so casual, like the sound never even happened. We got the hell out of there and I go out of my way to never walk past it if possible. Something seriously dark is going on there.

Can’t comment on the dresses - my sister got one online in the end.

***

“I can’t believe you’ve talked me into spending my Saturday hanging out at a creepy dress shop.” Harry rolls down the passenger window of my old Ford Fiesta, letting in a fresh sea breeze.

“It’s hardly your whole Saturday, is it? We’ll probably be in and out in twenty minutes. Less, if any paranormal shit goes down. In an hour, you’ll be in the pub with a beer and the football on a big screen.”

Harry perks up at the thought of the pub. “You really think this place is haunted?”

I hesitate. A week ago, I would have probably said no. Despite my love of horror, I’ve never really believed in any of that stuff. But after spending most of my evenings trawling the depths of internet archives, I’m convinced that something is off about Clara’s, paranormal or not.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’m just curious about the place. I’m interested in stuff like that.”

“Dresses?”

“No, moron. Urban legends, folklore, you know.”

“Uh-huh. Remind me what our story is again?”

“My cousin is getting married. She wants a flower girl dress.”

“And why am I here?”

“You’ve got an eye for flower girl fashion.”

“Not because you’re too scared to go alone?”

“Oh, shut up.”

***

The three of us are drinking tea around a small wooden table covered with a white lace tablecloth. Me, Harry, and Clara. Yes, it turns out her name actually is Clara, and she owns both the shop and the flat upstairs.

When we entered the building, we were greeted by a tiny, grey-haired woman who gave us both a firm handshake and introduced herself as Clara Reinsve.

“A flower girl dress? No problem at all,” she burbled. “Jot down her measurements and then come through to the back to look at the fabric samples.”

I scribbled down some random numbers on the sheet, and we followed her through to a stockroom. Harry took his role as fashion advisor very seriously, and we settled on a pattern of pink chiffon with white embroidered flowers on the skirt. Clara offered to make us tea, and now we’re sipping Earl Grey, listening to her story.

“I inherited this place from my mother,” she says. “My hands aren’t what they used to be, so I don’t take that many appointments these days.”

I can see Harry daydreaming of pints and the Premier League, so I figure it’s probably time to leave. Before I get a chance to speak, I’m interrupted by a loud thud from upstairs, followed by an eerie scratching noise, as though someone is running their fingernails across the floorboards above. Harry and I exchange a look.

“Does your family live upstairs?” I ask Clara.

She blinks at me, looking surprised. “My family? No, dear. My husband passed away some time ago, and my daughters are all grown up. It’s just me up there.”

My stomach begins to churn. It’s definitely time to leave. “Well, uh… thanks so much for everything,” I say. “I’ve sent photos of the material to my cousin, and she’s really excited.”

Clara smiles. “You’re welcome. I’ve got your number, so I’ll give you a ring when it’s finished.”

She stands to see us out, leading us back through to the front of the shop. I feel a strange chill run down my back, as though someone’s poured a bucket of ice down my shirt. I look up, expecting to see an air-conditioner unit pumping down a cold blast, but there’s nothing there. Once we’re outside, the warm spring air on my skin makes my goosebumps disappear, and I turn to Harry.

“Did you feel that?” I ask.

“Feel what?”

“That really cold breeze.”

He stares at me. “I didn’t feel any cold breeze. If anything, it was stuffy as hell in there. She was kind of creepy, though. What was with her not hearing that noise? She must be half deaf.”

Or she was just pretending she didn’t hear it, I think.

***

It’s a Wednesday afternoon, and I get a call from Clara, informing me the dress is ready. I tell her I’m busy with work today, but I’ll come and pick it up first thing tomorrow.

The next morning, I leave home at sunrise and make the drive down to Northport. When I press the intercom, no-one answers. Hmm. Perhaps I’m a bit too early. I buy a takeaway coffee from the cafe across the street and wait in my car. A poster attached to a lamppost catches my eye, a photograph of a young blonde girl accompanied by a paragraph of text:

MISSING: HOLLY MOORE, 10

HOLLY WAS LAST SEEN WALKING HOME FROM ST. MARY’S PRIMARY SCHOOL IN NORTHPORT. SHE HAS BLONDE HAIR, BROWN EYES, AND WEIGHS APPROX. 33KG. SHE HAS A DISTINCTIVE BIRTHMARK ON HER LEFT CHEEK. IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION, PLEASE CALL HAMPSHIRE POLICE.

What a nightmare. I don’t have kids, but I can only imagine the pain her parents are feeling. Fifteen minutes pass, and I decide to try Clara’s intercom again. This time she answers, unlocking the doors and ushering me inside.

“Good morning!” She says, looking cheerful, if not a little flustered.

“Morning!” I respond, stepping through the doorway. No cold blast of air this time. No strange noises. Everything seems very normal, and now I’ve ended up with a stupidly expensive flower girl dress for a wedding that doesn’t even exist.

I don’t know much about clothes, but even I can tell the dress Clara has made for me is high quality, each thread lovingly and carefully stitched by hand.

“It’s beautiful,” I say honestly.

“What was your cousin called again?” Clara asks, as she wraps the dress in lavender-coloured tissue paper.

“What?”

“Your cousin. The one who’s getting married.”

Right, my made-up cousin. “Oh, uh… Kate.”

“And you’re sure Kate is going to be happy with this? She didn’t want to come in and see it herself?”

“She’s very busy with wedding planning,” I say firmly. “But I know she’ll love it.”

“Well, if you’re sure. Here you are. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.” Clara smiles at me. I suddenly feel very sick. Her grin is so wide it looks like her face is going to split in two. Her brown eyes have darkened, turning black, the irises and pupils melting together. And her skin… her skin looks almost as though it’s been sewn together.

I let out a gasp and stumble backwards, tripping over my own feet and falling against the wall.

“What’s the matter, dear?” Clara asks, sounding concerned. I blink and look at her again. No black eyes. No terrifying smile. Just a normal, sweet old lady.

“Sorry, I…” I trail off, not knowing what to say. What’s happening? Am I losing it?

“Are you feeling okay?” She frowns at me. “Do you need to sit down?”

I definitely do not want to sit down. I want to get out of here as soon as possible. “No, no I’m fine. How much do I owe you?”

Clara pushes the card machine towards me, and I feel sick once more when I see the total flash up on the screen. I swipe my credit card and quickly say goodbye. I drive straight home, probably breaking the speed limit in my panic. Once I’m inside my flat, I throw the still wrapped dress at the back of my wardrobe, making a mental note to sell it on eBay later. Right now, I want to forget all about it.

***

THREE WEEKS LATER

“Police searched Northport Beach today as the search for missing child Holly Moore continues…” The newsreader states, looking grave. Footage of the beach cordoned off with police tape flashes on the screen, followed by a school photo of Holly with a gap in her front teeth, a small pink splodge that looks like a misshapen heart on one side of her face.

“Holly Moore’s parents have urged anyone with information to please come forward, and several community searches have also been arranged…”

I switch the TV off, remembering the poster I saw the last time I was in Northport. Don’t they say that if a missing person isn’t found in twenty-four hours, the likelihood is that they’re dead? Holly Moore has been missing for almost a month. That poor family.

It’s late, and bed is calling my name. I brush my teeth and head to my bedroom. As I open the door, I’m instantly hit with an awful smell, making me gag. What is that? It’s an unpleasant combination of decay and something almost salty… the ocean? Why would my bedroom in London smell like the ocean?

I step in something wet, and look down at my foot to find a thick black liquid pooling between my toes. Groaning in disgust, I follow the trail of liquid to its source - my wardrobe. Did a rat get in there and die or something? It wouldn’t be the first time this building had a rodent problem. I fling the doors open, holding my breath. All looks normal, a slightly disorganised collection of jeans, t-shirts and sweatshirts lined up the rail, a few falling off the hangers. The stench is getting stronger, and my gaze drops to the base of the wardrobe, where a tissue paper wrapped package lies. A glimpse of candyfloss pink peeks out from between the layers of lavender paper. The dress.

I’ve been distracted, pushed the dress to the back of my mind. How did it get like this? It’s almost like it’s… rotting.

“What the fuck?” I mutter to myself.

I’m freaked out, and obviously I can’t sell it now. I throw it in the communal bins downstairs, not wanting it in the house anymore. After scrubbing at the black stains on the carpet for what feels like hours, I crash on the sofa. There’s a creepy vibe hanging over the air in the bedroom. I can’t sleep in there.

Unfortunately, sleep also evades me in the living room. I stare at the ceiling, eyes wide open. A peculiar urge to go for a drive is building up inside me. A strange pull towards something that I can’t put my finger on.

I grab my keys and go downstairs. In the car, I drive to my location, the pull guiding me effortlessly, like the world’s most efficient satnav. I feel like I'm in a trance. It’s not until I pull up on the side of the road that I realise I’ve driven to Clara’s.

It’s the middle of the night, so of course, the main lights are off. But the tiny window spotlights are on, illuminating those creepy child mannequins. Five of them, in fact. Strange - there used to only be four, I’m sure of it.

The newest addition is wearing pink chiffon, with white embroidered flowers on the skirt. Maybe it’s the lighting, or maybe I’m just sleep deprived, but it almost looks as though the mannequin has a heart-shaped mark on its left cheek.