Inherited

Trigger Warning: Supernatural and ancestral trauma themes.

Part 1: The Appointment

​I took six sharp steps along the worn, shiny path in the linoleum, intentionally letting my boot heels sound out the same controlled tap, a subliminal, authorative rhythm, my mother used to make.

​It had been drilled into me: always pause before unlatching the door. Wait long enough for the customer outside to feel the quiet authority of the shop. Then, flip the sign sharply to OPEN, draw back the bolt in one decisive slide, and let the tarnished brass bell chime above your pristinr dress and bunned hair. Finally, deliver a magisterial call of their full name.

​"Melissa Carrington?"

​The woman leaning against the engraved brass plate Morwenna Lane and Daughters, Tailors tried to jump to attention, nearly dropping a massive white garment bag in the process. "Yes—that's me!" She held up a free hand in acknowledgment, struggling to balance the weight.

​"May I assist you with that?" I asked, keeping my posture formal.

​She shoved the bulk straight into my open arms.

​"Thanks for taking me so early," she said, adjusting her shoulder bag before retrieving a brown paper bag with string handles from the floor. I beelined to the fitting room, and she trotted, lightened, in my wake.

​"No trouble at all," I replied, hoisting the heavy gown onto the high wall hook and unzipping the casing to inspect the contents. A cascade of veil draped over a full-skirted, champagne gown.

​"Nice old place, this is," Melissa offered, rustling around in her paper bag.

​"Thank you. It was my mother's shop before I inherited it," I replied, gently loosening the corset ties of the dress.

​I stepped back to deliver my usual spiel: "Just let me know if you need help."

​I cut myself off at the sight of a pair of strappy heels hanging by their knotted laces, swinging like a pendulum from her wrist.

​"After you get dressed, Melissa, you can put your shoes on over on the velvet couch."

​Flushing red, she dropped the shoes clumsily to the floor. Taking pity on her awkwardness, I softened my tone. "A good thing you remembered to bring them, though."

​Her shoulders dropped, and her head tilted up from its bowed position. "Yeah! I literally put a reminder on my calendar. I couldn't forget these—I would've had to drive all the way back to Laidley!"

​I smiled faintly. "Well done."

​Part 2: Coffee?

​Jim from The Checkmate Coffee Shop buzzed in. "Morning! Where do you want it?"

​I immediately pulled the heavy red velvet fitting room curtains shut to obscure my customer—brides are such sensitive creatures.

​"Just leave it there," I said, motioning toward my tall, thin, timber counter. "Thanks," I added as he left.

​Inside the booth, paper rustled again. I raised my eyebrows, wondering what else she could have tangled in there.

​"I brought my bra, too," Melissa called out.

​"The one you're going to wear on the day?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

​"Yes," she said, her voice perking up.

​"Excellent."

​My coffee was strong, just how I liked it. Highly strung as this one was, I could hear the telltale heavy breathing from behind the curtain. I remembered Mum's warning: Always use their name. Do small talk—the weather, anything—to keep them calm.

​That came with a bit of history. When Mum shifted the business from Raceview over here to the Old Flour Mill, they had to build a very tiny fitting room to fit the shop's layout. At first, Mum thought it was an isolated case when a woman panicked and almost fainted in there, but it turned out the tight space made a lot of people feel claustrophobic.

​I spoke up loudly toward the curtain. "So, when's the big day, Melissa?"

​"August first," she replied from behind the fabric.

​I chuckled. "The horses' birthday?"

​She managed a laugh.

​"And where's the wedding?" Location questions remove their attention from the dressing room.

​"At Kholo."

​"Oh, that's the new place. What's it like?"

​The curtain flung open. Melissa appeared in the main shop space looking a little dizzy, her long, sleek hair now a wild nest. "Ah... can you help me?"

​Somehow, she had managed most of the dress herself. I wondered if I should have insisted on helping earlier, but the rule was clear: offer assistance once, then wait until called.

​As I began untwisting her corset lace, I asked, "So, are you having the reception there, too?"

​"Huh?"

​Reminding her, "At Kholo?"

​"Ah, yes, sorry. We have fifty-two guests," she replied while I pulled, tightened, and evened out the laces.

​"Oh, that's a good number," I said.

​"Yeah, it's good for a Tuesday."

​Tying the bow and tucking it in, I smiled. "Indeed! Everything changed, even weddings, after COVID."

​"Helps the budget," she added with a bit of a boast.

​I motioned toward the couch. "Head on over and we'll get those heels on."

​Part 3: The Pier Mirror

​"Where would you like your hem to fall?" I asked.

​"I don't know... what do you think?"

​Most young women don't have a clue about the right dress length. Kneeling on the linoleum, I offered, "My brides like it sitting just above the ground so they don't trip."

​I took a quick peek under her dress. Good. She was wearing an eco-hoop, eliminating those heavy layers of petticoats and scratchy tulle that end up in landfills. With only one lining to measure, my work would be quick.

​Facing the mirror, "Can I see it at that level?" she asked hesitantly. "I don't want my toes showing."

​Outside, I heard Jim call out to someone, "You can sit in the corridor or the coffee shop if you like."

​A female voice interjected over the clunk of outdoor umbrellas being folded down. "The weather BOM says a storm's coming."

​Holding the hem up near her shoes, I asked, "What do you think of that length?"

​Melissa nodded in approval, and I began chalking the lining.

​"Ooh, Jim, the weather's up to no good," a woman said mischievously as her shadow passed near us in the hallway.

​Melissa startled. "What's that?"

​"Just the lady from Moon & Millstone and the Apothecary shop next door."

​Her attention shifted. "It's a big mirror."

​"Huh? Oh, yes," I replied. She was jittery, that was for sure. Moving to her side to chalk the lining at floor level, I added, "My great-grandmother bought it in 1930."

​"Oh, wow, that's ancient! 1930?"

​I moved swiftly around to her back. "Yeah. Cost her two pounds ten shillings. A full week's wages back then."

​She fidgeted. "How does it stay up?"

​"I was just a kid when they moved it from the old shop on Raceview Street," I said, continuing my marks. "It was a huge deal—Uncle Matt ended up bolting heavy brackets into the wall. It won't be going anywhere."

​Reaching for my pincushion, I added, "I'll pin the lining slightly shorter than your dress so you have total freedom of movement, then I'll chalk the outer hem for you."

​Part 4: The Storm

​I glanced toward the window. A heavy cloud hovered over the nearby school, and out in the courtyard, the wind was whipping up. The coffee shop staff scuttled around, bringing more tables, chairs, and cushions inside. A lone woman remained sitting at the only bench left, right next to our glass.

​Hauling the last umbrella inside, the barista insisted, "It’s going to storm! You'd better come in."

​Decidedly stubborn, the woman refused to budge. "I want to finish my Solitaire game!" She held her tableau down with one hand against the draft while snapping cards off the deck with the other. "I'm almost done, Louis!" Heavy raindrops began to splat around her game, while Euphemia, the lady next door, left a small tray balanced on the brick rail—leftover meat pieces, pecans, and apple slices. Yelling to the birds, "Come and get it real quick, guys."

​Turning back to my work, I commented, as a crow cawed over my voice, "Looks like an early storm. In March!"

​The lights dimmed with a heavy roll of thunder—and stayed dim. Thinking out loud that Melissa might want to go home, I asked, "Sorry, Melissa. How do you feel about continuing?"

​She nodded. "I'm okay." Glancing at the wall clock, she added, "Fancy that—a morning storm. What time is it, 8:22 am?"

​I should have known better than to accept her polite answer, but the adrenaline had already kicked in. Dropping to all fours like a cat, I sped up my pinning, knowing that a worst-case scenario of a crooked, rushed hem could always be adjusted on the dress form later. "The show must go on," I blurted out.

​"It’s such an old, deep mirror," Melissa said, her voice becoming strangely hollow and detached.

​My fingers paused, then restarted.

​Her tone shifted again, this time sharpening into a masculine hiss: "Where did it come from, Theodosia Lane?"

​What? Puzzled, I craned my neck. She was frozen, blinking vacantly, her arm raised above my head with a twitching hand pointing straight at the glass.

​Behind her, the shop window had gone pitch-black, becoming a second mirror. Melissa didn't have just one reflection anymore—looping in front were five identical brides, and looping behind in the weaker reflection were four, both disappearing through a chamber of glass until they dissolved into faint, ghostly shells of light.

​Skidding to my feet, I gently lowered her twitching arm. "Melissa... it was bought during the Depression. It could've come from a hotel, an old estate... Melissa?" I snapped my fingers right in front of her eyes. She didn't flinch. Continuing, "...or even a parlour, or something."

​Lightning struck with a bang. The power flickered, browned out, then snapped back on bright.

​Melissa blinked, frowned, and picked up the conversation as if not a second had passed. "Or a funeral parlour?"

​I stepped back, rattled to my core. "Oh—I don't know. It was from an auction, could have been at Brisbane City Hall." Then, put off, I changed the subject: "Melissa, listen to that storm. We should really finish this another time."

​"No, I think you should continue," she said, her expression falling completely blank again.

​Something was deeply wrong, but I was cornered by years of professionalism. "Take a walk around the floor then," I said, shaking my head.

​Lightning cracked again. The overhead light wavered.

​Melissa murmured with an eerie, flat chuckle, "Oh, look at that, the lights are still on. Let's continue then, deary."

​Deary?

​An icy chill washed over me. Those words did not fit her. Pulling out my phone, I stammered, "That's enough." But that embedded professionalism lassoed me tight. "I'll... I'll video the drape."

​Part 5: The Swan

​My usual thought—that most brides look like swans—was abruptly jolted. I focused the camera on her, feeling deeply suspicious. What next? I thought. To my lack of surprise, she glowed an opaque white aura on the screen. Well, not entirely unsurprised, but a reasonable explanation could surely be found—like Vaseline or oil muck on the lens. I blew mist on the glass and wiped it on my skirt, then held the phone back up.

​The glow remained.

​A sudden cold crept over me—the kind of cold where you realize you really need to put a jacket on. Then the video started rolling on its own. I pushed the screen several times, thinking perhaps my fingers were too dry from handling the chalk. But the poor lighting created a strange, hazy boxed vignette around her.

​I had truly had enough. Suddenly, my hands lost all strength, and the phone dropped, tumbling to the floor.

​Part 6: The Chambers

​Outside, the woman playing solitaire—her voice sounding impossibly far away—announced, "I think I lost against myself."

​Yet beside me, her shadowed image sat confined with me in a static, glass-like chamber—a perfect double of the courtyard. In unison with her, the woman whispered, "I think I won against myself."

​Behind me, something clunked and rolled like opening metal doors. My thoughts dulled as an automated voice announced: This is a Caboolture train, stopping all stations to Brisbane. Those wishing to get off at Ipswich station please disembark.

​Almost sleepwalking into the carriage, surrounded by empty seats, I took my spot opposite the only other passenger—a young woman. Not noticing me, she continued reading her book, using an old playing card as a bookmark.

​As she turned the page, the window bounced, catching the reverse side of her card in the night's reflection. It lingered just long enough for me to see its borders scrolled in fine blue ink—delicate and sharp, as though traced by the steel nib of a Victorian dip pen. Rendered in that same ink, a Victorian Joker strode forward: a figure grinning with the wide smile and reckless gait of The Fool, labeled simply: The Joker.

​The automated voice announced again: Ipswich station. This train terminates here. I really didn't care that the train went nowhere.

​The young woman didn’t move—maybe she didn't hear it—but a cold compulsion forced me off. I didn't question the urge.

​I stepped through the open doors, but not onto a platform. The drop was deep and unexpected; I grabbed the safety bar mid-fall, my body jarring before landing hard on a narrow strip of grass and dirt. Disoriented, I sat for a moment and caught my breath.

​Pressed into the soil beside me lay the torn corner of a Six of Clubs. For some reason, I reached for it, feeling around its thick edges with my fingers. I picked it up; the paper felt heavy, cold, and valuable. As the sun rose, it brought a clearer view with every passing minute—yes, it was the exact same blue ink from the Joker card.

​I gathered what I thought were my senses, slipped the card into my pocket, and stood upright. Brushing the dirt from my skirt, I set off on my usual daily walk in the Reserve. On the cement footpath, I felt confined. Oppressed.

​My usual sprightly speed gave way to heavy footsteps, puffing until I halted suddenly at the bridge. A light shot from the ground—my phone, screen humming with the unfinished recording. How did it get here?

​I raised the screen, framing the towering Redwoods in front of me.

​Part 7: The Town Clock

​The town clock tolled once, sending a dull throb through my temples. I drew a short, sharp breath as I snapped out of my stupor.

​Hang on—Redwoods? Here? I didn't remember any Redwoods in the Australian bush.

​I peered into the mist where something was moving. As I strained my eyes and switched on the camera, two girls skipped into view, locked arm in arm.

​The clock tolled a second time. The deep chime struck open a vault of memory, pulling me right out of the bush and back to when I was six years old, sitting in the passenger seat of our Mazda 323.

​Mum turned to me as we drove past the town square. "That bell in the Ipswich clock tower, Theo," she said, "that’s real Tartarian."

​A whisper cut into the memory, slipping into French: "Petit oiseau, ce n'est qu'une question de mathématiques." Little bird, it is merely a matter of mathematics.

​With the camera still running, I turned back and gasped. It was all gone—the footpath, the bush., the train tracks. All that remained was a translucent exoskeleton held in place by swaying, creaking, glasslike rectangular scaffolding.

​It was about to collapse.

​I had to get home.

​Part 8: Home

​The shop was blindingly bright. Melissa sat on the couch—her hair now cut short with a blunt fringe—bouncing a baby boy on her lap next to a stroller parked by the door.

​"Effie at the Moon and Millstone told me you wouldn't be too long," Melissa said, her eyes softening as she looked down at the child. "That dried lavender of hers is exquisite. It relaxes him—and me."

​"Oh—sometimes I just have to duck out quickly," I stammered, trying to hold my face composed. "Do you mind for a second, Melissa? My mum just texted."

​"Sure." She gave a thin smile, reaching into her nappy bag for a bottle.

​I looked at my phone and typed: Mum, something went wrong.

​Three grey dots pulsed on the screen, then vanished.

​I posted the video.

​Edgy, I glanced over at Melissa. "Excuse me, I need to make a call."

​Mum didn't pick up. She must be watching the video.

​I waited.

​I caught Jim's eye as I paced past his window. He pretended he didn't see me, staring down at his teacup as he hurriedly dropped in a sugar cube and stirred it with a teaspoon.

​Euphemia swept the floor with her broom, also ignoring me. With a wave of her finger, the music turned on. A flute began to play, soon accompanied by singing: "Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme..." She raised her arms, the candles lit all at once, and then she turned towards me and winked.

​The phone rang.

​"Mum?"

​"How many years did you lose?"

​"I think it might be two years."

​She went silent again.

​Breathing out slowly, she answered, "It is simply the old ledger settling its terms, Theodosia Lane."

​"What do you mean?" I asked, running down the stairs.

​"Your great-grandfather abandoned us, didn't he?" came Mum's response. "He left his debt in our veins."

​Before I could process it, she added, "Our blood and bones belong to American soil. The math dictates it."

​"Huh?"

​Then her sharp, saturnine jolt: "That mirror showed me your daughter."

​"I don't have a daughter, Mum."

​"Not yet! What you saw was your own grandchildren, Theodosia. What began here ends there."

​I wailed, "Mum, I'm in my pyjamas and dressing gown!"

​She stifled a laugh. "I'll bring over some clothes.

Om hum chinnamasta namo namaha."