I was eighteen when my mom sewed me a Halloween dress. She sat by the window every evening, pale and thin, the scent of lavender lotion barely covering the hospital-wipes smell that clung to her skin. Yet she smiled at me as if I were the one thing keeping her strong. In her lap lay fabric and trembling fingers, and in those stitches she was threading hope.
“You’ll be the prettiest witch in Maple Grove,” she whispered, brushing the fabric across my cheek. “Not scary. Magical.”
I giggled as she measured my waist. “But witches are supposed to be scary, Mom!”
She smiled softly, tired but loving. “Not my witch. Mine will bring light. Not darkness.”
Some nights she fell asleep with a needle still in her hand. I would cover her with a blanket, watching her chest rise and fall and whispering little wishes in the dark, as though by doing so I might keep her here just a little longer.
Three days after she finished the dress, she was gone. She never even got to see me wear it.
They buried her that first week of November. I remember the damp leaves under my shoes, the scent of lavender clinging to my coat, as if she didn’t want to let go. After that, everything blurred: casseroles at the door, pity cards, neighbours whispering behind my back. Someone said, “Poor girl. That’ll mark her forever.” Another muttered, “James’s falling apart.” I didn’t correct them. They weren’t wrong.
Dad stopped talking much, sitting on the porch for hours, clutching Mom’s favorite mug, as if staring into it might bring her back. No one mentioned Halloween that year. No pumpkins. No candy bowls. The neighborhood still celebrated, but our house was dark and quiet.
I couldn’t bring myself to dress up. I shoved the dress into a box, locked the memory away with it. Mom made it for me—just that was enough. I didn’t know then how hard I’d have to fight to keep it.
The following spring, Dad met Carla. She was polite, always smiling, quoting inspirational lines and baking sugar-free things that tasted like cardboard. They married fast. Too fast. And just like that, everything started to change.
Halloween was the first casualty. “The Devil’s holiday,” Carla muttered, flinching whenever she passed the candy aisle. “We don’t play dress-up for demons in this house.”
It wasn’t just the holiday. Mom’s books disappeared from the shelves. Her wind chimes vanished from the porch. Her tea set ended up in a donation box without a word. Carla erased her piece by piece, like she was sweeping out a stain.
I tried once to reason with her. “It’s just candy and costumes. Mom used to…”
Her face twisted, sharp and cold. “Enough, young lady! Your mother was sick in more ways than one. You don’t know what she opened your spirit to.”
That night I locked myself in my room clutching the dress to my chest. It still smelled faintly of Mom—lavender, thread, warmth. I swore I’d never let Carla touch it. I pushed the memory back in the box.
Fast forward to this year. I’m twenty now, still living at home because rent’s a joke and Dad insists it’s “fiscally responsible.” I don’t argue—mainly because the alternative means leaving him alone with Carla. And honestly… I’m not that cruel.
Then Halloween hit—differently. Maybe it was the leaves hitting the driveway. Or how the air felt when I walked across campus. I just missed my mom more than usual. I wanted to celebrate again. For the first time in two years, I wanted to dress up. To feel her again.
When flyers went up for the campus Halloween party—costumes, cider, music—and my friend Kayla asked if I was going, something stirred in me. Like the version of me who twirled in the living room while Mom sewed that dress wasn’t gone, just buried.
I went home that afternoon. Opened the memory box. My fingers trembled as I pulled back old drawings and photos until finally… there it was. The dress. Softer than I remembered, still holding that faint shimmer along the hem. Somehow miraculously it still fit.
I looked in the mirror. Barely recognized the girl staring back. Not because I looked different—but because I looked whole. I whispered, “Hi, Mom,” and for just a second I felt the air shift, as if something warm moved past my cheek.
Then the footsteps.
The door burst open without warning.
Carla froze. Her voice was tight, already sharp. “What are you wearing?”
I held my ground. “It’s my mom’s. She made it for me.”
Her face pinched like she’d tasted something rotten. “Take it off.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said no,” I repeated, steadier this time. “I’m wearing it to the campus party tonight.”
From downstairs I heard Dad’s voice: “Everything okay up there?” Carla didn’t answer. She stormed halfway down the hall, turned to me, eyes blazing. “You’re opening spiritual doors you don’t understand. That dress is part of the darkness your mother brought into this house.”
I almost laughed. “It’s a Halloween costume, not a cursed relic.”
She pointed at me like she wanted lightning to strike. “Keep mocking. But when evil takes root, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I said nothing. I just stared her down. Then I shut my door, folded the dress like the most precious thing I’d ever owned—because it was. Two more hours. And I was wearing it… no matter what.
The much-awaited moment arrived. The sun dipped behind the trees in burnt orange glow. Everything smelled of bonfires and cinnamon. Before heading out for rehearsal I had a knot in my stomach. Carla had been too quiet all evening, and when she’s quiet it’s never good.
I decided to hide the dress—just in case. Folded it carefully, smoothing each crease like I was touching skin instead of fabric. Wrapped it in one of Mom’s old flannel blankets, slid it into a box, tucked it behind a stack of books at the back of my closet. Before leaving, I locked my bedroom door. For the first time in years, I felt a little proud of myself.
I spent the next hours with Kayla, helping hang paper bats and string lights in the rec room. We played music, laughed too hard, tried to tape up a sagging ghost, ate gummy worms meant for the trick-or-treat table. Afterward I picked up candy and snacks—Just simple stuff—but it felt good. Like maybe I could still have a version of the life Mom would’ve wanted for me.
I pulled into the driveway around 9 p.m. That’s when I noticed it. The porch light was off. It felt wrong. Dad always left it on. I stepped inside. Silence hit me first. Then the smell: smoke. My heart sank. I bolted to the backyard.
There was Carla, in her robe by the fire-pit, a metal poker in one hand. Flames flickered orange into the darkening sky. And in them… strips of black and purple. Silver thread curled into ash. It didn’t register at first. My brain refused to process what I was seeing. But my knees gave out before the scream did.
“No. No, no, no…”
Carla turned, calm as a statue. “I did what had to be done,” she said, like she was discussing the trash. “That dress was cursed.”
My voice cracked. “It was my mom’s. She made it for me. It was the only thing I had left of her.”
She didn’t blink. “She made it for the Devil’s holiday. I burned it to save your soul.”
I staggered forward, heat licking my face. “What? Are you crazy?”
She smirked. “You don’t understand what that dress held… darkness. Her spirit lingering. Shadows in your room whispering through vents. I had to cleanse it.”
“That wasn’t yours to touch! It wasn’t yours to destroy!” I choked out, hands shaking.
Dad came stumbling outside, pajama pants, bare feet, confusion on his face. “What the hell is going on out here?”
I pointed. “She burned it! She burned Mom’s dress!” He froze, taking it in: Carla by the fire-pit, the twisted silver threads in flames, me crying in the grass like my chest split in two.
“What?” he said like the word hurt to say.
Carla crossed her arms. “I did what was needed.”
His eyes never left the fire as he grabbed the hose. “You destroyed the only thing she had left of her mother.”
Her voice sharpened. “Don’t you dare blame me for protecting this house.”
“From what?” he snapped, dousing the flames. “A mother’s memory in a dress?”
Carla’s eyes went wide. “You’re defending that evil?”
“I’m defending my daughter.”
“You’d throw away your salvation for her?”
“For my daughter? Every damn time.”
Silence. Carla stared at him as if he’d grown horns. She opened her mouth, closed it then. “You don’t mean that.”
But he did. He turned to me then back to her. “Start packing, Carla.”
She blinked. “You’re choosing her?”
“No,” he said flatly. “I’m choosing sanity and peace. I’m choosing the daughter I should’ve protected better years ago.”
Carla trembled—but her pride held. “You’re making a mistake, James.”
“No,” he said. “I made one when I let you stay this long.”
Carla left the next morning. She made a whole performance of it, muttering about demons and spiritual warfare and how he’d “turned from the path.” She called me a “witch child” as she dragged her suitcase past the front door like she weighed more than her righteousness.
Dad didn’t speak. He sat at the kitchen table, staring into his cold coffee like it might offer escape. The quiet that followed felt unfamiliar, like the house itself didn’t know how to breathe without Carla’s judgment filling it.
Around noon he finally spoke: “I should’ve stopped her sooner. I thought she’d help us heal. I thought maybe if I let her believe hard enough… it would fix things.”
He let out a long breath. “I was wrong.”
My throat still burned—from the smoke, from screaming, from holding in everything I didn’t know how to say. I just nodded and sat with him in silence.
That night, after I showered and tried to sleep, Dad knocked gently on my door. He held something in his hand. “I found this,” he said quietly. “In the dryer vent.”
I looked. A small piece of fabric—black and purple, singed at the edges, but somehow still shimmering faintly under the light. The hem. I’d recognize that silver stitch anywhere.
“My mom loved Halloween,” Dad said softly. “Told me once it was the only night people could be anything they wanted. No masks. Just courage in disguise.”
His voice cracked. “I think I forgot that.”
I looked down at the scrap in my palm, eyes wet. “But Mom didn’t,” I whispered.
He nodded. “No. She didn’t.”
I slipped the scrap into a locket. The night I wore the dress, the wind shifted, and I could’ve sworn I smelled lavender. Dad noticed too. “She’s proud of you,” he whispered.
I nodded. “Maybe she never left.”
He smiled, eyes shining. “Maybe she just changed shape. Witches do that, don’t they?”
We laughed. That night I tucked the locket under my pillow and fell asleep holding it.
At 3:00 a.m., I woke to a sound I hadn’t heard in years — tick… tick… tick. A sewing machine. But we don’t have one. It was faint, coming from the attic. My heart pounded. I sat up, clutching the covers. Then I smelled it. Lavender.
“Mom?” I whispered into the dark. The sound stopped. Just for a second. Then… one last tick. Silence.
In the morning, the scrap was gone. But hanging over my desk was a silver bow. No one else was home.
I don’t know whether ghosts are real. Or if that was a dream. But I do know this: Kindness doesn’t die. Love doesn’t burn. And sometimes when life takes everything, your loved ones find a way to stitch it back.
“When Mom’s Last Gift Burned Before My Eyes”
