Shadows of a Nightgown

By: Haura Indra (Instagram: @hawrsraa, TikTok: @lydsnette)

I keep seeing Adrian, even after his passing. Mostly in dreams, though at times I still feel his presence in the flickering lights of our bedroom, in the creak of the old floorboards, or in the faintest tapping on the windowpane.

Adrian adored this house. Still living off the Lanford’s generational fortune, he came into possession of his grandfather’s cliffside manor, built by an ancient oak whose branches sway with the zephyr. The walls inside are painted a deep mahogany, picturesque though in a house this old, the paint splits and curls in some places like rotting skin. In our master bedroom, we would balter to the scratch of old records—and to this day I hear them playing on their own in the darkest night.

That same room witnessed Adrian die in his sleep. I have not slept right since. Not with this inescapable survivor’s guilt. I can but surmise his heart had always been weak, and one night it simply gave out. By dawn, I found him collapsed on the floor with his eyes wide, caught between surprise and surrender. A week after our wedding, that was. Exactly seven nights since I became Clara Lanford from Clara Hanrose; the night swallowed him whole. I was consumed by dismay at losing half my soul just as my life was meant to begin. Two people died that night, but only one stopped breathing. 

Adrian and I, we walked through life side by side. He wrote, and I painted, until ink smudged his knuckles and colors smeared my temples. We barely spoke while we worked, yet the silence felt like our conversation. With both being creatures of the arts, our world was in each other—and that was enough. Now, losing the only family I had left makes each second without him a torture. Oftentimes I feel the house hum with his absence, as though it mourns its master. I am certain it knows that its occupant is incomplete. He was the air I breathed, but now the void I carry. 

The thought of sleeping upon his deathbed frightened me. I have not closed my eyes since. Adrian found it amusing to tease me on my restless nights. I would wake up on the sofa, by the balcony, or wander aimlessly through the corridor with a paintbrush in hand. “You haunt these halls with that nightgown! Careful, my dear, do not let the spirits of Lanford Manor claim you,” he would say, giggling at his own words. But now, it is me who fears waking to find his spirit lying beside me.

The third night’s a charm. Or so I reckoned, as delassation finally pulled me into slumber, where my first encounter with Adrian occurred. I did not know I was dreaming then, yet it felt too surreal to see him once more after they laid his lifeless body only days ago. The place was unclear, all hazy and white as though I had drifted above the clouds. And there he sat—face-down over his notebook, pen scratching across the page, golden-brown hair fallen in disarray.

“What are you working on there?” I said playfully. 

At once he looked up, agitated, fingers clenching around the pen. His hazel eyes flickered, struggling to meet mine, as if he knew I was not supposed to find him there. I rushed forward, desperate, yet with each step closer, the more he faded away. I woke up frustrated—so many words left unspoken, and I wished nothing more than to meet him again in my sleep.

Then I did. and I still do. At first I brushed it aside, thinking it was nothing but a foolish dream that would not return. Only it did. And it was anything but an erratic dream, I reckon. For every night since, he has come to me. With the same dusty olive coat from the first night he appeared, his beloved notebook clutched in hand, and his pen scratching across the page just as before. He has never uttered a word thus far.

As I ruminated on these events, I began to notice the pattern—his coat, his silence, his endless writing. It struck me then: if I do something different, might he do the same? Indeed, I was right. Each time I tried to reach him, the dream began to grow deeper. At first, it was only his figure sitting down, writing in his notebook. But the following night, the scene grew clearer—no longer a cloud-like atmosphere, but Adrian was in his study with an identical wooden desk and an oil lamp igniting. I confess, I became eager for the sun to set, for I knew my darling husband awaited me on the other side.

Tonight, by heaven’s grace, he speaks—though faintly—about how stunned he is to see me three nights in a row. The dream grows firmer as the surroundings solidify, and I find myself again in his study as though I had never left. Everything appears exactly as before: he sits at his desk, writing like the assiduous man he is, the books on the shelves perfectly aligned, the fireplace cold as he left it, and the oil lamp still casting its glow.

I sit into the chair before him; I cannot help but trace every familiar line of his face, memorizing one more of the features I thought lost to me. He smiles at last, and says, “Don’t you worry about me here, Clara, love, what happened was not your fault,” his words barely louder than the flicker of the lamp. 

Tears begin to slide down my cheeks; to hear his dulcet voice again feels enchanting. “I’ve been expecting you here, you know. The other nights… I suppose your dream was too blurred for my words to pass through,” he explains. “It takes such power for me to try,”

The urge to be held in his arm overcomes me. But the moment I try to reach him, the dream ends abruptly. I wake to the sun’s blinding rays spilling through the curtains. As I wipe the tears off my face, I rise and draw them open—the curtains and the balcony door—to let the sunlight consume me. Instead, I feel his ghostly warmth as I grip the railing. I reflect on his last words—how much it costs him to connect with me at all. 

From this morning forth, I am utterly besotted. I give up everything to return to that dream, as I am no longer afraid to lie upon his deathbed, I welcome sleep as my only escape. With much help from sleeping pills, the dream and I become one.

II

I have lost count of the nights I’ve dreamt about Adrian. Each time I force myself to sleep, the dream deepens—Adrian moves through the house as if he had never stopped breathing, he tells me stories, and our fingers are intertwined. In those moments I am convinced I have not lost him for even just a second. And frankly, I prefer this reality. It makes me feel more alive.

The house, however, does not. Since I dismissed the cook, the gardener, and all the maids after Adrian’s passing, the walls began to rot around me. Cobwebs dancing through every corner of the ceiling as I abandon my devotion to paint. I no longer clean and eat properly and do not even set foot beyond the front porch, just to spend an ungodly amount of time in bed.

Yes, I am aware that my obsession has grown quite mad, for I keep finding signs of him in my waking hours. One morning I found the oil lamp sparkling in his study, though I could swear it had not been lit since he was gone. Another time, I caught the scent of his cologne brushing through me. And I recall hearing his gaiety and laughter reverberating through the dark. These ghostly presences should send a chill down my spine, and yet I welcome every figment of him back with open arms. Perhaps if I strike myself harder and deeper into the sleep, I might recover all of him at last.

I wake upon the balcony again. I cannot say how I get there, only that it has been happening for several nights. Perhaps it is the pills and liquor I force down to put myself to sleep, which instead raised my sleepwalking tendency. I shiver as the midnight air prickles my skin, and I crawl inside to lock the door—though I do not know why I bother, for I can undo it in my sleep as easily as walking. 

I linger before the glass of the balcony door. My reflection unsettles me: skin gone pallid, long hair uncombed, and skeleton showing as I grow thinner. I look no different than Adrian in his coffin months ago.

My head pounds and my ears throb; I am certain I have caught the flu, and so I descend in search of more pills. My hand slides down the banister, brushing off layers of dust in lethargy. I keep one foot in front of the other, eyes squinting through the relics of the pitch-black house. When I strike the kitchen lamp, I let out a shriek louder than any words I have said for ages.

There, at the counter, sits Adrian. A tea mug clutching to his hand. He wears a gray sweater draped over a polo, his hair falling just above his brows. He brushes it back with his fingers. He looks untouched. Alive. It is so comforting to see him this way—so real, as if the gods had spared him. 

Adrian shifts his gaze from the window, then smiles when he espies me in the doorway. “Hiya, love,” he chimes—bright and sanguine. He chuckles, setting his mug down before hopping off the counter to approach me.

I freeze. My lips part, but words stall on my tongue. I squeeze my eyes shut, just in case I am hallucinating—I must be. But then I feel his hand on mine. Not cold. Not ghostly. But warm. Too warm. Too normal. My heart sinks.

When I open my eyes, he is—in fact—still there. He is real. 

Without thinking it through, I throw myself into his arms too hard, as he nearly stumbles back. My arms dangle around his neck, and his hands pull me in—a little too tight.

Something is wrong. My nose catches it first: an intense, sour tang seeping off his body. When I slowly look up, I push him so vigorously and let out a scream so loud, it feels like my soul left with its echo.

The man before me is no longer the one at the counter. He is Adrian’s rotting corpse, as it would be now—an apparition. Skin a sickly grey-green, shrinking with dark veins across his neck; hair damp and bruises blooming along his cheekbone; sweater streaked with dirt, as though he had clawed his way back from the grave. Grotesque.

An absolute rubatosis floods through me as I lurch back, but he captures my wrist before I can bolt. 

“Come on, Clara,” he grins, lips torn at the edges. His voice wet, almost croaky. “It’s been a month, and you still don’t remember?”

His grip tightens, belligerent and merciless. He is enjoying every ounce of my panic and struggle until I yank my hand free—too hard—and fall. Into the abyss. 

And then I wake up on the balcony.

III

This is madness. I look around—everything is exactly as it was the last time I woke. God knows how long I’ve been out. I push myself up, but as I lean on my right hand, it stings, sore, even. I must be sleeping on it wrong. The moonlight cuts through the oak tree outside, casting a spotlight on me as I lose my sanity. I bury my head in hands, elbows on my knees, and fingers pulling my long, windswept hair. My head’s spinning. I take back what I said about recovering all of him—clearly, I cannot even stomach a single nightmare about his decomposing body. But truly, it was just a nightmare, was it not?

I rise from the ground and lock the balcony—again. Dust sweeps beneath my feet as I run around the halls, scanning every corner of the house to find any trace of him. 

“Adrian?” I call out.

Silence. I knew I was dreaming; I just had to make sure. Down the stairs I go, fingers clutching at my nightgown as though my heart could jump out any second. “Hello?” I try again—still nothing but this suffocating kenopsia. No Adrian in the living room, nor in his study, nor the backyard—nothing. A shaky breath escapes my lips—relief, maybe.

I turn to climb the stairs, but my gaze tugs at the kitchen. I almost miss it. Sweat slides down my temple as I pray nothing will be there. Yet the lamp flicks, and there it is: Adrian’s tea mug, sitting on the counter, precisely as he had left it. Terror flashes through me, and my knees fling me upstairs before my mind can decide. I lock the door behind me, dive into the bed, and pull a blanket all the way to my head, ears clamped and eyes shut. Forcing them to either sleep it off or wake me up. Anything but hearing this house humming as Adrian walks through it.

Minutes passed, maybe hours. And I did not realize I had fallen asleep.

There he is yet again. Sitting in his study with the dusty olive coat still intact, pen scratching the page like not a second has passed in this dream. He looks up to me, a frown shadowing his face. “You all right, love? You came a bit late tonight.”

I let out a laugh in disbelief as my mind scrambles to assimilate the pieces together. Have I been hallucinating? Is this the same Adrian from the night before? Or is this the one who turned into a rotting corpse? I must stay alert anyway, waiting for his skin to turn green again.

I ignore him. Confusion lingers still as my hand presses to my temple. His pen clatters as he stands, moving to sit on the edge of the desk so our faces are on the same level. “Tell me what happened,” his voice calm—not pleading, not demanding, just… expecting.

So I blurt. “You were at the kitchen. I swear I thought I had brought you back, and this could all be over,” he doesn’t dare to move as I ramble on, “Then you started to decay, to scream at me for forgetting something. And I… I keep waking up on the balcony; this is abstruse. There must be some explanation for all of these.”

“Clara, come with me.” He is standing now, hand outstretched.

“No. I saw you. You—whatever you are—could change any second now.”

He snickers. “Don’t be absurd; I haven’t left this room since you’ve been gone.” And still, his fingers curl on mine. I follow—because where he leads, I always have.

He takes me to the balcony. The wind blows angrily; think it might be raining soon. “Try to remember,” he murmurs.

I start to object, but he repeats, “Just… try, to remember.” 

“This is ridiculous.” I scoff as my fingers curl around the railing. And the moment I touch that cold metal, something in my chest drops. Flashes of white images start to stab through me—the wind blowing on my nightgown, bare feet on the cold tiles, climbing up the railing as the shadow behind me yelps. They come too fast from my eyes, hitting me like vertigo and making my knees weak; the world spins, and then blackout.

A faint blur shrouds my vision as the sunlight cuts through the room. I am in no mood for an apricity, but really, what even is reality anymore? My gaze lingers at the sight of the sun, and at once, last night floods back in: the foul odor of nightmare Adrian, the euphonious voice of sweet-dream Adrian, and those fractured visions that flashed back before I blacked out. It is all rocky. Incomplete. I am missing something here. Those images I saw—they weren’t just dreams. They felt like a memory shelved away somewhere I haven’t dared to unlock.

Adrian—one or the other—must be hiding something. Oh, just the thought of him in the kitchen last night makes my skin crawl. I cannot say which Lanford Manor spirit wore his face, but his rotting wraith could show up in the doorway any second now. Yet the house seems disturbingly calm now; it’s concerning. Perhaps I should look for him before he finds me.

I pace toward the kitchen, heart pounding against my chest. A feverish flush burns beneath my skin despite the winter’s icy breath slipping through the vents. This abode never once felt frosty when Adrian still had flesh and bones. Even in the bleakest days, he lit up every room—literally, metaphorically, and effortlessly. Now the time feels slippery here—I cannot tell what day it is anymore. However, what I can tell is that these spirits would not dare to spook me in daylight. For now.

The kitchen is barren cold. Deserted. There is neither Adrian nor his mug—only the rush of my blood, I hear. I comb through every inch, yet all remains untouched. Not a trace that proves Adrian's presence. A low hum of intrigue escapes me. 'Tis truly beyond me. I could have sworn that tea mug was sitting here, warm, and now it is returned to its place upon the rack, as if it was never used at all. Anyway, I grab a glass and fill it with water. For heaven knows how long it's been since anything ever passed my lips.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

My shoulders flinch at the sound. I do not breathe. My gaze shifts to the window—but I do not dare to draw back the curtain. Tap, tap, tap, tap. A chill covers my whole body as each beat grows louder, nearer—until the sound changes most awfully.

Knock, knock, knock.

I snatch my glass of water and flee in haste. This is quite outrageous. Am I still dreaming? Unlikely, for my legs start to fly up the stairs two at a time as the knocking quickens, chasing me up the steps, echoing behind these walls. The house feels like it’s shrinking, closing in around me. Perhaps it is delirium. Or hunger gnawing from within.

By the time I burst into the bedroom, a sharp cry leaves my throat—for there he is again. Rotting corpse Adrian, facing out towards the balcony, head slowly turning over his shoulder… grinning. Like he had been waiting all along. 

IV

My knees fall to the ground; the glass slips from my grasp, spilling water that snakes to the bedframe. He approaches—steady, pale, brows furrowed with a hint of impatience. The silence is deafening, for I am still shaken to the core by this encounter in the light of day. I cannot move. I can barely breathe as the overwhelming flush of dread overcomes me. 

I break the silence as I stagger back. “Don’t you come any closer.” Yet he chooses not to listen to my plea. I crawl. Palms on the cold tiles. But his grip finds my ankles—cold, filthy—dragging me closer to the balcony. My nail scrapes against the floor. I kick, and I kick until my strength abandons me. Leaving me no more power to give. 

The bedroom fades away, trading its warmth for a world of frost; the balcony yawns open, then swallows me whole. My teeth chatter. My stomach grumbles. Fear coils around my throat, taking up the air around me. 

I cling to the doorway, fingers clawing at the frame. Adrian stomps upon them to make me release my hold. I wince inaudibly—lashing out, I deliver a kick to his diaphragm. He stumbles, coughing and hyperventilating as if he had functioning lungs to begin with. Rage boils within him; he takes me by the arm and wrenches me to face the railing. I struggle, beating back his shrinking, pale hand. He shoves—one hand upon the back of my neck—until I dangle at the very edge.

This is it, I believe—I am on the verge of death. The sun veils behind a drapery of clouds, snuffing out its last warmth for me to meet my demise. My grip trembles on the railing, its rust scraping through my palm while Adrian’s nefarious voice presses through the chill. “Remember,” he snarls. “Remember.” 

With the final remnant of my strength, I jerk my head back. My skull slamming his with a wet crack. Adrian growls, utterly flabbergasted. And in that moment—thick as blood—all recollection returns to me, splitting like an open wound: the night he died. 

We were here. Both upon the balcony, beneath the shooting stars. I remember my attempt to climb the railing. Cold on my palms, chill in my hair. I remember his hands, yanking me down with force as he yelped in panic. 

But you see, I was still asleep. Thus, I fought—blind, feral. My hands on his throat. Closing up the air in his chest. His life draining between my fingertips until his weak heart gave out.

And now he wants me to remember.

V

A gust of wind whispers as my eyelids flutter open. I find myself yet still upon the balcony. A figure sits before me—blurry at first. Dusty olive coat, notebook in hand: Adrian, or the version that only comes to me in dreams. I blink hard, but the haze clings. My hand meets the back of my head, as if to soothe the wound that is not there. At last, I snap out of it. How did I get here? Have I just woken from a dream… into another? Or perchance, have I already died, and this be the afterlife?

I shift my gaze to Adrian. Who remains seated, waiting—with saintly patience—for the full restoration of my memory. The sky above is pitch-black, its darkness engulfing even the stars and moon. It is always like this when I’m with this version of him—as though the heavens have buried their light the same way the earth buried him. Something feels different—thicker, heavier. Is it the memories, finally clawing their way back to me? Yes, I suppose they are. All of them.

“How are you feeling?” Adrian’s voice is low, almost wobbly. He sits with his legs drawn to his chest, arms wrapped around his knees, and fingers loose, but holding on.

My body quivers. A fine tremor finds me, and tears—long suppressed—stream down my cheeks. I do not speak; I weep in answer to his question. He closes the space between us, wrapping me in his embrace—granting solace to the dawning truth: Adrian’s death came from my own misdeed. Yet never did he force me to remember, unlike the ghastly apparition of moments past.

The sobs turn raw. Ragged. Each breath a blow, each tear a burning surge of salt, grief, and guilt. They spill hot, mimicking the ache that crawls down my throat, my bones, until heartbreak consumes me whole.

I loathe myself for not remembering sooner. After all this time, it was I who wrought it all. There are no words within the English tongue to summon him back. Thus, I could only utter—between my shuddering gasps, “I’m so… so sorry.”

“It is not your fault, Clara…” He withdraws, grasping both my hands—steady, reassuring—as though I might collapse at any moment. “I told you it was not.”

“Then why?” My voice cracks, thin as slush ice. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I have been in your company these many days, and yet you didn’t bother to say a word. You let me sit here while the truth bearing down on your shoulders.”

His eyes pooling, for a moment he looks towards the oak tree—though even it cannot help him answer. “It was never that simple. You have not the slightest idea what I went through that night. To behold you in such a state was… horrifying. I should not willingly risk ruining you a second time.” He picks on his nails before he lets his gaze return—lashes aflutter.  “From the moment I showed up within your dream, I… I thought it best to keep you precisely as you were. Untouched.”

“All I did was to find you safe and sound here.” I whisper, sitting upright as though posture might hold my breaking heart together. “Seeing such brought me joy, Adrian. Joy so… profound, I almost forgot there was sorrow at all. So of course I had no idea.” My eyes fix upon his. “Well then—enlighten me. Do tell me what you endured that night.”

His eyes fall to the worn notebook resting on his lap. “I never thought you’d remember, so I wrote it down—every detail I could bear—as a way to cope, to… survive it in a way.” With arms extended, he draws the notebook towards me. Its spine crinkles from being folded too many nights of grief. “Here, read this. It’s all I have left of that night.”

I take it from his grasp, uttering not a single word. My thumb traces the rugged texture of these pages, aching with the thought of his torment; each drop of ink bled only to relive his final, fatal scene. “When did you even have the time—” my words trail off; I remember. He has been writing since the very moment I saw him again after his death.

He nods. Lips forming a soft smile—as though those moments imprinted on his very being. “Yes. Ever since my heart stopped. Ever since the place around me blurred. I appeared in this… void. My afterlife, I suppose. I awaited for you to come and find me, but it took a while. I wrote of what happened in the meantime.” 

While my heart provides nothing left to crumble, my gaze lingers upon his beloved, worn journal. At last, I open the initial page, and there, it reads:

VI

I awaken to the faint clink of keys and the hushed voice of doors screeching. In the dead of night, there—under the moon's pale glow—stood my dear Clara at the balcony. Wind rushed in, biting at my exposed skin. As I gathered my consciousness to wake up, I did shiver and call her name, wondering what mischief she might be about upon the balcony.

“Clara?” 

No reply came. Only distant animal calls. My feet flinched at the icy cold tiles as I stepped closer. A soreness caught my throat, yearning for some tea in this midnight chill. I wondered if she, too, might fancy a touch of warmth, for she has not been sleeping very well lately.

Her back was facing me. Long hair wild in the wind. But just as my fingers brushed her gown, she climbed upon the railing. Steady, unsettling, with her palms clenched white on the railing. I confess, I was utterly startled. It washed off all trace of sleepiness from my foggy eyes. I froze, struck by the sight. 

Finally, I stammered, my voice shook with panic and confusion. "Clara?"

My hand reached for hers. "Sweetheart, what is it that you’re doing?" 

Still no reply. I stepped closer, hoping to get a good look at her face.

Her eyes were wide but hollow as a ghost’s, staring straight into the unknown. No word quite fits to describe this but confusion. Pure alexithymia took over me. I was aware of her sleepwalking tendencies, but this time I could not ascertain if this was such an episode. Oft had I found her wandering through the dead of night, waking in odd places, but this—this eluded my comprehension entirely. She looked as awake as she always has, yet her gaze held something different. Vacant. Unfocused. And when no reply came, I surmised she must be sleepwalking indeed.

I intended to rouse her, for she would not cease to climb the railing, which stood near level with her chest. My grip tightened around her wrist, pulling her down with all the force I could possibly release. She stumbled, yet did persist in her climbing, shaking me off as if I were a mere fly to flick.

“Clara! Clara, wake up, darling, this is dangerous. You could fall!” My hands then clasped about her waist. Fingers clawing at the glistening white gown, dragging her down until the back of her head slammed into me; I was certain it hit the bridge of my nose too fiercely, for I started seeing starry flashes behind my eyes.

A shaky gasp ran past my lips. My feet retreated, and I squeezed my eyes shut to drive the stars off this dim world. And it must have taken me a while, for when I gathered myself, Clara was coming at me from behind—tackling me for reasons unknown.

The insufferable ache in my skull left me no chance of resistance. I could not fight her back. Hell, I could scarcely see. The world spun twice its pace as my head struck the floor once more.

She stood above me. Eyes fixed on me, yet seeing nothing at all. 

Before my mind could decide, I rolled onto my stomach. With cold and clammy hands, I crawled towards the room—though the balcony’s icy breath had entered within. Each crawl came with an intense pressure in my left chest. The pain was a crushing weight—creeping up my neck, my stomach, and even both arms.

Just as I was about to climb on the bed, a violent kick jolted my spine—Clara’s. I turned, and there she was again, wordless, eyes vacant as the driven snow—conveying a lack of presence.

What followed shall haunt me to the grave. She lowered herself. Knees pinning me. Fingers curled around my throat as my heart pounded, frantic—sending me to my demise. For one so small, Clara’s strength was monstrous. She closed up the air around me. Struck a pain to my entire being. Until it all faded to black.

VII

“What happened was not your fault.”

I am still here—upon the balcony with Adrian, a phantom born of my own imagination. My hands cling to his notebook, its pages damp; the ink bleeds with the path where my tears go. His gentle touch brushes them from my face before reclaiming the book from my grasp. He must have read the guilt all over my face like a scroll. And yes—I am guilty, for I now acknowledge the truth of it.

“I’m sorry…” My voice breaks against the rising sun. Its light seeps over the horizon, slow but igniting. As the dream sinks to hazy and white from the dawn, Adrian smiles as he goes; it is the last thing the world spares. He lets my hand fall from his, and all at once I wake—alone, returned to my bed.

Here I lie, unmoving. Agony crawls under my skin and covers my entire being. The wind outside whistles, while the void inside thickens. The sun rises, indifferent, calling me to yet another day.

Until I let it rise without me.