Departed Garments

Trapped within the confines of the bedraggled dry cleaners on Mourner’s Alley, Molly peered through the perpetually fogged window at the blurry sun. She worked diligently on the pale green dress before her, needing it clean and pristine before its recipient arrived.

The clothes always matched their owner perfectly—a reflection of their essence in fabric. A bold red jacket for the fiery and passionate. A simple cotton top for those who preferred life unadorned. She smiled sadly at the thin straps and ruffle detail at the waist of the green dress, expecting a visit from a young woman who loved summer.

As soon as the dress was ready, the wispy spirit wafted through the front door. Molly looked up, surprised to see a much younger girl than expected. A whisper of yearning slipped through her mind as she guessed the girl to be about 12, but she quickly pushed it away. Wearing only a torn white nightgown, the girl hugged her arms around herself as she looked around. Soon, she caught Molly’s eye, where she waited behind the counter.

Smiling, Molly approached and wordlessly handed her the dress. The girl hesitated, fingers grazing the fabric before taking it. Molly nodded encouragingly. Slowly, she pulled it over her head and calmed instantly. Now smiling herself, she looked to Molly for direction. She waved the glowing girl toward the back door, where she departed to the first step in her afterlife journey.

The spirits never spoke, which Molly didn’t mind. An introvert herself, she’d have no idea what to say, anyway. She never knew who they were, what they’d done, or where they went, but she always made sure they were well-dressed in the clothes that made them most comfortable.

Another package arrived later that day—an odd occurrence, Molly thought—two in one day is unusual. Unwrapping it carefully, Molly sighed as she revealed a set of torn, bloody jogging clothes. She set them down and started her music player. The sombre, melancholic tune seemed appropriate for cleaning the clothes of someone who had met a violent end.

As she gently scrubbed the fabric, Molly became unsettled at what appeared to be a brutal murder. The more gruesome garments usually came from a car crash, a fall, or some other accidental tragedy. In the years of existing with this curse, she had yet to see someone bloodied at the hands of another.

Since leaving the realm of the living, she had become impartial to the fate or feelings of the humans. However, she did not like the thought of such evil disrupting the peace and quiet of her existence.

The sound of the bell over the front door jolted her out of the trance, and she jumped at the sight of a living person. Plastering on a bland, neutral expression, she pointed to a rusted, decaying device on the counter. “Take a number,” she mumbled, retreating to the back.

“Wait,” the man said, taking his hat off to reveal the face of a semi-regular “customer.” She never actually cleaned the clothes of the living, but sometimes they wandered into her dilapidated corner of the street, hoping for last-minute service. She’d hide in the back until they disappeared. This man had been in a few times and was much too cheery for her liking.

Molly paused, staring at him with empty eyes.

“I just wanted to see how you were doing today.” He said, the corner of his mouth curling up in a half-smile. He cleared his throat nervously, adjusting his tie - bright yellow polka dots against a stark black suit.

Ah yes, Mr. How-do-you-do. There was something touching about his soft eyes and how he showed up with no clothes to clean, just a simple question. But, he lived, and she did not.

“Take a number.” She repeated, averting her gaze and continuing to the back.

Once the shop had cleared, it wasn’t long before the murdered spirit arrived for their clothes. Molly heard the bell’s ding and took her place behind the counter, delicately holding the perfectly folded jogging outfit.

A slim, muscular vision slid through the door - a runner, just like she thought. Watching him look around, panicked, Molly couldn’t imagine the strength it took for someone to overpower his young, fit figure. Unease crept into her gut - something the dead shouldn’t feel.

The typical spirit arrived at her door confused and sometimes in denial - but this man’s frantic, unsettled energy surprised her. Suddenly wanting nothing more than to be alone, Molly caught the spirit’s eye and held out the clothes with an encouraging smile. The man caught her gaze and lingered, taking the clothes after his pained eyes bore into hers for several seconds.

Though visibly calmer once dressed in his favourite garment, his eyes remained anxious as she ushered him into the unknown.

The tension surrounding the once dull and tedious shop skyrocketed as Molly received ripped, bloodied clothes at an alarmingly increased rate. Though haunted by now-constant anxiety, Molly continued doing her job. She cleaned the clothes until they sparkled and guided the fraught spirits to the first stage of the afterlife. She managed to remain impartial until a familiar suit appeared in the newest garment bag.

Her theoretical heart dropped as she pulled a tattered, blood-stained yellow polka-dotted tie out of the silk package. She knew the professional, custom-fitted black suit would follow. While most of the living glared at her when she refused their business, this man remained determined to find out how she was doing, determined to be kind and make a connection. Surely a human like him did not deserve such a fate?

Suddenly, her usual dark song didn’t seem appropriate anymore. These violent deaths no longer felt sad and tragic but horrific and unjust. Molly could no longer cry, but as she cleaned this man’s sharp, well-loved suit, she felt the vaguely familiar sensation of tears behind her eyes.

As she folded the now-clean suit in preparation for the man’s departure to the afterlife, Molly felt an ache where her heart used to be. If she had one, it would be pounding right now.

Right on time, the bell chimed, and in came what she realized now was her only friend. The man seemed anxious and unsettled, his eyes sparking with recognition as they met hers. She tried to smile her usual soft smile, but this time, it felt out of place.

She held out the clothes, but he didn’t immediately take them. He looked at them and stepped back, eyes meeting hers again. He opened his mouth, paused, and shut it again. Pulling the folded suit back, she held his gaze and tried something for the first time.

“Do you know who did this?” She whispered, voice shaking.

The man opened his mouth to speak but could only splutter and cough. Steadying himself, he tried again. “The owner,” he rasped, barely audible.

Molly raised her eyebrows, leaning across the counter, “What’s his name?” she pressed.

The man started to speak but stopped, tilting his head to the side. “I... don’t remember.”

Of course, their memories fade so fast. Molly softened her expression. “That’s alright, sir. Why don’t you just take these? " She held out the clothes again as the man’s spectral hands began to shake—their spirits were not meant to linger.

This time, he took the clothes and dressed. Ready to go now, he straightened his tie one last time, his expression calm.

“Oh,” he said, reaching into the back pocket of his slacks. He pulled out a business card and wordlessly handed it to Molly. She took it and watched as he sauntered through the door, finally at peace.

Hands trembling, Molly looked down to see a simple white card with black text:

Martin Thomas

Sales Associate

Berkman and Tolk Inc.

On the back, she found a phone number and website.

“Martin…” She said out loud, hit with a sudden regret that she never learned his name while he was still alive. Tapping the card against her palm, Molly knew she had a choice to make. Behind his rapidly declining memory, Martin had left her the only clue he could.

Still shaken from her first attempt at communicating with them, she descended the creaky, rotting stairs to the basement. The cold, damp air and chronic leaks may have annoyed the living, but she barely noticed. In the corner sat an old computer on a rusted metal desk, unused for nearly a decade. Not typically the nosy type, the last thing Molly had researched was her own death.

Her sister had written a simple but lovely obituary, and her tragic story occupied various new stations for about a week. It wasn’t every day a woman from a small town died while giving birth. Once she learned her child had secured a good home, she hadn’t felt the need to learn anything about the land of the living - until now.

Slowly, she typed the website into the search bar, the keys cold and unfamiliar. She quickly found the “About” page, where they bragged endlessly about their “dedicated and compassionate” leadership team.

“Right, so compassionate,” Molly scoffed, surprised by her sudden spike in emotion.

Scrolling back up, she found the name of the owner and founder - Scott Landry. She was oddly surprised that such a violent man would have such a simple name.

An additional search revealed that local authorities were on the case, dubbing the unknown assailant the “Second Street Stabber.” Apparently, Second Street is where most victims were last seen.

Tampering in the land of the living was frowned upon for her kind. Her job did not include helping humans; she only cleaned their clothes and showed them the door. The curse did not allow her to leave the building or even open a window and taste the fresh air.

Walking back upstairs, she saw the dry cleaner’s storefront with new eyes. The bell above the door shone a sleek golden colour, the only thing that remained pristine. The unused cash register on the counter had lost two buttons. The paint on the old-fashioned pink window sill had faded and chipped. The front door had a rusted silver mail slot.

The mail slot.

Molly ran to the back room where the old owner’s desk sat, overflowing with decades-old paperwork. She opened a stiff, creaky drawer to reveal a stack of yellowed envelopes held together with a cracked elastic band. Carefully pulling one out, she brought it back to the front counter where the bin of bloodied water remained from Martin’s suit.

She cringed as she knelt and dipped the corner of Martin’s card into the water, watching as a pale red crawled up the sleek white surface. When half of it was covered, she waved it dry and placed it on the counter. With a stray pen she also found on the desk, she scribbled Scott Landry’s name on the back and slipped the card into the envelope.

Sealing it, she turned the envelope over, hand hovering over the blank surface, unsure what to write. “Open for evidence of the Second Street Stabber,” she finally settled on a quick, clear note but cringed at her usage of the catchy name that only brought infamy to the killer and no dignity to the victims.

She sighed nervously as she slipped it through the slot, her only connection to the land of the living. Now, out of her hands, she could only wait.

She turned and took her usual place behind the counter. She peered out the window as always, expecting the fog to blur what little sun remained outside. To her surprise and delight, a small circle had cleared on the glass. The pink paint on the windowsill seemed brighter, and she suddenly couldn’t remember if it had ever been chipped or if she’d imagined it.

She couldn’t dwell for long, though, as she received a beautiful white gown and black overcoat the next day - both stained with the array of splattered scarlett she’d come to dread. The unfamiliar anxiety settling in again, she set the droopy track to play and got to work.

The young lady swayed through the door just as she finished wrapping the newly cleaned outfit—one fit for a grand party. The spirit seemed unbothered, perhaps unaware of her fate. Molly smiled and waited for the woman to notice. When she did, her demeanour changed. Her hands left her hips, and her eyes became startled.

Molly held out the clothes, still smiling. Once dressed, the woman visibly calmed, but like Martin, she paused before leaving. Molly met her quizzical gaze, not sure how to handle the newly unpredictable actions of these murdered spirits.

Finally, the woman spoke, “Did… they find…him?”

Molly shook her head sadly, “No, but they will.” She surprised herself with the certainty in her voice, but it calmed the glamorous spirit. She left without another word, and Molly sat again in her usual waiting spot. Looking around, she couldn’t help but notice the mail slot glint in the sunlight spilling in from the ever-growing clear spot on the window.

Molly felt immense relief as her next delivery was a simple outfit of overalls, a t-shirt, and gloves. Dirtied from gardening but containing no blood, Molly cleaned happily for the first time in weeks.

The elderly woman arrived, dressed, and moved on without incident. For a moment, things felt normal.

Though she yearned for the impartiality of the previous years under this curse, Molly couldn’t ignore the gnawing curiosity that taunted her every day. Giving in, she returned to the basement and booted up the ancient computer for the second time in a week. She punched in the same search as before and was surprised to find new headlines pop up.

“Police catch a major break in stabber case,” read one news station. As she scrolled, she found much of the same story repeated.

Perhaps she’d never know if she’d truly helped, but Martin Thomas and his efforts to befriend a cursed spirit posing as a haggard, anti-social shop owner had helped her. Days passed, and she received no more bloody clothes.

Her clothing deliveries returned to regular frequency, and she continued seeing spirits off to the next stage of their existence. But since Martin, she began waiting rather than ushering them through the door. Some walked through without a word. But some remained to ask a question. Some wanted to know how they died. Some wanted Molly to deliver a message to a loved one.

The more comfortable she became with speaking to the spirits, the more forthcoming subsequent ones became. She found a renewed sense of purpose and satisfaction in helping those with questions or requests. Each time she did, something in the shop regained colour, the window became clearer, and Molly’s “life” became a little more pleasant.