She Wasn’t on the Guest List

The first time I saw her was during the cake cutting.

I was at my cousin’s wedding, half-bored, scrolling through my phone while the newlyweds posed for photos. Then I saw her—

a woman in a blood-red dress, standing near the back of the room, smiling directly at the bride.

Except… no one else seemed to notice her.

She wasn’t clapping. She wasn’t holding a drink.

She was just standing there.

Still. Smiling.

I nudged my sister beside me.

“Do you know her?”

She looked up. “Who?”

“The woman in red.”

She followed my gaze.

There was no one there.

I blinked. She was gone.

Okay, maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was the lighting, or a guest stepping away.

But something about that smile haunted me.

It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t polite.

It was… knowing.

An hour later, I went to the restroom to wash my face.

When I looked up at the mirror, I froze.

Behind me — in the corner — stood the woman in red.

I spun around.

Nothing. Empty.

Just a quiet bathroom and a faint whiff of jasmine.

That night, I asked my cousin — the bride — if she saw anyone wearing red.

She shook her head. “We specifically told everyone to wear pastel.”

Then she laughed. “Red’s considered unlucky at weddings.”

I forced a laugh too.

I didn’t sleep that night.

Over the next few weeks, I started seeing her again.

In crowds. On subway platforms. In reflections.

Always watching me.

Never moving.

Always that red dress. Always that smile.

One morning, I snapped.

I walked straight toward her. I was in a crowded train station. She was by the pillar.

I marched up.

“I can see you,” I whispered.

Her head tilted slightly.

“I know,” she whispered back.

Then she was gone.

I researched everything.

Ghosts. Spirits. Delusions.

Was it a haunting? A trick? A hallucination?

I even booked a session with a therapist, but didn’t tell her everything. Just enough to avoid sounding mad.

Then came the email.

No subject. No sender. Just a link.

I clicked it.

It was a grainy video — CCTV footage.

The venue from my cousin’s wedding.

You could see the couple walking toward the stage. Applause. Cheers.

And there — in the corner — a woman in red.

Staring at the bride.

Frame by frame, as guests moved and shifted… she never blinked.

I paused the frame. Zoomed in.

Her eyes were wide. Too wide. Unnatural.

And she was looking directly into the camera.

I forwarded the clip to my cousin.

Ten minutes later, she called me. Voice trembling.

“That’s not possible.”

“What?”

“That’s Zara.”

“Who’s Zara?”

“My friend. She… she died three years ago. She was supposed to be my maid of honor, but… she passed in a car crash two weeks before the wedding was originally planned.”

Silence.

“You’re saying you saw her?”

I didn’t answer.

She whispered, “She always wanted to wear red at my wedding. Said she’d be the only one bold enough to pull it off.”

That night, I heard knocking.

Not on the door.

From the inside of my closet.

I didn’t move. I stayed in bed, paralyzed with fear. The knocking continued—slow, steady, polite.

Then it stopped.

In the morning, I checked the closet. Empty.

Except for one thing:

A red dress.

Perfectly folded. Sitting neatly on the shelf. And it wasn’t mine.

I moved to another city within a month. Changed numbers. Cut ties with everything that reminded me of that day.

But sometimes…

In reflections, or crowds…

I still see her.

And she’s not smiling anymore.