Haunted by Pen Avey

Image by Pen Avey

Alison chose the dress from a charity shop window display: An original, 1960s orange sleeveless minidress, with a wide collar.

She would later say that it chose her.

Mildew assaulted her nostrils as she entered the cluttered shop and approached the counter. An elderly shop assistant struggled to remove the dress from a mannequin. Alison hoped it would fit so that the old woman’s wrestling wouldn’t be in vain. As it was, the dress fitted like a glove; the delicate side zip gliding up into place. She admired her reflection in the changing room mirror, thinking about the styling that would complement this look. Smoky eyes and pale lips; her long brown curls piled up into a beehive. She was already wearing suitable kitten heels.

It was important to make a good impression. Alison had only been working for a few weeks – her first full time job – so she was thrilled when her new boss invited her to a 1960’s themed fancy-dress party.

She went to unzip, but the fastener was snagged on something. Alison peeked through the changing room curtain. The shop had filled up since she came in, and the shop assistant was dealing with a small queue at the counter.
A middle-aged man appeared, clutching an assortment of shirts,
“Are you done in there, love?”
“Nearly,” mumbled Alison, letting the curtain drop back.

Watching her reflection chew its lip, she came to a snap decision. The party was tonight, so she would wear the dress for the remainder of the day, then after the party cut herself out of it, if necessary.

Bundling the skirt and blouse she wore moments ago into her shoulder bag, she pulled the price label from the dress and joined the queue to pay.
———————–
Back on the street, Alison meant to turn right, towards her favourite coffee shop for lunch, but she was strangely compelled to turn left instead. Walking away from the town centre, she found herself stood in front of a rather old-fashioned hairdressers; nothing like the edgy town centre one she usually went to for her six-weekly trim.

Bells jangled overhead as she opened the door.

A woman wearing a floral polyester overall handed a magazine to the salon’s only customer, whose hair was concealed by a large static hairdryer.

The hairdresser sat Alison in a chair and proceeded to pile her hair up, using a huge amount of Kirby grips. When she’d finished, Alison admitted to herself that the stylist had done a great job. To be fair, she’d probably trained when beehives were all the rage.

Alison paid and left, her empty stomach complaining about a very late lunch, but as she headed back into town her eyes were drawn to a sign advertising free makeovers at the beauty counter of a department store. She hurried up ornate steps and entered the Art-Deco building. She’d never been in here before, preferring the value and variety that town centre shops offered.

As luck would have it, the beauty assistant was available to apply a gorgeous smoky eye and glossy lip that matched her look to perfection. On her way out, Alison caught sight of her reflection in the huge shop window and grinned. She could have stepped straight out of the 1960s.

Her growling stomach had almost given up hope when she spotted a small café down a side street. Not her usual type of place, but she’d started feeling a little light-headed with hunger. Pushing open the door, she entered a world of beige Formica and nicotine paint work. A young woman stood behind the counter, chatting on a phone clamped between her shoulder and chin, while slicing beef tomatoes.
The only other person in the café was an old man, sitting at the table nearest the counter with his back to the door. He was reading a newspaper; the remains of an all-day breakfast congealing on his plate.

As Alison approached the counter, the young woman nodded and told whoever was on the phone that she had to go. She walked towards the rear of the prep area to return the phone to its cradle.
Alison picked up the knife, glistening with tomato juice, then turned and sat down opposite the old man. He lowered his paper, his smile at unexpected company slipping from his face at the same rate as the colour drained from it.
“Babs? No, it can’t be,” he galloped his words, “ I didn’t mean to kill you! It was years ago! I served my time! Please?!”

Alison didn’t know or care what the old man was saying.

The only word in her head as the knife slashed through the air towards him was ‘vengeance.’