The notification arrived at midnight, lighting up four phone screens in four separate houses on Bittersweet Court.
THE GABLES GHOST: EPISODE 2 - THE RED DRESS IS NOW STREAMING.
Maya was already awake. She sat in the armchair in the corner of her bedroom, headphones on, watching Dan sleep. He breathed with the heavy, rhythmic ignorance of a man who believed his alarm system was enough.
She pressed play. The now-familiar gravelly voice filled her ears, accompanied by the faint, synthesized sound of a music box slowing down.
“We remember the dead in black and white,” the narrator purred. “We sanitize them. The police report for Case #94-0821 states that the victim was found in a state of undress. It implies vulnerability. It implies she was taken from her bed.”
Maya’s phone buzzed in her lap.
Chloe [12:03 AM]: Are you listening? Tell me you’re not listening. Elena [12:03 AM]: I’m transcribing it. He’s pivoting to the evidence log.
Maya ignored the texts, focusing on the voice.
“But the neighbors know the truth. The ones who were watching through their blinds. Juniper wasn’t sleeping. She was waiting. And she was wearing red. Silk. Vintage. A dress meant to be seen. A dress meant to be taken off.”
A chill crawled up Maya’s spine, unrelated to the air conditioning. The intimacy of the description felt voyeuristic, like a hand stroking her arm.
“The police never booked a red dress into evidence,” the voice continued. “Because by the time the sirens wailed, the dress was gone. The killer didn’t just take a life. He took a trophy. He folded it up, wet with her blood, and he took it home. He put it in a box. He put it in a wall. Or maybe…”
The audio paused for a beat—a theatrical silence that felt heavy with threat.
”…maybe he kept it to give to the next one.”
Maya ripped the headphones off. The silence of the bedroom rushed back in, but it felt thin, fragile. She looked at the walk-in closet door, suddenly terrified of what might be hanging in the dark between her blazers and Dan’s suits.
Chloe [12:15 AM]: I’m going to throw up. He kept it? Elena [12:16 AM]: Psychopathy 101. Tokenism. He relives the act through the object. Sarah [12:18 AM]: Stop. Please just stop listening.
Maya typed a response, her fingers stiff. He’s taunting us. He knows we’re looking.
She didn’t sleep. She lay in bed, eyes tracing the shadows on the ceiling, listening to the house settle. Every creak of a floorboard sounded like a footstep. Every rustle of the wind outside sounded like silk brushing against glass.
Dawn broke over The Gables with a deceptive softness. The sun burned through the mist rising from the wetlands, turning the dew on the lawns into diamonds. It was the kind of morning that realtors put on brochures.
Maya was in the kitchen, staring into her third cup of coffee, when she heard the scream.
It wasn’t a horror-movie shriek. It was a sharp, confused yelp, followed by the frantic barking of a dog.
Maya set her mug down—hard. Coffee sloshed onto the quartz. She ran to the front window.
In the center of the cul-de-sac stood the community gazebo. It was a pristine white hexagonal structure, usually the site of staged prom photos and HOA board meetings. A woman in neon running gear—Mrs. Gable from the next street over—was standing on the pavement, her golden retriever straining at the leash. She was pointing at the gazebo.
Maya followed the line of her finger.
Hanging from the central overhead beam of the gazebo, swaying gently in the morning breeze, was a slash of violence.
A red dress.
Maya didn’t think. She moved. She unlocked the front door and sprinted barefoot down the driveway, the gravel biting into her soles. The air was cold and smelled of the vanilla mulch, but beneath it, there was something else—the electric charge of a storm breaking.
Doors were opening around the circle. Chloe stepped out, clutching her silk robe tight, her face pale and un-contoured. Elena emerged from Number 2, already dressed in scrubs, phone in hand.
Sarah’s door remained closed.
Maya reached the gazebo first. She stopped at the bottom of the wooden steps, her chest heaving.
Up close, the dress was mesmerizing and terrible. It was a slip dress, deep crimson, with delicate spaghetti straps and a lace hem. It wasn’t new. The fabric had the heavy, fluid drape of vintage silk. It hung from a thick piece of twine looped over the rafters, twisting slowly, presenting itself to each house in turn.
“Is that…” Chloe whispered, coming up beside Maya. She wouldn’t look at it directly. She stared at her feet. “Is that the dress?”
“Don’t touch it,” Elena commanded, appearing on Maya’s other side. “It’s a crime scene. Or a replica of one.”
Mrs. Gable, the jogger, was backing away, fumbling with her phone. “I’m calling the police. Someone hung… there’s laundry… it’s vandalism.”
“It’s not laundry,” Maya murmured.
She stepped onto the gazebo floor. The wood was damp with dew. She moved closer to the garment. The dress was suspended at human height. It looked like a ghost was wearing it. There were no bloodstains. It was immaculately clean, pressed even.
The killer hadn’t just kept it. He had cared for it.
“Maya, get back,” Elena warned. “You’ll contaminate it.”
“I need to see the label,” Maya said, her voice flat. She needed to know if this was a theatrical prop bought on eBay or the real thing.
She leaned in, her face inches from the red silk.
The smell hit her first.
It was a complex, layered scent that triggered an immediate, visceral gag reflex. The top note was undeniable: the sharp, chemical stench of mothballs. Old, stale naphthalene. The smell of an attic that hadn’t been opened in decades. It coated the back of her throat.
But beneath the mothballs, as the wind shifted and the silk brushed against Maya’s cheek, there was a second scent. Faint. Floral. Modern.
Bergamot. Sandalwood. Iris.
Maya froze. Her breath hitched in her chest. She knew that smell. She smelled it every morning when she sprayed her wrists. She smelled it on her pillowcases. She smelled it on her son’s hair after she hugged him.
It was her perfume. Le Labo Santal 33.
But she hadn’t sprayed this dress.
She stumbled back, her heel catching on the gazebo step. Chloe grabbed her arm to steady her.
“Maya? What is it? Is there blood?”
Maya looked at her friends, her eyes wide and hollow. She looked at the dress, swaying innocently in the wind. The implication crashed into her like a physical blow.
“He didn’t just keep it,” Maya whispered, her voice trembling so hard the words barely formed. “He’s been in my house.”
“What?” Elena stepped closer, her doctor’s eyes scanning Maya for signs of shock.
“The dress,” Maya choked out, pointing a shaking finger at the red silk. “It smells like mothballs. But underneath… it smells like me.”
Chloe gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
“He stole my scent,” Maya said, the horror rising in her throat. “He must have… he must have taken a bottle. Or sprayed it. He wanted me to know.”
“To know what?” Elena asked sharply.
“That I’m next,” Maya said. “He’s casting the role. He’s dressing the set.”
A siren wailed in the distance, growing louder. The police were coming. But they would just see a dress. They would see a prank. They wouldn’t smell the message.
Across the street, the heavy oak door of Sarah Vance’s house finally cracked open. Sarah didn’t come out. She stood in the sliver of darkness, watching them. Even from this distance, Maya could see that Sarah wasn’t looking at the dress.
She was looking at Maya. And she was crying.
The wind picked up, blowing from the wetlands. It caught the hem of the red dress, making it dance. It looked alive. It looked like Juniper Black had come back to the cul-de-sac to finish the Tuesday Toss.
Maya wrapped her arms around herself, but she couldn’t stop shivering. The scent of bergamot and mothballs clung to the air, a toxic perfume that marked the transition from a cold case to an active hunt. The screen was shattered. The monster wasn’t in the podcast anymore. He was right here, and he had been close enough to smell her neck.