It started in the attic. Well, it started over a few glasses of wine, talking about our weddings and whether we could still get into our wedding dresses. I knew mine was boxed away in the attic, a fair way back, but in my mind I knew where it rested. Never cleaned but treasured all the same, as one of the most exquisite dresses I had ever seen or worn. I suggested that I get it down and get the girls to take some photos of me in it, reliving the dress in a future that it had never known.

Fuelled by wine and encouragement, I said I’d be 5 minutes and went up the stairs to unleash the ladder and seize the box in question. The ladder accepted its invitation without protest, easily sliding down into its place despite its infrequent need. Up the rungs I climbed, pushing open the hinged hatch door until it’s locking mechanism caught.

The attic smelt, well, like attics do. Foisty, dusty, and slightly eerie, if eerie can smell. I consciously pushed away the imagined cobwebs, eight legged ‘friendlies’ that no doubt had made their home, and whatever else I might find in there. There was only one thing I needed to find, and as soon as I was on two feet in the roof of my house I spotted it, behind some crates, a couple of suitcases and boxes of books. The box that housed my beautiful dress was nondescript; plain, with the designer’s name in script across the top in slightly greyed out black type. I smiled as soon as I saw it and, wine fuelled, had no patience in waiting to get the box back down the ladder to make the clothing exchange, instead, I decided to make the swap right now, in the attic space. Yes, it was cramped but I could just about stand, which was enough, and no, I hadn’t really considered how to navigate the ladder again with it on, but within a few minutes, here we were, my shorts and t-shirt, swapped for this full length, lace overlaid, figure silhouetting dress, that still fitted almost as perfectly as it had the first time I tried it on.

I spoilt myself with a short twirl, my smile even wider with the feel of the skirt fabric lifting as I spun. Giddy to show my friends downstairs, I made my way back to the hatch, hitching the long semi-full skirt up before feeling for the rungs with my feet, and counting down the steps that precariously offered themselves in my descent.

Once down, I turned to make my way to the stairs, observing from my second step that things weren’t quite as they had been. I paused. What had gone on here? I looked back from where I’d come. The ladder was still there, the ceiling hatch the same shape, but a glistening dark, almost inky backdrop behind it. Were the edges moving, or was that the wine? Either way, I gave my head a little shake. Opening my eyes again, something definitely wasn’t quite the same. I stepped cautiously towards the staircase, descending each step slowly, trying to see through the bannister as to what might present itself; would it be the same glow of light from the front room, tinkling laughter with the clink of glass? The hallway was dark, and there was a glow from the living room, but rather than a warm, inviting lamplight, a red, flickering cloak of envelopment seeped into where I now found myself. I looked behind; all was as it had been, in front, not anything like it had been.

I walked through the doorway, and suddenly the room erupted with noise, spectacular and thunderous foot stamping. Looking down, floorboards remained below my feet, but now as an old and varnished stage. Looking back up, I am blinded by a spotlight; blinking makes my eyes water, blurring what might be behind the light if I could see further. The noise is deafening, but trumped by one booming voice, a larger than life character who stands at the front of the stage, arms abreast as if to welcome what lies beyond, inciting the roars, the foot stamping and cheers, a truly excitable audience, so it would seem.

He turns to see me, arms remaining open, his face looming towards mine, so close I can feel his hot, gin-fuelled breath against my face, the whiskers of his incredibly coiffed moustache grazing my cheek as he stage-whispers, with venom, to get myself to the front, to show the people what they want, to entertain. I tentatively take a step forward, and am rewarded with his hot, fat hand in the small of my back, providing a much more efficient route of travel to front and centre of the stage.

The lights are hot, the air is stifling, jousting perfumes, sweat, drink and stale breath in nauseous tides, and I feel adrenaline surge through my limbs, turning them jelly-like, wishing the urge to run to collect me and carry me away from this spectacle. However, it offers an exact opposite response, cementing me to the spot, while I desperately run the corridors of my mind for something to offer. I take a deep breath. And with that intake, silence falls on the crowd before me; an ocean of dull sparkle, crushed velvet, white gloves, gaudy extravagant hairstyles, makeup sliding down the sweaty faces turning what once was beauty into cerebral decline, like melting wax, collapsing, silent gaping mouths, laughing, broken, stained and tartared teeth, the impression of gasping for air as they clutch their corseted stomachs. I close my eyes in the hope that this garish dream dissipates and I find that perhaps I have fallen asleep, but when I open them, the garish, visceral, disorienting darkness of this twisted Belle Epoque remains.

I twist my head to look to the wings, an escape route perhaps, only to find costumed horror delights contorting to watch my performance. Slowly, the roaring noise returns, this time aggressors calling, demanding what they came for, of which I have no knowledge. I feel tears of fear prick my eyes, my hands sweating against the lace of my dress, my heart wanting to leap from my rib cage and fly out through the roof to escape what I face. I hear Oscar again, shouting for me to go on, to start, his gesturing implying a certain end to me if I don’t do what is expected. I shake my head and mouth ‘I can’t’, discovering that his response to this is to walk towards me, a certain smile on his face, arms again outstretched, but this time it feels as if he is a protector, one that will remedy this situation, let those corseted chorus comrades placate the howling beasts before me. And he does; he puts his arms around my waist, calling for calm, explaining that ‘she’s shy, delicate and needs some encouragement’, which he also remedies by lowering his hand once again to the small of my back, pushing me forward into the baying, howling pack in the pit below.

©Joanna Long

Echoes In Ink

August 2026