Ta Voix

Now, I am very much aware that being regaled with a ghoulish tale on such a night may seem entirely too cliché to be of remote interest. Granted, it does not help my case that my own introduction to this evil, fell on this day dedicated to such follies and farcical superstitions. Instead, I will ask you to consider another context, one that is a lot closer to home.                                                                         

The life of a dressmaker, a seamster or seamstress, a tailor and the like may seem rather mundane to you. Not just to you, but to the world as well. Conventional silvery needles and thread on their own are rather dull. The skill of those in this profession is often
incontestable. Whilst they meld fabric into the most practical, most gaudy, most impressive garments at your simple request, their work can often seem boorish and dripping with tedium. For a moment, think how numbing it is for them. Pincushions packed with pointed
occupants that always go missing when you need them most, a thimble here or there, and there or here. And, of course, that trusty pair of scissors, the ones that appear only two more uses away from snapping, but which will still not be replaced for quite some time. And it goes on, day after day with the same equipment, same patrons, ratios, requests, prices. And on and on, and on some more. You might assume, therefore, that the laborious pragmatism of which the dressmaker becomes an expert remains the total of their profession. They peak with each new ‘special’ project or commission, collect their wage and the cycle is repeated. Surely there can be nothing more to one of history’s most fundamental professions? One passed down through generations for necessity and not necessarily interest. 

                                                                                                                                                       But indulge my curiosity for a moment, if you please. Especially on this day, the 31st of our Octobers, a time practically ripe with macabre. Consider your own personal dressmaker, or the equivalent, wherever you might reside, and ponder for me if you truly know them. Not their clear-cut work, the products in their windows or behind their countertops, but what else they might do. To cope with the tiresome routine, one must have a rather fantastic outlet for all those stifled emotions, the wild creativity, curbed vexation, and feverish passion; those feelings and emotions which would simply not be professional to exhibit during business hours. So, when the last stock leaves the shelves, when the all too familiar wooden sign, finally flips to closed, hangs on the door, dressmakers, from the freezing mountain villages to the sprawling desert trading paradises begin to seek and strike quite different deals. Please bear in mind it is still the same store you know, their store. The forgotten tufts of unused fabric remain dangled over the old wooden beams, the floor stays littered with scribbled notes detailing the desires of the customers from the day before. Nothing changes. It is still our world. But the atmosphere is decidedly divergent. It might be dreary, or overly energetic depending on the mood of the day’s work; there might be an overpowering smell, or sheer silence. 

If an onlooker were to squint into the window, they might gaze upon the sight of the outwardly still-ordinary owner conversing with something decidedly unordinary. They might spot the works of that day pushed aside and replaced with other ‘materials’ that they would never believe the sight of! They might even see the dressmakers themselves, sharpening tools that look remarkably more honed than your average fastener or pin. This new style of vigorous motion and overly animated expression is a far cry from the small curt nods that you would have been accustomed to. They would swear that the things they saw were not of this world, far removed from anything human, but those things did not seem invasive to our reality. Could this madness be contained? Confined to the dressmaker
and their quarters only. Harnessed or requested by them and expertly weaved into our world, like thread with the newest of needles.

“Curiosity kills the cat,” you might reply with a shrug to their ghost-faced ravings. Dismissing such things as the concocted tales of a maniac, you would walk away as they shout desperate warnings after the trail of dust you kick up in your wake. But somewhere, in the back of your mind, amongst all the thoughts of hunger, renting responsibilities or medicine, you would feel unease. Relaying the very finite specifics of what you had just been told with a filter of ‘what if?’.

What if there was horror that could slip into this world? Who was to say it was bound by the cover of night? Or the underside of children’s beds? What if such horror was being let in plainly as a remedy for boredom? As you look down at the scruffily scrawled words all over the back of your hand, marking your shifts for the next few days, a grizzly gummy grin might form over your entire face as you think to yourself, how might I get in on this?