Doris Brooks had expected pearls, diamonds, even a flivver for her twentieth birthday— anything but a letter. Grandfather Jon had always given her the best things in life to commemorate her entry into this world. Why a letter this time? How was she to go out for a night on the town in Chicago society without a new trinket to show off? This was the 1920s, the modern age, for crying out loud. Glitz and glamor were her bread and butter.

Doris had read the letter twice, her eyes landing on the sentence that stung. ‘Something acquired too easily is a mark of the devil’s handiwork.’ She crumpled it and left it on her desk.

Since her grandfather had failed to provide, Doris put on her coat, taking matters into her own hands. She hurried to Michigan Avenue to purchase something to wear instead. Browsing the store, she passed on most of the clothing displays. They didn’t fit her mood.

Doris stopped at the counter. The clerk had narrow eyes, pencil-thin eyebrows, and high cheekbones. Her grin was unnerving.

Doris asked, “Is this all you have today? Such a limited display.”

The woman behind the counter sized Doris up, reached down, and handed her a box. She produced the item as a magician pulling scarves out of thin air.

Doris opened the oblong box. The perfect shape, perfect color! How had the clerk produced such clothing from right behind the counter?

Doris didn’t try it on. Her voice told her it would fit, and she trusted her instincts. She asked the price and the clerk responded. Doris was shocked. “So little?”

The woman shrugged. “I wouldn’t sell this to just anyone. Clothing so divine should never touch the skin of back-of-the-bus riders.”

After that statement, Doris bought it immediately.

Returning home, Doris entered her penthouse apartment with a victorious smile. She pranced into the main room. “Elsie, I have my dress for this evening.”

Red-haired maid Elsie emerged from the adjoining kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. Wearing a black frock and sensible shoes, she eyed the box in Doris’ hands.

“Yes, Ma’am.” Elsie’s brogue accent betrayed her Emerald Isle origins.

Doris ripped the ribbon off and opened the box. “Wait until you see it.”

Lifting the red-sequined, off-shoulder satin dress from the box, Doris admired its handiwork. The upper part was form-fitted to accent her curves and flared at the knees.

Doris surveyed every detail. “It’s the cat’s meow.”

Elsie’s eyes absorbed the dress. “It’s perfect, Miss Doris.”

“Naturally.”

The women moved near the fireplace, ablaze with a fire, where Doris had positioned a tri-fold, standing mirror as a final check before leaving the apartment. 

“You’ll turn every head, and that’s no lie,” remarked Elsie.

“I charged it to my grandfather’s account.” Doris’ shrill laugh filled the room. “The old poobah! Him and his devil’s handiwork. Ha!”

The maid, still eyeing the gown, tsked. “You ought’na joke about such things, miss. In the old country—”

“This is the modern age, Elsie,” interrupted Doris. “Adjust your superstitious noodle to the present. But I suppose with your education, you would believe in the devil.”

Elsie stiffened but didn’t respond.

Doris set a hand on the servant’s shoulder. “Now, now, Elsie. When we’re children, we’re told what’s on the inside is more important than what’s on the outside. But when we grow up, we know better, don’t we?”

Elsie grimaced.

Doris handed the gift to Elsie. “Hang it in the closet. I’m going to put on makeup before I dress up and go out tonight, ignoring prohibition all the way.”

Elsie inclined her head and turned to the closet while Doris marched into her bedroom. She wanted to call her mother. But her mother hadn’t bought a phone, so she’d have to write to her and describe the dress.

What was the word the clerk used? Divine! Not for the lower class. That statement she had made about the outside being more important than the inside—where had that come from? As if a voice had whispered it in her ear. All this trotting around town had changed her from her grandfather’s little girl.

Eyeing the crumpled ball of the letter on her desk, she scooped it up.

Help!

Doris jerked her head. No one was around. But like an animal on a scent, she knew the plea had come from the front room. She slid silently into the front room, halting at the doorway. The maid stood before the mirrors, the dress held up before her, scissors pointed at the bodice.

“Put that down.” Her voice was as sharp as panther claws.

Elsie spun around. “Ma’am. I found a sigil sewn-on the interior of the fabric. I fear—”

The words caught in Elsie’s throat. The dress’ sleeve moved on its own, and with the speed of a serpent, wrapped around Elsie’s neck. Taken by surprise, Elsie dropped the scissors and clutched at the material, but the satin only tightened.

Was this for real? Her eyes wouldn’t betray her. Nor her ears. She should—

Help a back of the bus rider?

The words in her head again. Elsie was unworthy of the garment, and the dress knew it. A part of her reveled in the knowledge, but as she clenched the crumpled paper in her hand, she recalled her grandfather’s letter.

The maid struggled to remove the fabric from her neck, falling to the floor. Doris stepped forward. But with a crack, the dress snapped Elsie’s neck.

Doris nearly vomited at the sound. She was too late. Elsie lay still, eyes unfocused.

Now, we go out. Don’t worry about her! I will take care of her later.

Doris’ eyes shifted to the dress. “Yes, yes we will go.”

Gathering her mettle, Doris picked up the gown and smoothed its wrinkles, pretending she would try it on. The clothing started to move on its own again, sensing a rebellion in her attitude. Without a second thought, Doris hurled the clothing into the fireplace.

Fire consumed the dress while something screamed inside Doris’ head. She ignored the wails of agony, cursing her for her choice. Doris instead opted to hold Elsie’s hand.