Fashion Victims

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Clothes and a Curse

Leeds Corporation has quite a number of ghosts among its invisible assets. There are at least a couple of municipally-owned spectres at Temple Newsam; there is one, which presumably comes under the Waterworks Department, at Swinsty Hall, alongside the reservoir in the Washburn Valley: there is the haunted Abbot's bed in the Kirkstall Museum, and probably one or two others which have temporarily slipped my memory. But I must confess that until this week I did not know that we had a municipal Curse in Leeds.
The present bearer of the Curse is the lovely lady whom you see in the picture. She is one of the waxworks on which Mr. Kenneth Sanderson's collection of old-time costumes are set out to their best advantage in the Leeds Art Gallery. On her head she wears a lace lappet, or head-dress, and it is with this that my story, which comes to me from Mr. Sanderson, is concerned.
The lappet belonged originally to Madame du Barry, having been given to her by Louis XV. Before her execution, she is said to have placed a curse upon every item in her wardrobe, declaring that ill-luck would attend anyone who presumed to wear her possessions.

The Curse in Action

Her treasures were scattered during the Revolution, and ultimately this lappet turned up at a Paris saleroom where it was bought by an English visitor for his wife. That was in 1794. The lady wore the lappet at the Waterloo Victory Ball, and when coming home she was thrown out of her carriage and killed. Later, her daughter wore it — and immediately met with serious injuries through falling from her horse.
Then the lappet was hidden for a time, no one daring to wear it. Eventually, however, it was rescued by one of the younger generation who wore it at a ball. Not long afterwards she was drowned at sea.
Gradually, the lappet's evil reputation was forgotten, but was discovered afresh when tragedy befell its new owner in 1914. After that it was kept securely hidden and only given to Mr. Sanderson for his collection on condition that he would never allow it to be worn by anyone — except the waxen beauty in my picture. So far she is bearing up well, but if ever she suffers from mice, damp or any other evils to which wax is heir, you will know the reason why.

— Yorkshire Post, 29 July 1939

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Another Tatler reader shares her Queer Story.

Crombi

The Mandarin's Robe

In April, 1905, I was given a mandarin's robe for a birthday present. It was a gorgeous garment bought at Burnet's, a riot of rainbow colours on a jade-green background. The robe was in perfect condition except for a few stains on the lining, but as mandarins' robes were more costly and less generally worn then than now, I did not worry over such a trifling defect.

My home at this time was a "bachelor's" flat at Park Mansions, Knightsbridge — a sitting-room, bathroom, and bed-room and tiny hall, at the extreme end of a corridor, shut off from the main lift by glass doors, which usually slammed heavily whenever anyone passed through them.

The mandarin's robe was carefully put away in a sofa ottoman, but when my maid came into my bedroom the next morning she literally "sniffed" the air, and asked me if I didn't notice the horrible smell which pervaded the flat. "Just like a corpse that wants burying quickly," she said.

I, too, had noticed a peculiar odour, and as the morning wore on it became so disturbing that I sent for the manager, and asked him whether it were not possible for a dead mouse or rat under the flooring to have caused it.

He negatived my suggestion; "there was not room between the flooring and fireproof concrete to allow even the passage of half a mouse.

However, the smell of decomposition fortunately vanished, and nothing untoward happened until one afternoon when my maid told me that she would not stop in the flat by herself. "For there's somebody in soft shoes who keeps on padding from the bathroom into your bedroom, and who comes in from outside, even if the front door is locked; and I've often seen the handle of the sitting-room door turn," she added, "and not a soul outside."

Here was a pretty predicament, but as the days passed I, too, experienced the same happenings, and then I fell ill with a most mysterious illness which the late Sir James Reid and Dr. Edward Wallace diagnosed as some kind of poisoning. The upshot was that I was ordered to live in more commodious surroundings, which I speedily discovered at Harrington Court, South Kensington.

The remainder of my tenancy at Park Mansions was nerve-racking; I tried to locate the owner of the soft shoes and failed every time. On one occasion a figure preceded me through the swing doors which made no noise as they closed behind it. I followed it down the passage and actually saw it enter the flat, but there was nobody there when I came in.

At Harrington Court matters became worse—two lovely Persian cats died suddenly in horrible agonies; nothing prospered with me. A series of minor troubles occurred, then my brougham was smashed by a motor omnibus, and the horse fell lame. The soft footsteps were now constantly heard—chiefly at night—and as my health rapidly declined, I spent most of my time in bed, too weak to move.

One day my housemaid (who had gipsy blood in her veins) opened her heart, and told me more about the "hauntings" than I had ever imagined. She said she was firmly convinced that there was something "very wicked" which caused them, and finally she besought me to let her dress me, and go with her in a cab to consult a wonderful "card-woman" at Lambeth, who would advise us what to do.

I allowed her to do as she suggested, and I arrived at the "wise woman's" more dead than alive. Obedient to orders, I first shuffled and then cut the cards, and when they were dealt out the oracle spoke her mind "free," as the old ballad has it.

"You've something in your house that's causing all this trouble. It's not a dress or a dressing-gown, it's a cross between 'em. I've never seen anything like it, all gold and colours. But there's blood on it; you go home and burn it, or you'll never know peace!"

So, to make a long journey short, Jane and I returned home, my soul rent between fear of the unknown and a womanly desire to retain the lovely garment. But my belief in the occult triumphed, and that same evening I consigned the mandarin's robe to the fire. It burnt in an extraordinary way, falling into dust, with no flare or flames, and its destruction was witnessed by Mr. Eveleigh Nash, who knew the whole story of the "hauntings."

From that time I was not troubled with the mysterious illness, and we heard no more footsteps! Later I inquired at Burnet's as to the past history of the robe, but they were not communicative, and all I gathered was that it represented part of loot from the sack of Pekin.

Algernon Blackwood and others were of opinion that the garment had been used for ceremonial magic and that the owner, who had probably been murdered (hence the sinister stains), resented it being worn by anyone else, and by reason of certain powers, was able "after death" to demonstrate his feelings in the horrible way which I have described. — M. M. C. ff.

— The Tatler, 23 November 1927

[Swampirella]

A wonderfully creepy story, I love it!

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Anon - The Haunted Dress: (Bradford Observer, 18 November 1869). "I promise that, in my greatest trouble, I will come to you, Annette; and you, on your part, promise that you will not shrink from me." Emmeline's premonition that she will die on returning to India proves horribly accurate - as does her conviction that husband Captain Danvers will be delighted should this prove the case. According to her, the sole reason he wants her back in Madras is because "no questions are asked, either about gradual decay, or sudden death there." Annette extracts her friend's promise that she will make contact should these morbid fears prove justified .... whereupon Emmeline has another vision, this time of her friend wearing a blue dress "trimmed about the body and sleeves with Christmas roses." What can it mean?

R. J. Ren - Candy Cane: (10th BHF Book of Horror Stories, 2023). Ewan, a Christmas fanatic, has three Santa suits. One for everyday wear. A second set aside for seasonal employment at the local superstore. And the third - better you never get to meet him when he's wearing that one. And you're gonna tell your little ones to sit on this guy's lap?

Attachments:

Anon - The Haunted Dress.pdf (84.57 KB)

John Macklin - The Haunted Dress.pdf (61.42 KB)

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David McDougall

Nick Shadow [Shaun Hutson] - Fashion Victim: (The Midnight Library: Blind Witness, 2007). Becky simply must model the gorgeous corseted red dress at the charity fashion show, but boutique owner Sadie is adamant it can only be worn by the girl it was designed for - Becky's glamorous schoolfriend, Daisy Barber. As Becky argues the toss, her light-fingered brat sister pockets a doll dressed in a miniature version of the same hot red number ...

The big night has arrived. When Daisy is taken ill, Becky offers to take her place on the catwalk - anything to help the promoter out of a tight spot!

[andydecker]

How is Shaun in soft-core mode?

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Mar 8, 2024 11:59:38 GMT andydecker said:

How is Shaun in soft-core mode?

Not really in a position to say as it's only the second Nick Shadow I've read. Target audience, 8-11 year-olds, so little in the way of chainsaw massacres and exploding members. Fashion Victims might have come from Mary Danby's splendid Nightmares series. I love the title illustration.

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RIOT AT MINI SKIRT FUNERAL
Priest swept into grave

A mass of mini-skirted mourners swept a priest, offering prayers, into the open grave during fantastic scenes at a burial service in Georgetown, Guyana.

Riot police and mounted troopers were called out to control thousands of teenagers at the funeral of 17-year-old Joan Forrester, killed in a weekend road crash.

Mourners at the funeral parlour quaffed iced beer and passed bottles of rum and whisky from hand to hand as they milled round the corpse, laid out in a fashionable mini dress. The American priest, Fr. Jerry Demetri, had his pocket picked of a wallet containing 12 dollars and a 100-dollar cheque.

Unable to conduct service

Father Demetri tried desperately to conduct a service amid the melee, but he had to give up as the struggling, seething cortège drifted out, leaving behind two wrecked doors and several broken windows.

Chaos reached its peak at the graveyard.

Father Demetri, jostled from side to side of the grave, had only time to offer a brief prayer before he was swept over the edge by a human avalanche. - Reuter.


— Liverpool Daily Post, 24 November 1967