The Ghost Who Borrowed My Clothes
The first time it happened, I thought I was losing my mind. I had laid out my favorite blue dress on the chair beside my bed before going to sleep But when I woke up, it was gone. I searched my entire room under the bed, inside the wardrobe, even in the laundry basket but it had vanished. It wasn’t until that evening that I found it, neatly folded on my chair, smelling of a scent I couldn’t recognize. It wasn’t perfume, nor was it sweat, just a strange, warm fragrance that made my heart race
At first, I convinced myself I had misplaced it. But then it happened again. And again. Each night, a different outfit disappeared. My scarves, skirts, even my old pajamas—gone by midnight, only to return by morning, carrying that same unfamiliar scent. I started locking my wardrobe, thinking it might be my little sister playing a prank. But when I woke up one night to the faint rustling of fabric, I knew something else was going on
Determined to catch the thief, I stayed up the following night, pretending to sleep. Hours passed, and just when I was about to give up, a shadowy figure emerged from the darkness. My heart pounded. The figure moved silently, lifting one of my blouses from the chair and holding it up to the moonlight. I gasped. It was a woman a translucent, shimmering woman dressed in a long, flowing gown that looked eerily familiar
I bolted upright. “Who are you? I whispered, my voice shaking. The ghost turned to me, startled, her luminous eyes wide with surprise. For a moment, we just stared at each other, both unsure of what to do next. Then, in the softest voice, she spoke I’m sorry she said I didn’t mean to frighten you
I swallowed hard. “Then why are you stealing my clothes?”
The ghost sighed, lowering her gaze I… I used to live here. Many years ago. Before I She hesitated, then continued, “Before I passed away. I don’t remember much, but sometimes, I wake up feeling cold. Your clothes make me feel… alive again.”
I didn’t know whether to scream or cry. A ghost had been wearing my clothes like we were roommates sharing a wardrobe! But instead of feeling fear, I felt a strange kind of sympathy. She didn’t seem dangerous, just lonely. “What’s your name?” I asked cautiously.
She hesitated before whispering, “Amara.”
From that night on, Amara and I developed an odd sort of friendship. She would take a piece of my clothing every night, and in return, she told me stories about the past—about the old village, the market that once stood where my house was built, and the love she had lost. She had died young, she said, waiting for a man who never returned. Her spirit lingered, longing for warmth, for connection.
One evening, as I folded my laundry, I found a letter tucked inside my dress pocket. It wasn’t mine. The paper was old, the ink slightly faded, but the words were clear:
“My dearest Amara, I am coming home to you. Wait for me under the mango tree at sunset. Forever yours, Chijioke.”
I felt a shiver crawl down my spine. Could this be the man she had waited for? I found Amara that night, standing by my window, gazing at the moon. “I found a letter,” I told her. “I think it was meant for you.”
She trembled as she read it, her ghostly fingers tracing the words. Tears shimmered in her eyes. “He did come back,” she whispered. “I waited for him… but I never knew.”
We spent the next few days searching. With the help of my grandmother, we uncovered old village records and learned that Chijioke had indeed returned, only to find Amara gone. Heartbroken, he never married and was buried beneath the old mango tree where he had promised to meet her.
The night we found his grave, Amara stood before it, her form glowing in the moonlight. “I can feel him she said, a gentle smile on her face He’s been waiting too A soft breeze stirred the air, and for the first time, I saw peace in her eyes. As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon she turned to me Thank you she whispered. And then with a final, radiant smile, she faded into the morning light
From that day forward, my clothes remained where I left them, their scent unchanged. And though Amara was gone I knew she had finally found the warmth she had longed for
But Amara wasn’t just any ghost she was a lost soul, longing for warmth, waiting for a love she never knew had returned. And when I uncovered the truth, I realized… maybe some spirits just need closure
Would you share your wardrobe with a ghost Read the full story and tell me what you think