On the edge of Thimbleton, at the end of Hill Road, there is a house.
One of its windows is lit.
It has been lit since October 1958, since the night the lady of the house left this world.
No one has switched it off since.
The power to the house was cut in 1961.
The children of Thimbleton dare each other to walk up to the door.
They say if it opens on its own, the house is inviting you in.
It is not polite to refuse.
Open. Wipe your feet.— A. M.
Her name was Agnes Morte. The best seamstress in town:
there was a six-month waiting list, and brides were driven in from the next county.
If a stitch strayed by a millimeter, she remade the whole dress.
She had two weaknesses.
On Fridays, the late show at the Gloaming: always horror, always the third row.
In the evenings, magazines.
She took six horror monthlies, and her clippings covered every wall of the workshop.
In October 1958 they found her in the workshop, at her sewing machine.
Twelve dresses from her new collection hung on the dress forms.
Eleven were finished.
The house was sealed.
A week later, the neighbors heard the machine running upstairs again.
Quiet on the stairs. I am counting stitches.
To this day…
Every morning, fresh magazines turn up in the mailbox.
The mailman swears he never delivered them.
The envelopes carry no stamps, and the titles appear in no catalog.
At night the television in the workshop is on.
People who have looked through the window say it shows films no one ever made.
She watches.
She cuts out what she likes and pins it to the wall.
If the workshop door closes in your face, don't knock.
She is working.
Do not knock.— A. M.
A house of fashion for the souls of the last century.
Agnes Morte is still sewing, and the walls of her workshop are covered in cuttings from the other side. Any one of them can go home with you.
Est. 1958 · Still sewing
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