I BORROWED A WEDDING DRESS… AND FOUND A LETTER IN THE LINING😳

The day I tried on that wedding dress, I swear I felt something strange.

Don’t be afraid.

It’s not beauty.

Just…heaviness.

But I downplayed it.

After all, they’d borrowed it. From a vintage boutique downtown. The woman said it had only been worn once, twenty years ago. Cleaned. Preserved. Intact.

None of that mattered to me. I was happy to finally be able to afford something that didn’t seem cheap.

I took it home.

I hung it up carefully.

And every night before my wedding, I stared at him. I dreamed of my day. The aisle. The music. The man.

She was in love.

Deeply.

Idiot.

Young.

But the night before my wedding, as I was steaming the dress and checking for wrinkles… I felt a tug. Inside the lining, near the hem, there was something strangely sewn. A bump. Small. Flat.

Curious, I picked up a needle.

I opened it carefully.

And inside…

A note.

Old. Colorless. But the ink was still visible.

If you’re reading this, please don’t marry him. I beg you. He’s dangerous. I ran away because of the goals. — M.

My dress fell off.

I literally dropped it.

My heart raced.

I turned the note over.

There was more.

> “IF HE GAVE YOU THIS DRESS IT’S BECAUSE HE’S DONE IT BEFORE.”

But he didn’t.

I bought it at a boutique.

TRUE?

Or did he suggest the place?

I couldn’t remember anymore. Suddenly, everything went blurry.

I picked up the phone. I searched for the online store. There was no website.

How strange!

I checked the address. It didn’t exist on Google Maps.

Even rarer.

I drove there.

That night.

My wedding was tomorrow, but I couldn’t sleep. I needed answers.

And when did I arrive?

He had disappeared.

Closed.

Empty windows.

Dust.

There’s no trace of the old woman. There’s no trace that it was ever opened.

I knocked on the next-door neighbor’s door.

A young man with sleepy eyes opened it.

Hello… Sorry for the inconvenience. Do you know the boutique that used to be here?

He frowned.

> “Boutique?”

> “Yes… a vintage bridal shop. It’s owned by a woman…”

He shook his head.

> “Ma’am… This store has been closed for almost twenty years.”

I froze.

> “But… I bought a dress there a few days ago.”

Left.

He looked me up and down. Then he whispered:

> “You’re the third woman to ask me that in five years.”

>My blood froze.

> “What happened to the others?”

He shrugged.

> “One canceled her wedding and disappeared.”

> “The other one… moved on.”

> “The last I heard, he disappeared on his honeymoon.”

Ran.

I returned to the car.

I was silent for twenty minutes.

Then I called him, my fiancé.

I didn’t mention the note. Or the store. Or the neighbor.

I just asked:

> “Where did you say you were before you met me?”

There was a pause.

Then he said:

> “Why are you asking me that now?”

And I knew it.

I knew that note was no coincidence.

That dress was no coincidence.

What tomorrow?

It could be my last day alive.

💔I BORROWED A WEDDING DRESS… AND FOUND A LETTER IN THE LINING (EPISODE 2)
I woke up quietly.
Not the peaceful kind.
The kind that feels… strange. Like something was holding its breath.
I sat up in bed, my hair tangled and my heart pounding from a dream I didn’t remember, only the feeling it left behind: cold. Stained.
The note was still on the nightstand.
Crushed. Crumpled. But it was still there.
> “IF HE GAVE YOU THIS DRESS, HE’S DONE IT BEFORE.”
I held it like it was glass.
I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to believe that he, the man I was going to marry, could have secrets deep enough to rot silk.
But I also couldn’t ignore it anymore.
The dress was back in its box. Ivory, vintage, hand-embroidered. It still smelled faintly of lavender and… something else. Faint. Rusty.
I thought it was old perfume.
Now, she wasn’t sure it wasn’t old blood.
She needed answers. And I couldn’t ask her. Not yet. Not without proof.
So I drove.
Still in pajamas. Hair tied back. No makeup. Just scared.
The store was only ten minutes from the hotel. A neighborhood shop wedged between a beauty salon and a used bookstore. It was called “Second Chances.”
I couldn’t remember the name on the receipt.
I pushed open the door.
The bell didn’t ring.
Because there was no bell.
There was… nothing.
No dresses.
No racks.
Not a counter.
Just an empty room with dusty tiles and a broken mirror leaning against the back wall.
Empty.
Abandoned.
Like it had been that way for years.
I went back outside, confused. A man sweeping the sidewalk next door looked up.
> “Looking for something?”
> “The clothing store. It was here. Two days ago.”
He frowned.
> “That place has been closed since 2019.”
I swallowed.

> “Are you sure?”
> “I live upstairs. I’ve never seen it open.”
I was short of breath.
I walked back to my car with shaking hands.
If the shop didn’t exist… where did I get the dress?
And who, who, left that note inside?
I didn’t go to the hotel. I couldn’t.
Instead, I went to my aunt’s.
He’s calm. I knew. He’s seen too much in his life to be surprised.
When I walked in with the dress box in my hand, she didn’t say anything.
She just pointed to the stove and put on some tea.
Then I showed her the note.
And I told her everything. When I finished, she leaned back in her chair. Her gaze was lost.
> “This feels like something that happened to someone I knew. A long time ago.”
> “Who?”
> “Her name was Morayo. She also wore a secondhand dress on her wedding day. From a shop that wasn’t really a shop.”
> “What happened to him?”
> “The same thing you’re afraid of.”
> “She married the wrong man.”
> “And the dress tried to warn her.”
I stared at her.
> “Are you saying the dress is… damn?”
She didn’t answer directly.
Instead, she stood up.
> “Go home. Burn the note. Leave the dress. Don’t wear it.”
But I did none of those things.
Because that night, when she picked up the dress box again…
It was already open.
And, neatly placed on top of the folded dress…
There was another note.
Smaller.
New handwriting. Just five words:
> “You have seven days left.”
My heart stopped.
I wasn’t even married.
I BORROWED A WEDDING DRESS… AND FOUND A LETTER IN THE LINING (EPISODE 3)
I stared at the note. Just five words:
> “You have seven days left.”
It was neatly folded on top of the same dress I’d tried so hard to forget. The one I rented from a little shop tucked between two old buildings. The shop that no longer existed. Or maybe never existed.
My fingers trembled as I picked it up. Another letter. Neater. Firmer. Less frantic than the first. But it didn’t matter. It felt just as heavy. Just as bad.
Seven days for what?
He didn’t believe in curses. Not really. And yet, fear has a way of making even the most rational person start believing irrational things.
I called the number on the dress rental receipt again. Still no answer. She was still dead.
I told myself it was just someone playing a joke on me. Maybe someone at the store found out I was getting married. Maybe they wanted to scare me. Maybe it was nothing.
But it didn’t feel like anything.
I didn’t go to work the next day. Instead, I spent the morning scouring the internet, trying to find any trace of a boutique called “Second Chances.” Business listings, Facebook pages, archived Yelp reviews… Nothing. It was like the place had vanished off the face of the earth.
Or worse. Like it had never been there.
By midday, I was exhausted.
That’s when Phola called.
My best friend. My voice of reason.
“You sound like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said. “What happened now?”
I told her everything.
The first note. The second. The empty storefront. The man outside who swore it had been closed for years.
She was silent for a moment. Then:
“Are you sure you’re not just… overwhelmed? In other words, wedding stress is real. Maybe your mind is playing tricks on you.”
He didn’t blame her. Maybe he sounded crazy.
But that didn’t explain the notes.
It didn’t explain the closed storefront.
And I couldn’t explain why I had this deep, nagging feeling in my stomach that something about the dress was not only wrong… but dangerous.
That night, I took the dress out again. I spread it carefully on the bed. The fabric was still beautiful. Delicate. Not a single thread out of place.
I ran my hands along the seams. Nothing.
Then the lining.
And then I felt it.
A tiny bump near the hem. I took a small pair of nail scissors and made a small cut.
Inside, tucked between layers of fabric, was something wrapped in plastic.
A photograph.
It was faded, old, slightly torn around the edges. But I recognized the smile. The same smile that greeted me the first time I walked into that “store.”
It was the woman who gave me the dress. Only younger. Standing next to another woman wearing the same dress.
And written on the back?
“She also wore it. 1997.”
No names. No address. Just one year.
I lay back on the bed, my heart racing. What did it mean? Why
hide a photo?
And more importantly… where were those women now?
I grabbed my phone. I did a reverse image search. Nothing.
But something about the second woman’s face… felt familiar.
Not someone I knew. But someone I’d seen.
Somewhere.
And then it hit me.
The old obituary section in the archives. I’d seen her there.
She’d died in 1997.
Cause of death?
“Unexplained accident.”
I dropped the phone again. This wasn’t a ghost story. It was something more. But I wasn’t going to give up.
I wouldn’t give up.
Not without answers.💔✅

💔I BORROWED A WEDDING DRESS… AND FOUND A LETTER IN THE LINING (EPISODE 4)
I didn’t sleep that night.
The second note was in my palm, almost warm from how long I’d held it. I read the words over and over.
“You have seven days left.”
What for?✅

Was it a joke? A scare? Or some cruel marketing ploy by a failed bridal shop?
Whatever it was, it worked. My thoughts spun like a broken carousel.
In the morning, my eyes were puffy from lack of sleep. My fiancé, Dayo, called. Twice.
I didn’t answer.
I needed space. Answers. And maybe a little courage.
I returned to the street where I found the dress shop. I checked every corner, every alley, every back door. Nothing. The shop’s name, “Second Chances,” didn’t appear online. It had no website. No social media. I didn’t have the receipt in my bag.
It was as if I had imagined it all.
But the dress was real.
So were the notes.
I sat in the car, frustrated. Then I remembered the name my aunt had mentioned:
Morayo.
It wasn’t common.
I searched online. I added terms like “wedding,” “secondhand dress,” and “Lagos.”
At first, nothing.
Then, a forum post caught my eye:
“Bride in vintage dress – Missing 48 hours after wedding.”
It was a comment thread on an old Reddit-like platform. Buried.
I clicked.
And there she was.
A photo. Morayo. Smiling. Holding hands with a man who seemed… familiar. But I couldn’t place him. The comments were full of speculation: reluctance, kidnapping, voluntary escape. One mentioned an unnamed bridal shop.
“Just knowing where it was was enough,” someone wrote. “The lady who ran it was older. Discreet. She said every dress finds its owner.”
That’s what the woman who gave me mine said.
The more I scrolled, the more disgusted I became.
It couldn’t be a coincidence.
I texted Dayo:
> We need to talk. But not about the wedding.
He replied instantly:
> Are you okay?
> Where are you?
I ignored the second message. Instead, I went to my friend Zainab’s apartment.
He opened the door, looked at me, and said,
“You found another note, didn’t you?”
I nodded.
We sat in his room, the box of dresses between us. He was silent as I told him everything. The notes. The empty shop. Morayo. He frowned and asked,
“Have you checked with a fabric specialist? Maybe someone can trace where the dress was originally made. They might be able to lead us somewhere.”
It wasn’t a bad idea.
We called one.
We told him we were film students researching vintage bridal designs. He agreed to stay.
When he saw the dress, he was stunned.
“It’s hand-stitched. From the late 1980s. Possibly custom-made. But the lining?”
He turned it inside out.
“This isn’t original. Someone disturbed it. Do you see this seam? It was done later. Sloppier.”
I bowed.
“Can you see what was removed?”
He paused. He ran a gloved hand along the seam.
“There was something rectangular here. Quilting. Maybe a hidden pocket?”
My skin prickled.
“A hidden pouch?”
“Can we open it?”
“Not without damaging the integrity of the dress. I advise you.” I thanked him. I took the dress. And didn’t listen.
That night, at Zainab’s kitchen table, I used her sewing box. My fingers trembled, but I managed to undo the stitches.
Between layers of silk and cotton was a small black velvet pouch.
Inside?
A ring.
Simple. Silver. But engraved.
Two initials: DO
My heart sank.
Dayo’s initials.
I almost dropped the ring.
“It can’t be,” Zainab whispered. “She gave you the dress?”
I shook my head.
“No. I rented it. She doesn’t even know where. I picked it out on my own. She said she trusted my taste.”
But now I wasn’t so sure.
Was it trust?
Or strategy?
I needed answers.
From Dayo.
I drove to her house. The dress, still in the box, on the passenger seat. The velvet pouch in my bag. When she opened the door, her face softened.
“You finally came. I was worried.”

I walked in.
> “I need to ask you something. And I need you to be honest.”

I nodded.

I held up the ring.
> “Do you know this?”

His eyes opened wide.

He didn’t recognize him.

In a panic.
> “Where did you get it?”
> “Answer the question, Dayo.”

He hesitated.

Then he looked at me.
> “You shouldn’t have found it.”

My legs went weak.
> “So it’s yours?”
> “It was. A long time ago. Before you. Before anything else.”
> “Then why was it sewn into the lining of my wedding dress?”

He ran a hand through his hair.
> “I can explain. But not here. Not now. Please… wait.”

I didn’t wait.

I left. And as I got into the car, my phone vibrated.
An anonymous message.
Just one sentence:
“Don’t let him put that ring on you.”

💔I BORROWED A WEDDING DRESS… AND FOUND A LETTER IN THE LINING (EPISODE 5)
I didn’t drive home.
I didn’t even know where I was going.
I just kept driving.
The anonymous message was still on my screen, glowing in the darkness of the car as if it were breathing.
“Don’t let him put that ring on you.”
I read it over and over again as if it suddenly made sense, as if it came with a voice explaining why.
Why Dayo’s old ring was hidden in the lining of my wedding dress.
Why that warning came right after he begged me to wait.
Wait, what?
That his lies would compare to my truth?
I pulled into an empty parking lot near the Third Continent Bridge and turned off the engine.
The silence was thick.
The kind of heaviness that tightens your chest.
I opened the velvet bag again and stared at the ring. It seemed harmless. Simple. A silver band with “DO” engraved inside in faded writing.
But it felt… poisonous.
I called Zainab.
He answered on the second ring.
> “Tell me you’re not with him.”
> “I left. I couldn’t stay.”
> “Come back. Don’t sleep alone tonight.”
> “I won’t sleep,” I whispered. “I don’t think I can.”
I arrived at her house in less than twenty minutes. She answered the door wrapped in her robe, no makeup, her hair in a messy bun. Her face was tight with worry.
I dropped the box on the floor and collapsed on her couch.
> “I don’t even know who my fiancé was,” I said.
She sat down next to me, curling her legs.
> “Do you think he wore the dress?”
> “I don’t know. But someone did. Someone wanted me to find this.” I threw the bag on the coffee table as if it would burn my palm.
Zainab leaned forward.
> “Have you checked the ring carefully? Have you really looked at it?”
I blinked.
No. I hadn’t.
We took his phone and used the flashlight to examine every inch. And there, beneath the initials, was something I hadn’t noticed before.
Something almost invisible.
Etched in tiny, faded letters, as if it didn’t want to be found.
A date.
07-07-2018.
Five years ago.
My mind went blank. Then, quickly. Thinking in possibilities.
Five years ago, Dayo and I didn’t even date.
I opened my phone and Googled the date.
Nothing.
No news. No report. Just a small local blog from 2018. Buried deep.
A wedding announcement. “Morayo and David Oluwaseun marry in a low-key Ikoyi ceremony.”
A lump formed in my throat.
DO
David Oluwaseun.
Dayo’s full name.
I stared at the screen as if it might change.
Zainab leaned over my shoulder and read it too.
> “Dayo married someone named Morayo five years ago?”
> “No. No, it has to be a coincidence, right?”
But my heart didn’t believe it.
The same Morayo who disappeared 48 hours after her wedding?✅

Same dress? Same store?

The same initials inside the same ring sewn onto the same dress I borrowed?
I suddenly felt sick.
Zainab leaned back in her seat, eyes wide.
> “Did he ever tell you if he’d been married before?”
> “Never. He told me he’d never been in a serious relationship with anyone before me.” > “That’s not just a lie. It’s a life he hid.”
The next morning, I called him.
I didn’t even say hello.
> “Your full name is David Oluwaseun, right?”
He trailed off.
> “You married Morayo, right?”
Still nothing.
> “Say something, Dayo.”
> “How did you find out?”
That was it.
No denial. No confusion. Just… defeat.
> “Why didn’t you tell me?”
> “Because it was supposed to be over. He left. Disappeared. Everyone thought he’d run away.”
> “And the ring?”
> “I never found it after he left. I thought it was lost.”
> “So he magically appeared in my wedding dress?”
He sighed. > “Look, I can’t explain everything over the phone. But I didn’t say it. I swear.”
> “Someone did.”
> “So they might want to hurt you. Or me. I don’t know. But please… Don’t dwell on this. It’s dangerous.”
I laughed. Dryly. Bitterly.
> “You lied to me. About everything. And now you want me to trust you?”
Now he sounded desperate.
> “Morayo… He wasn’t who I thought he was. I made a mistake marrying her. And I thought I could start over with you.”
> “You didn’t start over. You started with your secrets.”
> “I still love you.”
He hung up.
Zainab and I sat at his desk later that night. We didn’t talk much. We just looked at the ring, the dress, and a whiteboard we’d taken from his old stationery store. Above it, I wrote:
WHO LEFT THE NOTES?
Then, below it:
Morayo? Someone
who knew her?
Someone who hates Dayo?
Someone trying to warn me?
So, I circled a word in red:
Why now?
Three days until the wedding.
I hadn’t returned the dress. Not because I’d forgotten. Not because I wanted to wear it. But because I needed answers.
The second note was folded inside my Bible.
> “You have seven days left.”
Seven days for what? I wondered…
Because something told me the dress didn’t want me to leave. Not without finishing the story it had started with me.
That night, I hung it on my bedroom door.
It looked at me as if it was waiting.
And I said out loud:

“If you want something from me, you’d better talk now. Because after Saturday, you’re going to be in serious trouble.”
I laughed nervously.
But then… The light in my room flickered.
Once.
Twice.
And when I got back to the door…
The dress was gone.
I screamed.
That night, I dreamed of a wedding.
Not mine.
Morayo’s.
He was standing under a canopy of flowers, wearing the dress I now had. His smile was wide. But his eyes… Terrified.
He looked past the guests and looked straight at me.
And he whispered one word:
> “Run.”
I woke up drenched in sweat, my pillow soaked, my heart pounding like an alarm drum.
My phone was blinking.
A new anonymous message.
This time, a photo.
Blurry. Taken from behind a curtain or a half-open door.
A woman. In white. Lying on the floor. Her eyes closed. A single text underneath: “She didn’t hear me.”

Final Part: “After the Rain”

On the morning of the wedding, Elena was not wearing the cursed dress.

Instead of white lace, he chose a sober, ivory-colored, unadorned gown. In the inside pocket, he carried Isabel’s letter, now crumpled, soaked by the dried tears of several nights.

She arrived at the church alone. It was raining furiously, as if the sky itself were trying to warn her once again.

Adrián was waiting for her at the altar. He smiled as always: charming, perfect… and now, for Elena, absolutely sinister.

But Elena didn’t walk toward him. He walked toward the priest’s microphone.

“Before we begin this ceremony,” he said firmly, “I want to share something. Not just with Adrian… but with all of you.”

A murmur ran through the church. Adrian’s mother paled. His sister lowered her gaze.

Elena took out the letter. She read it aloud, word for word.

If you’re reading this, it’s because someone else is walking down the aisle with him. Please run away before it’s too late…

The silence became suffocating.

This letter was written by Isabel, the woman Adrian was supposed to marry before me. She disappeared weeks before their wedding. He never reappeared. But her dress… her story… They found me.

Adrian took a step forward. His eyes no longer feigned gentleness.

—What are you implying, Elena?

She looked at him and was no longer afraid.

-I say I won’t be next.

A man in the audience stood up. He was a retired detective. He had closely followed Isabel’s case for years. Hearing the name sent a chill through his spine. And now, with that letter in the hands of his new fiancée… everything fell into place.

Minutes later, the police entered the church. Elena had sent copies of the letter, the photo, and the documents at dawn.

Adrian was arrested.

And the rain, which hadn’t stopped for days, stopped just as they took him out in handcuffs.

**

Weeks later, Elena visited the unmarked grave by the lake where Elizabeth’s ring was found. She nailed a small wooden cross with a plaque that read:

ISABEL, YOUR VOICE WASN’T LOST. THANK YOU FOR SAVING ME.

**

Months passed. Elena returned to the boutique where it all began. The old woman, with tears in her eyes, hugged her without saying a word.

And as she stepped outside, as the sun broke through the clouds for the first time in a long time, Elena took a deep breath.

Free. Hurrah!

After the rain…
there was finally light.