Scary Wig

Tuesday, August 12th 2025. | Halloween

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The Wig

It started innocently enough. Brenda, a woman whose life had settled into a predictable, albeit comfortable, routine, decided she needed a change. She was tired of her mousy brown hair, tired of its dullness, tired of feeling invisible. She yearned for something…more. Something bold, something daring, something that screamed, “Look at me!”

So, she went wig shopping. Not just any wig, mind you. Brenda envisioned a cascade of crimson waves, a fiery mane that would transform her into the vibrant woman she always felt she was deep down. The shop was a cluttered haven of synthetic and human hair, a symphony of colors and styles. Row upon row of mannequins stared blankly, each sporting a different coiffure, each promising a different persona.

And then she saw it. Nestled amongst a rack of platinum blondes and jet blacks, it shone. A riot of scarlet curls, a fiery inferno captured in hair. It was magnificent. It was gaudy. It was perfect. Brenda tried it on, and in the mirror, she barely recognized herself. The transformation was instant. She felt powerful, alluring, dangerous. She bought it without hesitation.

The first few weeks were exhilarating. Brenda wore the wig everywhere. To work, where she received admiring glances and whispers of intrigue. To the grocery store, where strangers complimented her bold new look. To dinner with friends, who were initially stunned but ultimately supportive. The wig was her shield, her armor, her alter ego. She named her “Scarlett.”

But then, things started to get…weird. Brenda began experiencing vivid, unsettling dreams. Dreams of fire and blood, of a woman with wild red hair screaming in agony. She dismissed them as stress, a side effect of her newfound confidence. But the dreams persisted, growing more intense each night.

One evening, as Brenda was preparing for bed, she noticed a faint burning smell. She couldn’t locate the source, but the acrid odor hung heavy in the air. As she reached for Scarlett, resting on its Styrofoam head on her dresser, she felt a jolt of static electricity. A sharp, stinging shock that made her yelp and pull her hand away.

She examined the wig, but saw nothing amiss. She attributed the shock to static electricity, a common occurrence in the dry winter air. But a nagging unease settled in her stomach. That night, the dreams were worse than ever. The screaming woman was clearer, closer. Brenda could almost feel the heat of the flames licking at her skin.

The next day, objects in Brenda’s apartment started moving on their own. A book fell off the shelf, a picture frame crashed to the floor. Small, insignificant things, but enough to keep Brenda on edge. She felt like she was being watched, that something malevolent was present in her home. The only thing that seemed unaffected was Scarlett, sitting silently on her dresser, a beacon of crimson menace.

Brenda tried to talk herself out of it. She was imagining things, letting her anxiety get the better of her. It was just a wig, a silly piece of synthetic hair. But the feeling of dread intensified with each passing day. She found herself avoiding Scarlett, reluctant to even look at it. The vibrant color now seemed to mock her, a constant reminder of the unsettling events that had plagued her since she bought it.

One night, Brenda awoke to find Scarlett on the floor beside her bed. She distinctly remembered placing it on the dresser before she went to sleep. She picked it up, her hands trembling. As she did, she heard a whisper, a faint, raspy voice that seemed to come from the wig itself. “*You can’t escape me.*”

Terror seized Brenda. She threw the wig across the room, screaming. It landed with a soft thud, the crimson curls bouncing gently. She scrambled out of bed, fumbling for the light switch. When the room was illuminated, Scarlett lay innocently on the floor, as harmless as a discarded toy.

Brenda knew she had to get rid of it. She packed Scarlett into a garbage bag, her hands shaking so violently she could barely tie the knot. She drove to a remote area, far from her apartment, and tossed the bag into a dumpster. She felt a wave of relief wash over her as she drove away, convinced that she had finally rid herself of the cursed wig.

But the next morning, as she opened her closet, she saw it. Sitting on the top shelf, nestled amongst her scarves and hats, was Scarlett. The crimson curls seemed to gleam in the dim light, mocking her. Brenda screamed, a primal, bone-chilling sound that echoed through the empty apartment. The wig was back. And this time, it wasn’t going anywhere.