Story: Halloween night. From Evil Queen to French maid

by Melissa 

The scent of stale coffee and Cecilia's expensive perfume always clung to the air in the executive suite. It was a perfect reflection of Cecilia Wilson, sharp, successful, and utterly lacking in warmth. Cecilia didn't have colleagues, she had subordinates, and at the very bottom of that hierarchy was her secretary, Melissa.

Cecilia treated the woman less like a human being and more like an extension of the office furniture - a glorified, low-paid lever to fulfil her every capricious demand. Melissa's days were a monotonous grind of abuse: fetching black coffee exactly three minutes after Cecilia arrived, correcting her boss's spelling without ever pointing out the mistakes, and enduring endless, passive-aggressive critiques of her wardrobe, hairstyle, and general existence. "Stand up straight, Melissa, you look like a wilted flower," Cecilia would sigh, or "Honestly, darling, do try to look a little less present when I have clients here," as if Melissa's quiet efficiency was an active distraction. Melissa navigated this environment with the quiet efficiency of a seasoned ghost, rarely making eye contact, her professionalism a shield against the constant barrage of slights.

"Melissa, darling, the final check on the Halloween party details," Cecilia purred, not bothering to look away from her reflection in the polished glass of a framed "Woman of the Year" award. "Mine has arrived, of course, and is magnificent. The Evil witch Queen - a truly sophisticated choice, don't you think? It's meant to convey power, not cheap theatrics."

Melissa nodded, clutching a clipboard. "Yes, Ms. Wilson. And your instruction for my costume? It arrived this morning."

Cecilia smirked, her eyes gleaming with malice. "Ah, yes. The little French maid outfit. I thought it was charming. Demure. And it will really make my regal presence pop, don't you think? It suits your - how should I put this - service attitude perfectly."

Melissa just offered a thin, professional smile. "Whatever you think best, Ms. Wilson."

***

Later, during the evening, the company's annual Halloween gala was in full swing.

Cecilia, a vision of cold, dark ambition, held court from the elevated VIP section. Her Evil witch Queen costume was an expense account masterpiece: the gown was cut from heavy, crushed black velvet, cinched at the waist with a silver belt that looked forged, not bought. Her collar was high and structured, lined with stiff lace that framed her sharp jawline. On her head sat a delicate yet menacing silver crown, set with blood-red rubies, perfectly complementing the smoky eyeshadow and crimson lipstick that gave her an air of magnificent cruelty. She did not walk, she glided, radiating an arrogance that demanded the room's subservience. Every time a junior employee offered a nervous compliment, Cecilia would simply give a languid tilt of her crowned head, treating their admiration as the bare minimum required. She felt utterly superior, both to the employees and the silly, cheap costumes they wore. 

Below her, attending to the demands of the guests, was Melissa. Her costume was the epitome of degradation: a skimpy, ill-fitting French Maid outfit that consisted of a tiny black satin corset top, a ludicrously short, flouncy skirt edged in cheap lace, and stockings with garters that she kept nervously pulling up. On her head, a small, ridiculous white lace headband sat precariously on her neat bun. Melissa looked visibly uncomfortable, her pale complexion heightened by the humiliatingly revealing attire. 

Melissa navigated the crowded ballroom with the speed and efficiency of a panicked insect. She ducked under arms and skirted conversations, holding her silver serving tray like a shield. She didn't walk, she scurried. When a guest needed a drink, she didn't just deliver it - she offered it with a quick, shallow curtsy, her eyes fixed on the floor, murmuring a barely audible, "Right away, Sir" or "Right away, Ma'am." Her hands, usually steady on the keyboard, trembled slightly as she juggled empty champagne flutes and discarded napkins. She never lingered, never made eye contact, always moving to the next task, desperate to disappear into the blur of the background, exactly as Cecilia intended. 

Cecilia watched her secretary flit about, a small, satisfied smirk playing on her lips. There she is, Cecilia thought with a vicious swell of pleasure. Exactly where she belongs: seen, but not heard, and serving my every whim. The little maid, perfectly in her place. 

It was during a particularly loud burst of laughter that a strange dizziness washed over Cecilia. The room spun, the rich aroma of wine and hors d'oeuvres suddenly nauseating. She clutched the railing and then, just as quickly, the feeling passed. She blinked, shaking her head.

A moment later, a polite cough sounded behind her. "Excuse me, miss? Could I trouble you for a refill on the canapés?" 

Cecilia stiffened, turning to glare at the junior accountant who dared to interrupt her contemplation. But the glare felt wrong. It felt... small. And her hand, when she raised it to brush back an errant strand of hair, was encased in a white, lacy cuff. She looked down. The rich, heavy velvet of the Evil witch Queen gown was gone, replaced by a short, flouncy black-and-white French maid uniform. On her feet were sensible, if uncomfortable, black flats. Panic, cold and visceral, shot through her. She rushed to a nearby mirrored column, nearly dropping the silver serving tray she hadn't realised she was holding. 

The reflection staring back was Melissa's. 

Her own face - the sharp, imperious features of Cecilia Wilson - was nowhere to be found. She was trapped in the unassuming, pale face of Melissa, her secretary. Cecilia let out a gasp, but it came out as a squeak. "No! This can't be!" 

Cecilia looked around wildly. No one seemed to notice her distress. Her "colleagues," who usually fawned over her, now looked right through her. She saw a woman with a magnificent black gown and a shimmering silver crown laughing vivaciously on the dance floor, surrounded by admirers. That was her costume. That was her body. That was Melissa, her secretary, who was having the time of her life, holding court, sipping champagne, and flirting outrageously with the CEO. She even had a genuine smile on her face, a smile Cecilia had never seen on her secretary before. 

"Miss? The canapés?" the accountant asked again, a little impatiently this time. 

Cecilia in Melissa's body tried to speak, to scream, "I am Cecilia Wilson! This is a mistake!" but what came out was a high-pitched, servile whisper. "R-right away, Sir." Her body seemed to move independently, compelled by the clothes she was wearing and the role she now inhabited. 

After bringing in new canapés, Cecilia was forced to navigate the crowded room, carrying trays of drinks, her feet aching in unfamiliar, sensible shoes. "Can I get you anything else, Ma'am?" she mumbled, her voice meek and subservient, a stark contrast to her usual commanding tone. Each "Sir" and "Ma'am" felt like a stab. No one recognised her. No one even looked twice. She was just the maid. 

Cecilia was then commanded to circulate the newly refilled canapé tray. She approached a knot of junior managers, men she had routinely belittled, who now regarded her with a mixture of drunken amusement and contempt. One, a man named Derek whom Cecilia had denied a promotion just the previous month, snatched three delicate spring rolls at once, then leaned in with a sneer. "Careful there, little maid. You're tipping the tray," he slurred, pointing to the silver dish which was indeed wobbling slightly in her unaccustomed hands. "You're going to spill the sauce all over my expensive shoes. You look nervous - did you just get hired? You need to hold that thing steady. You can't afford to mess up this job, can you?" 

The others around him chuckled, and Cecilia, trapped in Melissa's body, could only offer a quick, shallow curtsy and whisper, "My apologies, Sir, I'll be more careful." Before she could escape, Derek reached out and delivered a sharp, humiliating smack to her bottom. Cecilia flinched but didn't dare stop, instead scurrying away, the heat of utter shame burning on her pale cheeks - Melissa's pale cheeks. 

As Cecilia trudged past the dance floor, she overheard Melissa, in her body, declare, "Honestly, the service here is just dreadful tonight! Someone needs to have a word with the staff." Melissa then winked conspiratorially at her entourage, who roared with laughter. 

Cecilia watched in horror as she was forced, by some unseen compulsion, to clear an empty platter right near Melissa. "I need to speak to her," she thought fiercely, marching toward the elegant, velvet-draped table. "I need to tell her what's happened." She planted herself in front of Melissa in her body. "Ms. Wilson," she started, her new voice a meek squeak. 

Melissa, looking down from her regal height, raised an eyebrow. "Yes, little maid?" 

Cecilia tried again, summoning all the executive fire she possessed. "You... you're not..." She wrestled with the words, I'm Cecilia, we've switched bodies! but they wouldn't form. Her throat constricted, and all that escaped was, "M-may I clear your glass, Your Majesty?" 

Melissa smiled, a truly unsettling, predatory smile. "Be a dear. And fetch me another. I'm parched after the last bit of magic." 

Magic? 

Cecilia watched, stunned, as Melissa raised a perfectly manicured hand, adorned with the costume's enormous emerald ring. The guests around the throne leaned in, expecting a trick. Melissa didn't look like she was performing a stage routine, she looked like she was simply demanding obedience from the world. Her sharp, aristocratic features - Cecilia's features - pulled into a look of focused concentration, devoid of the forced theatricality the guests expected. 

She wiggled her fingers once, and the enormous emerald on the ring suddenly glowed with a brief, cold chartreuse light. The light pulsed, and a half-full glass of champagne, which had been abandoned on a tall cocktail table twenty feet away, visibly shivered. With a barely perceptible whoosh of displaced air, the glass lifted smoothly off the distant table. It didn't waver or tilt, it simply sailed steadily through the crowded space, bypassing waiters and dodging bobbing paper lanterns. It was a flawless, controlled trajectory, like a remote-controlled drone. The entire room gasped, the sound quickly morphing into delighted applause. The glass completed its journey and settled perfectly into Melissa's waiting hand (which was, horrifyingly, Cecilia's hand). 

Melissa took a long, slow sip, her eyes - Cecilia's eyes - glittering with pure, unadulterated enjoyment. 

A ripple of delighted applause went through the guests. "Bravo!" someone shouted. "The special effects are incredible!" 

Melissa winked, a gesture utterly unlike the reserved secretary Cecilia knew. She caught Cecilia's wide eyes and gave a small, knowing shrug. Was it just the costume's special effects, or was her secretary a real witch?

 For the rest of the night, Cecilia was trapped. 

The luxurious ballroom became her prison, and the tiny maid's uniform, her shackles. She was no longer Cecilia Wilson, the respected manager, she was just "the help." She served tray after tray of drinks and canapés, her arms aching. She cleaned spilled wine from the expensive carpet, feeling the humiliation burn in her cheeks with every scrub. She curtsied endlessly, the unnatural bending of her knees a constant, physical reminder of her new, subservient status. She was ignored by executives she had hired and ordered around by interns she barely knew, none of whom recognised the imperious woman hidden beneath Melissa's meek face and the degrading lace. 

Worst of all was the sight of Melissa, wearing Cecilia's face and body, living Cecilia's life. Melissa was a mesmerising, malicious queen, effortlessly commanding the attention that was rightfully Cecilia's. Cecilia had to listen to her own voice - now lighter, infused with a cruel, carefree amusement - laughing at corporate jokes, flirting shamelessly with the handsome sales director Cecilia had always intended to keep at arm's length, and accepting the adoration and career-boosting flattery of every employee. Cecilia, the true Cecilia, was utterly invisible, a ghost in her own kingdom, forced to watch her secretary revel in the power and prestige she had spent a lifetime building. 

*** 

Cecilia suddenly bolted upright in bed, gasping, her heart hammering against her ribs. The sheets were tangled around her legs, and the pale morning light filtered through the blackout curtains. She was in her own bedroom, wearing her own silk nightgown. 

She scrambled out of bed and rushed to the full-length mirror, frantically checking her face. Sharp cheekbones. Piercing eyes. She looked like herself. She was in her own body. It had been a dream. A horrific, utterly real dream. The shame, the servitude, the chillingly confident look on Melissa's face - it all felt fresh, a stain on her memory. Her skin was still cold with the phantom horror of the maid's uniform. 

"It was just a dream," Cecilia whispered, attempting to dismiss the creeping dread. But what if it wasn't? The feeling of that rough maid's skirt, the terror of not being able to speak the truth, the way Melissa had made the glass float... No. Ridiculous. It was stress. Too much work. A nightmare. 

Cecilia glanced at the calendar on her bedside table, the date a stark relief: October 31st. The annual party - Halloween - hadn't happened yet. It was still scheduled for the same day's evening. she walked into her home office, pulled out her company phone, and dialled her personal concierge service. 

"Yes, I need to place an urgent order. It's for the Halloween party tomorrow evening," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "The costume for my secretary, Melissa. Cancel the French Maid outfit. I want something... different." 

She paused, picturing the wicked smile Melissa had given her in the dream. 

"Order a Vampire Countess costume. Something elegant. High-necked, dark velvet. Something... that commands respect." 

Just in case. 

*** 

Later, during the evening, the company's annual Halloween gala was in full swing. 

Cecilia, a vision of cold, dark ambition, held court from the elevated VIP section. Her Evil witch Queen costume was an expense account masterpiece: the gown was cut from heavy, crushed black velvet, cinched at the waist with a silver belt that looked forged, not bought. Her collar was high and structured, lined with stiff lace that framed her sharp jawline. On her head sat a delicate yet menacing silver crown, set with blood-red rubies, perfectly complementing the smoky eyeshadow and crimson lipstick that gave her an air of magnificent cruelty. She did not walk, she glided, radiating an arrogance that demanded the room's subservience. Every time a junior employee offered a nervous compliment, Cecilia would simply give a languid tilt of her crowned head, treating their admiration as the bare minimum required. She felt utterly superior, both to the employees and the silly, cheap costumes they wore. 

In the centre of the room, attending to the demands of the guests, was Melissa. She was stationed behind the bar, managing the drinks service with cool, quiet efficiency. Her costume was a statement of restrained power: a Vampire Countess. The dress was a stunning, high-necked silhouette cut from rich, dark velvet, the long train lined with blood-red satin. Elegant silver embroidery traced delicate spiderwebs across the fitted bodice. Instead of a flouncy apron and garters, she wore a simple silver locket and kept her hair in a sleek, powerful bun, topped by a delicate black lace headpiece. Melissa looked visibly comfortable, her pale complexion adding to the costume's refined, gothic elegance. 

Melissa navigated the rapid-fire requests from guests with the speed and precision of a well-oiled machine. She didn't scurrilously run, she moved with calm, measured grace, her hands steady as she mixed cocktails and polished crystal glasses. She didn't curtsy, she simply offered drinks with a serene, almost detached dignity. She rarely made eye contact, not because she was ashamed, but because her focus was absolute. She never lingered, always moving to the next order, an essential anchor in the party's swirling chaos. 

Cecilia peeked at her secretary, the small, satisfied smirk she attempted feeling stiff and false on her lips. Melissa wasn't scurrying, she was commanding the service station with cool, contained power. She wasn't degraded. In her Vampire Countess attire, she was easily the most elegant figure in the room not currently seated in the VIP section. 

"There she is," Cecilia thought, a spike of genuine unease running through her. "Perfectly in place, yet somehow... completely beyond my reach." The expensive new costume, the elevated station behind the bar - it all worked against Cecilia's foundational desire for Melissa's utter subservience. Melissa was seen, but she was not servile. She was a dark queen in miniature, positioned right in the centre of the room, drawing eyes and respect. 

A bitter wave of self-recrimination washed over Cecilia. "Why on earth did I change her costume? I let a ridiculous dream dictate a business decision!" She watched Melissa accept a compliment with effortless grace and felt the familiar executive urge to control reassert itself. "This won't do. I need to remind her exactly where she stands. On Monday, I'll find a way to put her firmly back in her place." 

A little later, Cecilia left the VIP section, the velvet of her gown pooling dramatically as she made her way to the bar. She needed a drink, a strong drink, to calm the growing irritation that Melissa's elegance inspired in her. 

Melissa, the Vampire Countess, noticed her approach. With calm focus, she selected a chilled glass and a shaker. Her movements were precise and elegant, stripped of the rushed subservience Cecilia was accustomed to. She measured the liquor, poured in the mixer with a steady hand, and capped the shaker. The ensuing shake was sharp, confident, and rhythmic, the sound of ice and metal ringing clear and powerful above the party chatter. It was the movement of a professional mixologist, not of a humiliated servant. 

Melissa finished the cocktail, strained it into the glass, and slid it across the mahogany bar surface toward Cecilia. Her gaze met Cecilia's - briefly, directly - and her expression was polite but notably devoid of the usual meekness. 

"Your drink, Ms. Wilson," Melissa stated, her voice even and cool, possessing an unexpected weight. She didn't curtsy or flinch. She simply performed her role. 

Then, Melissa leaned slightly forward, her lips curving into a subtle, almost predatory smile that perfectly matched her costume. She lowered her voice just enough to be heard over the music. "And Ms. Wilson, try not to worry about the canapés. I have a feeling that Derek won't complain about the service tonight." 

A sudden, chilling realisation hit Cecilia with the force of a physical blow: Melissa knew about the dream. It wasn't just the reference to Derek and the canapés, though that was proof enough. It was the look in her eyes - a deep, calm knowledge, utterly devoid of fear, and utterly new. The subservient ghost of a secretary was gone, replaced by a Vampire Countess who stood her ground, met her boss's gaze, and delivered a threat cloaked in an observation. 

Cecilia stood frozen, the heavy, cold cocktail forgotten in her hand. Her mind still reeling from the disturbing exchange, she looked up at the polished mirror behind the bar and saw her own reflection. For a breathless second, the glass seemed to fog up with a flash of the raw, visceral fear she had felt in her dream: the humiliation of the French maid's uniform, the chilling feeling of being powerless and invisible. The shame of her submission in the dream was suddenly as potent as the alcohol in her glass. She took a shaky sip of her drink, the icy liquid doing nothing to cool the sudden, profound uncertainty in her stomach. She was the witch Queen, mistress of her domain, yet she looked across the bar at the cool, elegant Vampire Countess and felt her power suddenly undermined by the profound and disturbing uncertainty of how to deal with her newly intimidating secretary on Monday.