So. Bora Aksu. Ghosts. Obviously. Not long ago, he was wandering the halls of the George & Dragon—this old 18th-century coaching inn in Buckinghamshire—and honestly, I can picture it so clearly it kind of rattles me. Dim corridors. Creaky floors. That feeling where the air feels… watched. He was looking for his next muse and—oh boy—he found her. A barmaid named Sukie. Two hundred years ago. Beautiful. Desired. And doomed (because of course).

The legend goes like this: Sukie had admirers—plural—but one handsome aristocrat stood out. One night she gets a letter (romantic! thrilling! alarming!) asking her to elope at the nearby Hellfire Caves. She shows up in bridal white. OH MY GOD. Instead of romance, she’s ambushed by three local boys—drunk, jealous, cruel—who chase her deeper underground, throwing stones. Her body turns up the next morning at the inn’s door. And to this day people swear they hear her footsteps pacing the floorboards. Like she never really left. Like the story won’t let her go.

And here’s the thing: Bora Aksu always goes here. There is no tragic woman from history he won’t gently (lovingly?) resurrect. He’s done it with Sissi of Austria. Eva Hesse. Mathilde Willink. Women whose lives feel unfinished, unresolved, misunderstood. It’s like he’s trying to give them something back through clothes. This time, though, he had nothing to work with. No photos. No portraits. No receipts. “There was no documentation, no evidence,” he said during a walkthrough of his fall 2026 collection in his east London studio. Which meant—here’s the scary part—he had total freedom. Space to invent. To project. To imagine her however he wanted.

He told the story in two acts. First: Sukie alive. Or at least… living. Models moved through St Paul’s Church in Covent Garden wearing what Aksu imagined her working wardrobe might’ve been—if history had been kinder, if fantasy could sneak in. Crystal-embellished short suits. Checked wool skirt-trousers with legs so sheer they felt almost defiant (like, impractical on purpose). Velvet puffers tied with ribbons. Crochet skirts. Tailored jackets that felt oddly martial, grounding all that whimsy with a toughness that made me pause. It wasn’t precious. It wasn’t sweet. It was survival clothes.

Then—spiral. The second act tipped fully into the uncanny. An Alison Sudol-fronted chorus started screaming from the altar (yes, screaming), and Sukie came back as a ghost. A vision. A feeling. Gossamer capelets floated over bouclé blazers like invisible hands gripping shoulders. Polka-dot ruffles. Puff-sleeve saloon dresses smothered in lace like fog. Black spaghetti-strap dresses bursting with blood-red crochet poppies (that detail made my stomach drop). Pale pink flowers clawing up transparent tulle. Ivory organza and lace gowns blooming heavier and heavier with orchid appliqués, like grief accumulating.

And then—the end. The dress everyone’s been talking about. A bridal look with white roses caught in the veil. The dress ghost hunters claim Sukie still wears when she appears. Which is… chilling. Romantic. Horrifying. All at once.

Did Aksu see her? Did anything weird happen? I was low-key hoping yes. But no. He laughed. “I’m glad I didn’t,” he said. “I don’t think I’m ready to see the afterlife just yet.”

Same, honestly. I can barely handle my own thoughts most days. Let alone a ghost barmaid in bridal white pacing the floorboards.