The Crochet Shroud

The old farmhouse on Hemlock Lane had always been the subject of hushed conversations among the townsfolk, but we’d moved in with a sense of adventure, ignoring the whispers. After my husband, Marcus, deployed overseas, I, Nora, settled into a routine that was as predictable as the rising sun. Each morning, I’d find the pale yellow crochet blanket draped over the edge of the old clawfoot tub, as if waiting for a bath that never came. It became a strange comfort, a constant in the otherwise quiet house. I’d fold it neatly and place it on the shelf, and by the next day, it would be back, bunched in the tub like a forgotten dream.

But it was my daughter, Lily, who truly unsettled me. She had turned six, and her imaginary friend, Elsie, had taken residence in her room. Lily would spend hours in the corner, sitting cross-legged, her back against the peeling wallpaper, chattering away to the empty space before her. She’d giggle, pause, and respond as if listening to a reply only she could hear. When I coaxed her to play outside, she’d hold an invisible hand and skip across the overgrown lawn, her laughter echoing in the hollow air. She called the blanket ‘Elsie’s shroud,’ and I’d find her with it wrapped around her shoulders, her eyes distant.

One evening, as dusk bled into the sky, I heard Lily’s voice through the wall, singing a lullaby I didn’t recognize. I cracked her door open. The moonlight filtered through the dusty curtains, and there was Lily, sitting in the center of the room, facing the farthest wall. She was holding the blanket, rocking it gently. ‘Elsie is cold, Mommy,’ she said without turning. ‘She wants to sleep in the tub tonight.’ A chill ran down my spine. That was where the blanket always was. I had never told her about the blanket’s daily reappearance.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. A strange, musty odor pervaded the house, like damp earth and old lilies. I wandered into the hallway, and the bathroom door was ajar. Inside, the blanket was laid out flat in the tub, and beside it, a child’s handprint pressed into the porcelain, as if someone had braced themselves. I could hear a faint rustling, like fabric being slowly dragged across tile. ‘Lily?’ I called, but there was no answer. When I returned to her room, she was already asleep, a smile on her face, and the blanket was gone from the tub.

The next morning, I found the blanket draped over Lily’s dresser mirror, covering it entirely. Lily was sitting before it, whispering. ‘She’s going to take me to the garden,’ she said. ‘Where the marigolds grow.’ But there was no garden outside, only wild weeds and a broken fence. I tried to pull the blanket away, but it was damp, as if soaked in cold water. Lily screamed, ‘Don’t! She’s inside!’ That afternoon, I called a local priest, who muttered prayers and sprinkled holy water, but nothing changed. Lily only grew more attached to her invisible companion.

A week later, as I prepared a bath, I saw Lily standing at the bathroom threshold, her eyes wide. ‘She’s in the mirror,’ she whispered. I turned, and the bathroom mirror reflected nothing but my own frightened face. But behind me, in the reflection, I saw a small shape, cloaked in the crochet blanket, standing in the shadow of the doorway. I spun around, and there was nothing. Lily was gone. I found her in her room, sitting in her usual spot, but the blanket was now wrapped around her like a cocoon, her face pale. ‘She’s going to take me to the cold place,’ she said, her voice barely audible.

Days turned into a blur. Lily refused to leave her room, and I found her one morning, unresponsive, her eyes staring at the wall where she always sat. The blanket was gone. I searched everywhere, but it was as if it had vanished. That evening, I heard a noise from the bathroom. I rushed in, and there, floating in the half-filled tub, was the blanket, spread out like a shroud, with a faint silhouette beneath it. I grabbed it, and the moment I touched it, a cold hand gripped my wrist. I yanked away, and the water turned cloudy, then clear. The blanket lay limp, but on the bottom of the tub, I saw a small, child-sized handprint, burned into the porcelain.

I never saw the blanket again. But each night, I hear a soft humming from Lily’s old room, which we’ve long since closed. And sometimes, when I pass the bathroom, I see the faint outline of a child’s shoulder against the bathtub’s edge, as if someone is still waiting for the water to fill. Lily now lives with my mother, and she speaks of me as if I were the one who left, not her. She tells stories of her ‘new friend’ who lives in the garden where the marigolds bloom, and where the blanket is not a comfort, but a lure. And sometimes, when I close my eyes, I feel the cold fabric of that blanket against my skin, and I’m not sure if it’s a memory or a promise.