The Crooked Comb

The summer I turned sixteen, I spent a month with my grandmother in her cottage nestled deep in the pine woods of northern Maine. It was a place of creaking floorboards and the constant scent of cedar, a place I’d visited every August since I was a child. But this year, Gran was different. She moved slower, spoke less, and her gaze often drifted to the corner of the room where the shadows pooled thickest. I chalked it up to age, to the loneliness that had settled in after Grandpa passed. I was there to keep her company, and I was determined to be helpful.

She had always been particular about her hair, a silver crown of tight curls she tended with a bone comb that had been in our family for generations. It was an odd thing, carved with intricate patterns that looked like writhing vines, and it had a peculiar warmth to it, as if it held a faint, living heat. One afternoon, while Gran napped, I found the comb on her dresser. Curious, I ran it through my own hair. A sharp, ice-cold shiver shot down my spine, and for a moment, the room seemed to darken. I put it back quickly, my heart hammering.

That night, I dreamed of a woman with a face like cracked porcelain. She stood at the foot of my bed, tilting her head in an unnatural, bird-like way. In her hand, she clutched the comb. When she smiled, her teeth were needle-thin, and I woke with a scream lodged in my throat. Gran was already awake, sitting in her rocking chair by the window, her hands frozen mid-air as if holding an invisible object. ‘She’s coming closer,’ she whispered, her voice dry as fallen leaves. ‘Every night, a little closer.’

I tried to rationalize it—a bad dream, the stress of the drive, the oppressive silence of the woods. But the next night, the dream returned. This time, the woman was at the side of my bed, and she reached out a long, pale hand to touch my cheek. Her fingers were cold, like river stones. I flung myself awake, gasping, and saw the dresser mirror reflecting the room. In the dim light, I could swear I saw the faint impression of a face in the glass, fading like breath on a winter window.

I confronted Gran the next morning. She finally told me about her sister, Agatha, who had lived in this very cottage decades ago. Agatha had been beautiful, with hair that fell to her waist, and she was obsessed with that comb. She believed it held the spirit of the forest, a spirit that would grant her eternal youth if she combed her hair at midnight. When she died, mysteriously, her face locked in an expression of utter terror, the comb was never found. Gran had found it years later, hidden in the wall behind the wardrobe.

That night, I left the safety of my room to find Gran’s door ajar. She was standing in front of her mirror, the comb in her hand, but she wasn’t moving. She was staring, her reflection in the glass was not her own but that of a gaunt, hollow-eyed woman with lank hair. I shouted, and Gran dropped the comb. It clattered to the floor. When I looked up, the reflection in the mirror was Gran again, but her face was pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes that hadn’t been there before.

I realized then that the comb was a conduit, a way for the forest spirit to feed on the life of whoever used it. It had already taken Agatha, and now it was draining my grandmother. And I had made it worse by using the comb myself. That’s why the woman in my dreams was getting closer—she was tethered to me now.

I knew what I had to do. I grabbed the comb, ignoring the freezing cold that bit into my palm, and ran into the woods behind the cottage. The trees seemed to lean in, their branches like grasping fingers. I found an old well, half-stumbled upon, choked with moss and ferns. With a final prayer, I hurled the comb into the darkness as deep as I could. A scream, like a thousand cicadas, erupted from the well, and then silence.

The walk back felt like wading through syrup. The air was thick, and I could feel something watching me from between the pines. But I made it. When I entered the cottage, Gran was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping tea as if nothing had happened. She smiled, and for a moment, she looked like her old self. But I noticed a tiny, bone-white chip on the rim of her teacup, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been left behind.

I left the cottage the next day. Gran waved from the porch, and I tried to ignore the way her reflection in the window showed a second figure standing just behind her. As my car disappeared into the trees, I vowed never to return. But sometimes, late at night, I can still feel a cold draft on the back of my neck, and I swear I hear the faint, rhythmic sound of a comb being pulled through hair right behind me.