The Deceased’s Loom

The afternoon sun bled through the dusty windows of the old farmhouse, illuminating motes of dust that danced in the stagnant air. Sarah had always hated this place, even as a child, with its creaking floors and the faint smell of mothballs and decay. Now, after her mother-in-law’s funeral, she was here to clean out the attic. Her husband, Mark, had inherited the house, and they were planning to renovate it. But Sarah couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, of a presence that had never liked her.

Margaret, Mark’s mother, had been a bitter woman. She had never approved of Sarah, and their relationship had been a cold war of passive-aggressive comments and silent judgments. When Margaret died, Sarah felt a guilty relief. Now, as she climbed the rickety stairs to the attic, she hoped to find only forgotten relics, not the venomous memories that lingered in every corner.

The attic was a cavern of forgotten things: old furniture draped in white sheets, trunks of vintage clothes, and boxes of photographs. Sarah found Margaret’s loom, a massive wooden contraption, in the corner, still strung with a half-finished weaving. The pattern was intricate, a mix of dark and light threads, but what struck Sarah was the way the threads seemed to pulse, as if alive. She touched a strand, and a jolt of cold electricity ran up her arm.

Determined to be practical, Sarah began going through the boxes. In one, she found an old journal, leather-bound and musty. It was Margaret’s. Sarah knew she shouldn’t read it, but curiosity overtook her. The entries were full of bitterness, but the last one, dated just before Margaret’s death, was chilling: ‘I have woven a trap for her, the one who stole my son. She will not escape.’ Sarah slammed the journal shut, her heart racing. She looked at the loom; the weaving now seemed darker, the pattern resembling a face.

That night, Sarah couldn’t sleep. She dreamt of the loom, of threads wrapping around her ankles, pulling her under. She woke with a gasp, feeling phantom fibers on her skin. Over the next days, the weaving seemed to grow, the threads rearranging on their own, forming a tapestry of the house, with a small figure in the attic that looked like Sarah. She tried to cut the threads, but they were like steel. She tried to burn the loom, but the flames died before touching it.

Mark, oblivious, dismissed her fears as grief. ‘It’s just an old loom, Sarah. We can sell it.’ But Sarah knew better. She began to see the threads everywhere, in the corners of her vision, connecting her to the loom. The attic became a sanctuary and a prison. She spent hours there, touching the threads, feeling a pull, as if Margaret were guiding her hands.

One evening, Sarah found herself at the loom, weaving. She had no memory of starting, but her hands moved with a will of their own. The pattern was a portrait of her, but twisted, with hollow eyes and a gaping mouth. She tried to stop, but her fingers wove faster, the threads cutting into her skin, drawing blood that stained the fabric. She felt a cold hand on her shoulder, and Margaret’s voice, a whisper in her ear: ‘You are finally mine.’

Sarah screamed, but no sound came out. She was trapped in the weaving, a living thread in Margaret’s masterpiece. The next morning, Mark found the attic empty, the loom covered in a pristine white cloth. He thought nothing of it, but sometimes, when he passed the attic door, he heard a faint, rhythmic clacking, like a loom at work, and a woman humming a tune his mother used to sing. He never went to look, too afraid of what he might find.