The Fabric Licker

It started with a scarf. A red, woolen scarf with a fringe that tickled my neck. My grandmother had knitted it for me when I was nine, and I wore it every winter. But on the last day of my grandmother’s funeral, I saw something that made me stop wearing it.

I was in the parlor of the old farmhouse, surrounded by relatives and the scent of lilies. My cousin, Amelia, was talking to me about the will, but my gaze wandered to the open casket. Grandmother lay there, her hands folded, a faint smile on her lips. But as I looked closer, I saw her fingers twitch, just once, and then her head turned slightly, as if she were trying to see the scarf I had draped over my shoulders. I blinked, and she was still.

I didn’t tell anyone. I remember thinking it was just the light, or my grief playing tricks. But that night, I woke to a rustling sound in my closet. My scarf was gone. I searched everywhere, but it was as if it had vanished. In the morning, I found it in the kitchen, draped over the back of a chair, with a faint, damp stain on the wool, as if it had been licked.

That was the beginning. Over the next few weeks, things started disappearing from my room—a pair of gloves, a hat, a wool coat my mother had left behind. And each time, I would find them somewhere odd: in the pantry, under the sink, in the garden, always with that same damp stain. I told my therapist, but he said it was stress. I told my sister, and she said it was mice. But I knew better.

One night, I stayed awake, determined to catch whatever was doing this. I pretended to sleep, but I felt a presence in the room. I heard a soft, wet sound, like a tongue sliding across fabric. I opened my eyes a crack and saw a silhouette at the foot of my bed, hunched over, clutching my favorite silk pillowcase. It was holding it to its mouth, licking it with a long, gray tongue. My body went cold. I didn’t move an inch.

The silhouette straightened, and for a moment, it looked at me. Its eyes were like cloudy marbles, and its skin was papery, wrinkled. It smiled, and I saw rows of needle-like teeth. Then it faded, leaving the pillowcase on the floor, wet and glistening.

I could not sleep that night. I told my sister, but she thought I was losing it. She suggested I stay with her for a while, but I refused. I had to understand.

I started digging through old family albums, looking for any clue. And then I found a photograph of my grandmother, at a fabric store. She was standing next to a young man in a gray suit, his face half-turned away. The caption read: ‘Teaching my cousin the family business.’ I asked my mother about him, but she said he died before I was born.

One evening, I was in the attic, going through a trunk of old maternity clothes. I found a baby’s blanket, bloodstained and wrapped in a plastic bag. And beneath it, a journal. It was my grandmother’s diary from 1958. The first entry read: ‘The baby came too early. I had to do it. She’ll never know.’ The last entry, dated six months before her death, read: ‘He’s still with me. He loves the taste of wool. I must protect him.’

I didn’t know what to do. I called my mother’s old friend, who was into spiritual stuff. She told me to burn the scarf. I did. But the next morning, I found a new stain on my daughter’s favorite scarf, which she had left on the couch. It was wet, and it smelled of rotting fabric.

I panicked. I searched the house, and in the basement, I found him. He was crouched in the corner, gray-skinned, with that same papery complexion. He was licking a pair of my husband’s old jeans. I screamed, and he turned to me with that same smile. He hissed, ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’ Then he lunged.

I woke up in the hospital. The doctor said I had a seizure from carbon monoxide poisoning. But I know the truth. My daughter does too. She saw the bite marks on her scarf. And she’s never worn wool since.

I wrote this in a single night, in a motel room far from that house. I don’t know if it will stop him, but I had to write it down. Maybe the words will form a barrier. Maybe he’ll be content with the taste of this white, fibrous paper. I hope so, because I can hear him now, breathing at the door. And my gloves are missing from the dresser.

His name is Edmund. He was my grandmother’s brother. She never let him die. He’s been feeding on our family’s fabrics for sixty years. And he’s hungry.