The Hanged Man’s Loom

I never believed in coincidences, not after what I saw as a child. But moving into that old textile mill apartment felt like fate, a fresh start for me and my daughter, Lily. The building had been converted from a 19th-century weaving factory, all exposed brick and iron beams, a stark contrast to the sterile suburbs we left behind. My first memory, and I mean my very first, is of a shadowy figure standing at the foot of my crib, its head brushing the ceiling. My mother, a practical woman, would later tell me it was just a nightmare, but I knew what I saw. That presence, the way it pulled the warmth from the air, it never truly left me. It was a constant, low thrum in my life, a shadow at the edge of my vision, and I’d learned to live with it. But this apartment, with its high ceilings and industrial history, felt different. It felt alive. I told myself it was just the old building settling, the radiators ticking, the pipes groaning. Lily, at six, was too young to notice the odd drafts or the way the floorboards squeaked in the middle of the night, forming patterns that almost sounded like footsteps. I was determined to give her a normal life, away from the shadow of my own past. I should have known better. The first sign came a week in. I was unpacking boxes when I heard a faint rhythmic thumping from the hallway. I opened the door to find my loom, a vintage manual loom I’d bought on a whim, its shuttle moving back and forth as if an invisible weaver were at work. I rationalized it as a draft, but the air was still. The next night, I found Lily’s toy loom, a plastic playset, its tiny shuttle also moving, and she was fast asleep. Then the smells started—a metallic tang, like old blood, lingering in the air only to vanish when I searched for its source. And the feeling of being watched intensified, a pressure at the back of my neck that made me turn around in empty rooms. I told myself it was my imagination, but the patterns on the loom’s cloth were changing. I hadn’t touched it, yet the weft was no longer the neutral beige I’d left. Now, thin crimson threads were weaving themselves into a, well, a picture. It showed a faceless figure, hung from a beam in the center of the room. I tried to dismiss it as a cruel joke, but no one else had a key. I should have left then, but I told myself I was being paranoid. The final straw came last Tuesday. I was putting Lily to bed when we both heard a crash from the living room. I ran out to find the loom had toppled over, and spread across the floor like a proclamation was a long, woven banner. The crimson threads spelled out a single word: ‘DIE.’ That’s when I knew. This wasn’t just an old building’s quirks. This was something darker. I think it’s the spirit of the mill’s last owner, a man named Josiah Thorne, who was found hanged in this very room in 1892. He was made to weave a very specific kind of cloth, a burial shroud, and he was accused of infusing it with curses. They said he could weave doom into the fabric, and he was murdered by his own looms. Now, I think he’s using my loom to weave my fate. I can feel him in the walls, watching, waiting. And last night, I found a new pattern in the cloth: a small figure, clearly a child, standing beside a hanging adult. I don’t know how to stop it. I’ve tried removing the loom, but I can’t seem to lift it, as if it’s anchored to the floor. I’ve tried burning the cloth, but the threads just reappear in the morning. I’m writing this in the quiet of the night, as the thumping starts again from the loom, and I know that when I turn around, there will be a new strand of crimson in the weave. I’m afraid that soon, I’ll be the one who’s woven into the story. And I don’t know if I’ll be able to leave this place, or if I’ll ever see my daughter smile again without the shadow of that hanging figure behind her.