The Keeper of the Lace

The first time I saw the lace was on a Tuesday, the last day of November. I was unpacking my grandmother’s china, a task I’d been avoiding for weeks, and needed extra shelving. The attic in my rented farmhouse, a crooked old place crouched at the edge of a Norwegian forest, was the only place with room. The landlord, a stooped man named Anders, had mentioned ‘some of my wife’s things’ up there, but he’d said it with a wave of his hand, as if it were nothing.

I pulled the attic stairs down on a whim, the wooden ladder groaning as it descended. The air that spilled out was cold and dry, smelling of dust and old wood. I climbed, flashlight in hand, into a dim, low-ceilinged space. It was one long room, but a partition wall split it in two, with a small doorway leading to the far half. Each side had two small windows, one facing east, one west. A single dusty bulb hung from a beam. Old furniture and cardboard boxes crowded the near room, but a narrow path led to the doorway. Through it, I saw a chest of drawers, its top covered with something soft and white.

Curiosity got the better of me. I ducked through the doorway, and my flashlight beam caught the object. It was a doily, but not just any doily. It was a web of crocheted lace, as wide as my arm span, draped over the chest. The pattern was intricate, threads crossing and re-crossing in spirals that seemed to pull my eyes inward. At the center, a tiny red stitch, like a drop of blood. I reached out and touched it. The thread was rough, not like cotton, but like hair. A shiver ran down my spine. I pulled my hand back and backed out of the attic, leaving the stairs down.

The next morning, I heard a noise above my bedroom. A shuffling, like someone dragging their feet. I froze, coffee cup halfway to my lips. I live alone. But the house was old, and I reasoned it was just the wind. Yet the sound was rhythmic. Back and forth. Back and forth. I decided to check the attic again.

I pulled the stairs down, and this time the sound stopped the moment my head cleared the floor. The air was colder. I walked to the doorway and peered into the second room. The chest was still there, the lace still draped. But now, I noticed something else. In the corner, a rocking chair was moving, gently, as if just abandoned. I hadn’t noticed it before. I stepped closer. The lace seemed larger, its edges creeping over the sides of the chest. And the air smelled faintly of roses and rot.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. At 2:00 AM, I heard the shuffling again, directly above, followed by a soft thump. I grabbed my phone and the flashlight and climbed up again. In the beam, I saw the rocking chair, now still. But the lace was gone from the chest. I panicked, thinking someone had taken it. I searched the near room, then ducked into the far room again. There, lying on the floor in the center, was the lace, spread out like a snowflake. And in the middle, the red stitch had grown, now the size of a coin, and it seemed to pulse.

I should have left. I should have called Anders the next day and demanded he remove it. But I didn’t. Instead, I told myself it was a trick of the light, and I went back to bed. The next morning, I found the lace in my kitchen, draped over my fruit bowl. My heart hammered. I had not brought it down. The stairs had been closed.

I called Anders, but he sounded far away, his voice crackling. ‘Yes, the lace. My wife, she loved that lace. She made it for our daughter, but she died before she could give it. So she sits with it up there. She waits.’

I asked what he meant, but he just said, ‘Be careful. The lace doesn’t like to be alone.’ I hung up, feeling a cold dread settle in my stomach.

The next evening, I decided to get rid of it. I took the lace from the kitchen, trying to ignore its soft, hair-like texture. I climbed to the attic, intending to put it back on the chest and then seal the attic shut with a lock. But when I entered the far room, I saw that the rocking chair was rocking again, and this time, there was a shape in it. An old woman, with white hair, knitting. She didn’t look at me, but I heard her mutter, ‘Don’t take my work. It’s not finished.’

I dropped the lace and ran. Down the ladder, out of the house. I drove to the village, to a bar, and stayed until closing. When I came home, the house was dark. I crept in, locked my bedroom door, and sat on my bed, shaking. I heard the shuffling in the attic all night, never stopping. In the morning, I went to the attic one last time, determined to burn the thing. But when I got there, the rocking chair was empty. The chest was open. And the lace was spread out on the floor, but now it was huge, covering the entire floor of the far room. And in the center, the red stitch was now a gaping hole, like a mouth, and it was moving.

I don’t remember how I got out. I only know that I drove to a hotel and checked in. I called the landlord again, but no one answered. I called a friend, but the line was dead. I spent three days in that hotel, barely sleeping. On the third night, I woke to the smell of roses. The lace was draped over the foot of my bed. And in the dim light, I saw the old woman standing at the window, her back to me. She said, ‘You brought me here. Now you must help me finish.’

I haven’t slept since. I’ve tried to throw it away, but it always comes back. It’s in my car, in my suitcase. The pattern is moving, changing, growing. I can’t tell anyone, because they think I’m mad. But I know the truth. The lace is waiting for something. And I’m afraid it’s me.