The Linen Room

In the autumn of 1987, I was twelve, living in a ranch-style house in the outskirts of a small Nebraska town. The house had been built in the sixties, with wood-paneled walls and shag carpet the color of burnt sienna. The entrance was peculiar: you came in through a glassed-in porch that smelled of damp earth and old newspapers, and the front door itself was set at an angle, opening into a hallway that seemed to bend slightly, as if the house had settled unevenly. The basement was accessible from a door under the stairs, and it was a half-finished space with a laundry room, a workshop, and a storage room lined with metal shelves. My mother kept the linens there in a large wicker basket, sorted by color and function, and it was my job to fetch them when needed.

That morning, I woke to the pale, watery light of a November dawn. The heating vents clicked and groaned as the furnace kicked in, and the house was silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room. I had been dreading this day for weeks, ever since my parents had announced they were hosting Thanksgiving, and my mother had tasked me with sorting all the linens in the basement—sheets, towels, tablecloths, napkins—to see which needed washing or mending. I ate my toast and orange juice quickly, then descended the narrow stairs to the basement.

The basement was colder than the rest of the house, and the concrete floor leached chill through my socks. The laundry room was at the far end, with a deep sink and a counter where the wicker basket sat, overflowing with fabric. I knelt in front of it and began to pull out items, one by one. The basket was deeper than it looked, and as I dug, I found things I didn’t remember—a lace doily with a stain, a pillowcase embroidered with initials that were not ours, a tablecloth with a pattern of faded autumn leaves. At the bottom, beneath everything, I felt something smooth and cold, like polished bone.

I pulled out a long, rectangular piece of cloth, maybe two feet long, woven from a material I didn’t recognize. It was a dull gray, and it felt slightly damp, as if it had been recently washed and not fully dried. As I held it, I noticed it was not a single piece but two layers, sewn together at the edges, with a slit on one side. It reminded me of a sleeve, or a case for something. I turned it over, and on the inner layer, I saw a pattern of tiny, precise stitches, like a grid, and in the center, a darker spot that might have been blood.

I should have put it back and called for my mother, but instead, I slipped my hand into the slit. The cloth clung to my skin, and for a moment, I felt a cold pressure around my fingers, as if the fabric were contracting. I yanked my hand out, but the cloth stuck, and I had to shake it off. When it fell, I saw that my fingers were pale and wrinkled, as if I had been submerged in water for hours. The indentation of the fabric was still visible on my skin, like a lattice of lines.

I threw the cloth back into the basket, but it landed on the floor, and I saw something glimmer beneath it—a small, rectangular mirror, the size of a hand, with a tarnished silver frame. I had never seen it before. I picked it up, and in the dim light of the basement, I looked into it. My reflection was there, but behind me, in the glass, I saw the basement as it might look in a different time: the walls were covered in floral wallpaper, and the carpet under my knees was a vivid orange. A child’s drawing was taped to the wall, showing a stick figure holding hands with a taller figure, both with red smiles. And in the reflection, the wicker basket was empty, and the laundry room door was closed, though I knew it was open behind me.

I dropped the mirror. It clattered on the concrete and cracked, and the reflection shattered into a hundred fragments. I looked up, and the basement seemed different—the air was staler, and the walls seemed closer. The shelves were lined with old jars and boxes, and the workbench had rusted tools. I heard a scuttling sound, like something small and many-legged, coming from the storage room. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t move. My feet felt glued to the floor.

The scuttling grew louder, and from the doorway of the storage room, I saw a shape emerge—a creature made of collected linens, stitched together from mismatched fabrics, with a head that was a burlap sack and eyes that were buttons. Its mouth was a slash of red thread. It moved with a swaying motion, as if it were a scarecrow brought to life. In its hand, or what passed for a hand, it held a needle and a spool of black thread.

It didn’t speak, but I heard a voice in my head, soft and cracked like old paper: ‘You took the cloth. Now you must be sewn.’ It took a step toward me, and I saw that its feet were wrapped in the same gray material as the cloth I had held. I finally broke free of my paralysis and scrambled up the stairs, but the stairs seemed endless, and the door at the top was slightly ajar, showing a sliver of bright light, but it never grew closer. I screamed for my mother, but my voice came out as a whisper.

I don’t know how long I ran, but eventually, I burst through the door and into the hallway, slamming it shut behind me. I leaned against it, gasping, and when I opened my eyes, I was back in the laundry room, kneeling in front of the wicker basket. The cloth and the mirror were gone. The basket was just filled with clean, neatly folded sheets and towels. No time seemed to have passed. I thought it was a nightmare, but when I looked at my hand, I saw the lattice pattern still faint on my palm, like a scar.

I never told anyone, and we moved away the following summer. But sometimes, when I dig through laundry—at a hotel, at a friend’s house, even in my own closet—I half-expect to find that gray cloth, and I feel a cold pressure on my fingers, and I know that the linen room is still there, waiting, and that one day, I will be sewn into its fabric.