The Loom

I had never believed in ghosts, not really. The whole idea of spirits lingering in old buildings felt like a story we tell ourselves to make the mundane feel mysterious. But when my sister Maya suggested we spend our vacation in Larkspur, Maine, at the old textile mill turned bed-and-breakfast, something in me bristled. The mill had a history, she said, a history of tragic accidents and unexplained phenomena. I agreed, partly to humor her, partly because the idea of a ‘haunted’ mill was more intriguing than another beach trip.

We arrived on a cold, gray afternoon. The mill was a massive brick structure, three stories tall, with broken windows and a waterwheel that creaked in the river beside it. The owner, a woman in her sixties named Elsie, greeted us with a warm smile and a thick Maine accent. ‘Welcome to the Loom,’ she said, leading us inside. The lobby was a converted weaving room, with massive wooden beams and old looms displayed as decoration. The air smelled of dust and old wood, and there was a constant, faint humming sound from somewhere below—the machinery of the old turbine, Elsie explained, still running but no longer generating power. ‘It’s just the old gears,’ she said, but her eyes flickered to a dark corner of the ceiling.

Our room was on the second floor, at the end of a long, narrow hallway. The walls were lined with old photographs of mill workers, their faces stern and tired. Maya was thrilled, snapping pictures with her phone. I, however, felt a growing unease. The humming was louder here, a low vibration that seemed to come from the very floorboards. That night, as I lay in bed, I couldn’t sleep. The humming seemed to pulse, almost like a heartbeat. Around 2 AM, I heard a rhythmic thumping from above—like someone hammering. I assumed it was the pipes, but then the thumping became faster, more urgent, and I felt a draft of cold air snake across the room.

I got up to close the window, but it was already shut. That’s when I noticed the wardrobe in the corner. It was a massive, ornately carved piece of furniture, with a mirror on the front. The mirror was fogged, as if someone had breathed on it. As I approached, I saw a faint outline of a handprint in the condensation. I froze. The handprint was small, like a child’s, and pressed against the glass from the inside. I stumbled back, my heart pounding. Maya stirred in her sleep but didn’t wake.

I convinced myself it was a trick of the light, a residue from the room’s previous occupant. But the next morning, when I inspected the mirror, the handprint was gone, replaced by a smeared streak that looked like a tear. Elsie served us breakfast in the dining room, which was once the mill’s office. She told us stories about the mill’s history—how a young girl named Abigail had been killed in a loom accident in 1887, her hair caught in the gears, and how workers claimed to see her ghost wandering the corridors. ‘She was a spunky little thing,’ Elsie said, ‘always causing mischief. But she’s harmless.’ I didn’t feel reassured.

That afternoon, Maya and I explored the mill’s upper floors, which were now used as storage. Dusty boxes, old shuttles, and broken parts of looms were scattered everywhere. The humming was stronger there, a grinding sound like metal on metal. Maya walked ahead, humming a tune. I suddenly felt a sharp pinch on my rear end, like a hard slap. I yelped and spun around, but there was no one there. Maya laughed. ‘The ghost has a crush on you,’ she joked. But I didn’t laugh. The pinch was too aggressive, too intentional. It wasn’t a draft or a trick of the mind.

From then on, I was on edge. I stayed close to Maya, but the incidents continued. When I was reaching for a box on a high shelf, something yanked my arm down so hard I nearly fell. When I walked past a large weaving shuttle, it swung on its own, narrowly missing my head. Maya said I was paranoid, but I could see her own smile was fading. We decided to leave early the next morning. That night, I had trouble sleeping. The humming was louder than ever, and I could hear faint giggles coming from the hallway. I crept to the door and peered through the keyhole. In the hallway, I saw a flickering light, like a candle, moving toward the staircase. Then it disappeared.

I woke Maya and told her we needed to leave now. She groaned, but when she saw my face, she agreed. We packed our bags and tiptoed down the stairs. The main floor was dark, except for a light coming from the basement door, which was ajar. Against my better judgment, I pushed it open. Inside, a narrow staircase descended into darkness, and the humming was deafening. We went down, calling out if anyone was there. At the bottom, we found the old turbine room. The massive machinery was glowing with a sickly green light, and in the center, standing by the still-turning gears, was the figure of a small girl. She was wearing a torn dress, and her hair was tangled. She turned to look at us, and her face was blank, her eyes white.

I grabbed Maya’s hand and ran for the stairs, but the door slammed shut above us. We were trapped. The girl didn’t move, but the humming grew to a piercing shriek, and I felt hands grabbing at my arms, legs, everywhere. I screamed, but no sound came out. Maya was crying. The girl opened her mouth, and a voice like scraping metal said, ‘You’re mine now.’ And the last thing I saw was the loom in the corner, its shuttle flying back and forth, weaving a dark fabric that seemed to swallow the light.

I woke up outside, lying on the grass by the river, the sunrise burning my eyes. Maya was beside me, unconscious but alive. The mill stood silent, its windows dark. We never spoke of what happened, and we never went back. But sometimes, at night, I can still hear the humming, and I feel a small hand on my back, pushing me toward the edge.