The Loom

In the autumn of 2018, I inherited my great-aunt’s weaving studio in the remote town of Ashwick, a place where the fog didn’t just roll in off the moors—it seeped through the floorboards. I had barely known Aunt Elspeth; she was a recluse, and my mother spoke of her with a mix of reverence and fear. But after a nasty divorce, the offer of a rent-free roof over my head was too tempting to refuse. The studio sat at the edge of town, a converted Victorian mill, with a giant antique loom dominating the main room. It was beautiful, in a macabre sort of way, with its dark oak frame and intricate metal gears, the warp threads still strung taut as if awaiting a weaver’s hands.

My first week was spent cleaning. I swept away decades of dust, scrubbed the greasy windows, and tried to ignore the odd creaks and groans that echoed through the empty building. But at night, the sounds grew sharper: a rhythmic clack-clack-clack, like the loom was being used. I’d rush down from my upstairs bedroom, only to find the workshop empty, the loom still, and the air cold. I chalked it up to an old building settling, or maybe the wind. Then, on the third night, I saw it—a shape hunched over the loom, its back to me, weaving with frantic, violent movements. As I reached for the light switch, the shape vanished, and the room fell silent. My heart hammered; I knew I hadn’t imagined it.

A week later, I decided to sell the loom. I called a dealer in the city, and he sent his assistant, a young man named Marcus. Marcus was a weaver himself, and he was ecstatic to see the loom. ‘This is a Loom of the Old Ways,’ he said, running his hands over the frame. ‘Rare. The weaving patterns could be worth a fortune.’ He started inspecting the warp threads, muttering about the complex pattern. ‘Odd,’ he said, frowning. ‘The pattern is… incomplete. It looks like half a story.’ He traced the colored threads, his fingers hesitating at a section where the threads were knotted and broken. ‘Looks like someone started to cut it loose. But it’s still tight here.’ He left with a promise to return with the paperwork, and I felt a surge of relief. Maybe this was over.

That night, I had a dream—a nightmare, really. I was standing in the loom, caught in the threads, unable to move. The air reeked of lavender and something rancid. A voice, dry as old paper, whispered in my ear: ‘You cannot sell my loom. It is not yours to give.’ I woke with a gasp, the phantom pressure of threads still on my skin. I lay there, listening to the quiet. Then, from the workshop below, I heard it: the clack-clack-clack, faster and more deliberate than before. I made my way down, my flashlight beam wobbling. In the gloom, I saw the shape again, this time turning its head toward me. It was a woman, her face as grey as the ashes in the fireplace, her eyes like pits. She smiled, a horrible, knowing smile, and then her mouth opened, and a swarm of moths flew out, engulfing me. I fell back, coughing, my flashlight clattering to the floor. When I looked up, the room was empty, but the loom’s shuttle was moving on its own, weaving a new thread.

The next morning, I was determined to tear the loom apart. I grabbed a crowbar and started at the base, prying at the joints. But the wood didn’t budge. It was as if it had grown into the floor. I tried the side panels; they were slick with something cold and tar-like. My hands began to itch, then burn. I looked down to see thousands of tiny red welts forming. I stumbled back, dropping the crowbar. I felt a sensation of cold fingers tracing my spine, and that voice again, calm: ‘You will finish what she started, or you will become part of the pattern.’

Marcus returned the next day with his uncle, a man claiming to be a historian. He inspected the loom, his face grim. After a long silence, he turned to me. ‘This loom was built for her—Elspeth, your aunt. She was known in certain circles as a weaver of fates. She could weave a person’s life into a tapestry, and if you cut a thread, you could end a life. But there’s a price. The loom demands a weaver. When she died, it must have been because she tried to sever her own thread. But you, you’re bound to it now. The unfinished pattern—it’s the curse. You must complete it, or it will consume you.’ I didn’t want to believe him, but the welts on my hands were proof enough. I asked if there was any way out. He shook his head. ‘There is one: find the original pattern, the very first one she wove, and burn it. That might release you.’ He gave me a key—a small, iron key, heavy and cold—and told me to search the studio for a hidden compartment.

I started tearing the building apart. I pulled up floorboards, emptied chests, and finally found a false panel in the wall behind a wardrobe. Behind it was a small wooden box, locked. The key fit perfectly. Inside, wrapped in a yellowed cloth, was a scroll of parchment, yellowed and brittle. I unrolled it, and my blood ran cold. It was a weaving diagram, but the pattern depicted a family tree—my family tree. And at the bottom, my name was written in ink that seemed to shimmer. But the pattern was incomplete: it ended abruptly at my name, with a single, loose thread. And then I saw the margins, written in my aunt’s hand: ‘To free a soul, one must find the first thread. But to find the first thread, one must become a weaver. The loom only breaks when the weaver’s body and soul are burned together in the hearth, with the pattern laid upon the flames.’

The implications were monstrous. To destroy the loom, I would have to die with it. And even then, the pattern would be lost. I was trapped. Despair settled over me like a shroud. But then, a spark of defiance. I remembered the old stories—every curse has a loophole. I studied the pattern more carefully. The thread that led to my name was not the same as the others. It was a different color, a deep crimson, and it didn’t come from the same spool. It looked like it came from somewhere else—perhaps a separate strand that could be cut without affecting the whole. I had an idea.

I spent the next day preparing. I gathered herbs known for protection, ash from the wood stove, and my own blood. I would perform a ritual I’d read about in an obscure text, a mirror ritual that could redirect a curse. As night fell, I stood before the loom, the scroll spread on the floor. I lit a circle of candles and began to chant, calling on the guardian spirits of the house to help me sever the thread. The clacking of the loom grew louder, frantic, and the shadow woman appeared before me, her face contorted in rage. She tried to seize my hands, but I held up the scroll, and she recoiled as if burned. I took a pair of shears I’d put in the circle, and with a silent scream, I cut the crimson thread.

For a moment, everything was still. Then the loom began to vibrate, the floor trembling. The threads snapped one by one, and the shadow woman let out an unearthly wail that pierced my ears. Lights flashed, and I felt a cold hand push me out of the circle. But it was too late. The loom’s frame split with a crack like thunder, and the whole structure collapsed into a pile of shattered wood and tangled threads. The scroll in my hands turned to dust, and the ashes of the pattern scattered in a wind from nowhere. When silence returned, the studio was empty of any presence except my own ragged breath. I stood in a room that would never again be a weaving studio. The only reminder was a faint scent of lavender and coal smoke, and an iron key clutched in my hand.

In the weeks that followed, the community of Ashwick treated me with a wary respect. Some even apologized for not warning me about the old loom. But I never felt safe. I sold the building and moved to a city apartment, yet even there, in the dead of night, I sometimes hear a distant clack-clack-clack. I never attempt to mend anything, never own a loom, never even knit. But the worst part: I can still see the pattern in my mind’s eye, incomplete, waiting. And I know, somewhere, there is another loom, another weaver, and a thread with a name that might be connected to mine. The curse didn’t die with the loom; it just found a new place to weave. And it knows my name.