The Loom in the Loft

I’ve always been drawn to the unknown, the unexplained. Horror movies, ghost stories, urban legends—they were my favorite escape. The thrill of a jump scare, the lingering dread of a slow burn—I craved it all, but only from the safety of a screen or a page. Real haunted places were just tourist traps, right? Places with fake cobwebs and actors in cheap costumes, charging you for the privilege of being mildly unsettled.

Last week, my mom dragged me and my little brothers to this historic house on the outskirts of Portland, Oregon, tucked away in a dense, fog-prone forest. It was called the Wetherby House, a sprawling Victorian that had been converted into a museum and tea house. My brothers were excited about the scones; I was more interested in the history, especially the darker parts.

While mom and the boys queued for tea, I wandered upstairs, finding a narrow spiral staircase leading to the attic. A sign at the base read ‘Private – Keep Out,’ but the door was ajar, and my curiosity was too strong. I slipped through, my footsteps echoing on the dusty wooden floor. The attic was a maze of old furniture, trunks, and forgotten relics, all covered in a thick layer of grime. A single bare bulb hung from the center beam, casting a sickly yellow glow.

In the corner, half-covered by a moth-eaten curtain, stood a massive loom. It was an old, heavy thing, its wooden frame darkened with age. A thick, grey spider web stretched from one side to the other, but what caught my eye was the fabric still attached to it. It looked like a tapestry, partially woven, the colors muted and strange. I moved closer, my heart starting to race. This was the kind of find I lived for—a genuine artifact, presumably left untouched for decades.

I pulled out my phone to take a picture, but the flash died. The air grew cold, and I felt a presence behind me. I spun around, but there was nothing. Just shadows. I shook it off, chalking it up to an old house and my overactive imagination. But then I heard a sound—a rhythmic creak, like a rocking chair, coming from the corner opposite the loom. I turned, and there, in the shadows, was a shape. A woman, or the suggestion of one, slowly rocking, her face obscured.

I wanted to scream, but my throat closed up. The rocking stopped. The shape dissolved into the darkness. I backed away, heart pounding, and nearly tripped over a trunk. I stumbled down the stairs, not stopping until I was back in the bright, cheerful tea room, where the clink of cups and the murmur of conversation felt almost obscene in their normalcy.

My mom looked up as I slid into a chair. ‘You look pale, honey. Did you see something?’ she asked with a knowing smile. My brothers giggled, stuffing their faces with clotted cream. I shook my head, but I couldn’t shake the image from my mind. That night, I couldn’t sleep. The creak of the rocking chair echoed in my headphones, and I felt a cold draft in my room, even with the windows shut.

The next day, I went back. I needed to know what I’d seen. The house was quiet, the staff too busy with a tour group to notice me. I slipped up the stairs again, the attic door now closed. I pushed it open, expecting the same dusty chaos, but the attic was different. Cleaner. The loom was gone, replaced by a single empty chair in the center of the room. A rocking chair, gently moving on its own, as if someone had just risen from it.

I froze. The air thickened, and I heard her voice for the first time—a dry, rustling whisper that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. ‘You see her too?’ it said. ‘You must finish what she started.’

I spun around, but there was no one. Then I noticed a small, leather-bound book on the chair, open to a page with a photograph. It was an old photo, sepia-toned, of a woman in her forties, seated at the very loom. But her face was scratched out, violently, the paper torn. Whoever had done it had left deep grooves, as if with a knife. On the next page, a handwritten note in faded ink: ‘She wove her curse into every thread. Now we are all trapped. Only a new thread can break it.’

I slammed the book shut, my hands shaking. I wanted to leave, but my legs wouldn’t move. I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, and I turned, but again, nothing. The rocking chair stopped. I bolted, not stopping until I was outside, gasping for breath in the cold, damp air. I told myself it was a prank, a trick of the light, anything.

But over the next few days, things got worse. I started seeing the woman everywhere—in reflections, in the corner of my eye. She was always rocking, always watching. My brothers complained of nightmares, hearing a rhythmic creak at night. My mother, normally so composed, began to jump at sudden noises. The house felt colder each day, and a strange smell, like old wool and dust, began to seep into our rental.

Then, yesterday, I found a small bundle of wool in my backpack. It wasn’t there before—I hadn’t bought it. It was coarse, undyed, tied with a red thread. A note was tucked inside, in the same handwriting: ‘The loom is in your blood. It has chosen you.’

I looked in the mirror, and for a split second, I saw her standing behind me, her hands outstretched as if to weave with mine. I screamed, and she vanished, but I know it’s only a matter of time. The loom is here, in this house, wherever I am. It’s waiting for me to take the thread.

Tonight, I heard the creak again. But this time, it wasn’t from the attic. It was from my bedroom door. I’m writing this as I sit on my bed, my back pressed against the headboard. The door is slowly opening, and in the gap, I see a shadow, and the faint outline of a woman, her hands reaching for me. She’s mouthing something, and I can read her lips: ‘Finish it.’

I’m scared, more scared than I’ve ever been. But part of me, the part I can’t ignore, is also curious. What would happen if I did take the thread? What would that loom create? Maybe I’ll find out. Maybe it’s already too late not to.

I’ll leave this note here, in case anyone finds it. If you do, stay away from any old looms in attics. And if you see a woman rocking, don’t look at her. Just run.