The Loom of the Long Night

I had come to Istanbul to lose myself in the layers of history, but the city had other plans. My hotel room overlooked the Bosphorus, yet the constant hum of the ferries and the cries of the gulls soon grew tiresome. A friend of a friend knew a man who rented out a flat in the old quarter, a crumbling Ottoman-era building near the Grand Bazaar. The apartment was on the top floor, accessible by a rickety elevator that smelled of dust and old wood. The landlord, a gaunt old man with a single milky eye, handed me a heavy iron key and warned me to keep the windows closed at night. I laughed it off, attributing it to the city’s famous drafts and the Bosphorus chill.

The first week was a blur of minarets, spice markets, and endless cups of apple tea. But as the month wore on, I found myself drawn to the rooftop balcony that overlooked the jumbled rooftops and the distant Galata Tower. I would sit there in the pre-dawn darkness, sipping coffee and reading from an old leather-bound collection of Ottoman poetry I had picked up at a bookstall. The city was quiet then, save for the muezzin’s call from the Blue Mosque, a haunting melody that seemed to curl through the alleys.

One night, I woke from a dreamless sleep and padded out to the balcony. The air was thick and still, as if the city held its breath. I couldn’t sleep, so I switched on the small reading lamp and opened the poetry book. The words felt alien, yet familiar. As the first notes of the call to prayer drifted through the dark, I felt a gentle tug at my hair, like a breeze with fingers. I ignored it, attributing it to the wind. But it came again, more insistent, a stroking at the back of my neck. I turned, and for a split second, I saw a shimmer in the air, like heat rising from the ancient cobblestones, but it vanished when I blinked.

My heart hammered. I had read about the hamuns of Istanbul, the restless spirits said to linger in the old houses. I tried to dismiss it, but the sensation returned each morning, always at the same time, always during the call to prayer. I took to wearing a thick wool cap, but the fingers seemed to find their way through, brushing my scalp with an icy touch. The poetry book seemed to thrum with a strange energy, the ink on the pages seeming to shift when I wasn’t looking. I began to notice that certain verses were underlined, though I had never marked them, and they spoke of ‘the loom that weaves the night’ and ‘the hands that fashion the dark.’

Driven by a growing unease, I sought out a local historian at the Istanbul University. He was a gregarious man with a quick smile, but when I mentioned the apartment building and the balcony, his smile faltered. ‘You are staying in the Beyoğlu district, yes? The building with the arched windows?’ I nodded. He pulled a worn map from his drawer and pointed to a spot marked with a faded star. ‘There was a weaver’s guild that operated there in the 1500s. It was said they wove cloth from the ghosts of the dead, using their whispers as thread. The master weaver, a woman named Elif, was accused of heresy and buried beneath the floorboards of the top floor. They say she still works her loom at night, and if you listen closely, you can hear the creak of the loom and the whispers of the dead.’

That evening, I returned to the apartment with a sense of dread. The elevator creaked and groaned, and I half-expected it to give way. Inside, the air was colder than usual, and the shadows in the corners seemed to writhe. I went to the balcony, but the view was obscured by a thick fog that had rolled in from the Bosphorus. The call to prayer began, and this time, I felt a strong yank on my hair, as if someone wanted to pull me backward. I stumbled, and my phone slipped from my hand, skittering across the tiles and over the edge. I watched it tumble into the mist, and as it fell, the screen flickered with an image of a grotesque face, its mouth stretched wide in a silent scream.

I fled to the stairs, but the door to the stairwell was locked. I fumbled with the iron key, but it didn’t fit. Panic clawed at me. The air grew thick with a cloying odor, like incense and old blood. I pressed my back against the door, facing the balcony, and saw a figure forming in the mist—a tall woman in a shroud, her hands stretched toward me, fingers long and bony. She opened her mouth, and a sound like the grinding of looms filled the air. ‘You have come to my loom,’ she said, her voice like rustling silk. ‘You will be my final thread.’

I screamed, but no sound came out. The fog wrapped around me, and I felt myself being lifted, carried to the edge of the balcony. Below, the mist churned, and I could see the dim lights of the city, impossibly far away. The woman’s hands were in my hair now, stroking with a sickening tenderness. ‘Don’t struggle,’ she whispered. ‘It will be done quickly.’

Just as my feet left the ground, a loud crash came from inside the apartment. The door splintered open, and the landlord stood there, a shotgun in his hands, his milky eye blazing. ‘Elif! Let him go!’ he shouted. He fired, and the pellets passed through the apparition, but it made her falter. The grip on my hair loosened, and I collapsed onto the balcony floor, gasping. The landlord grabbed my arm and hauled me to my feet, shoving me toward the open door. ‘Run, you fool!’ he yelled. ‘I told you to keep the windows closed!’

I didn’t need further urging. I stumbled down the stairs, tripping over my own feet, and burst onto the street. The fog had lifted, and the dawn was breaking over the minarets. I ran until I reached a small park, where I collapsed on a bench, shaking. When I looked back at the building, I saw the landlord standing on the balcony, staring down at me. He raised a hand in a mock salute, then turned and walked back inside. I never returned to that apartment. I spent the remaining nights of my stay in a cheap hostel, my hair shorn close to my scalp, hoping to remove any trace of her touch. But even now, thousands of miles away, in the quiet of my own home, I sometimes feel a soft stroke at my hair, just before dawn, when the call to prayer echoes through the city’s minarets—a reminder that some looms are never silent.