The Looms of Bellhaven

In the autumn of that year, I moved to Bellhaven, a town that time seemed to have forgotten. The house I rented was an old Victorian relic, its paint peeling like sunburnt skin, and its windows stared out like hollow eyes. I was a weaver, drawn by the town’s reputation for handlooms and textiles. The house came with a dusty attic, a space I dismissed at first, but something about it hummed with a quiet expectation.

On the first night, I woke to the sensation of countless threads trailing across my skin. The air was thick, and the darkness felt textured, as if woven from a fabric of pure night. I reached for the lamp, and as light flooded the room, the sensation receded, leaving only the faint scent of lavender and dust. I shrugged it off as a remnant of my vivid dreams, but sleep eluded me, so I spent the rest of the night sketching patterns for my next project.

The following night, I heard the rhythmic thump of a loom from the attic above. It was steady, almost hypnotic, like a heartbeat. I checked my phone: 2:17 AM. I pulled on a robe and crept up the narrow attic stairs. As I reached the top, the sound ceased, and the space was empty, save for an antique loom draped in cobwebs. I recalled the town’s history, how the old families were weavers, and how the Bellhaven Loom was a local legend. I felt a chill and hurried back to bed.

The next morning, my skin felt raw, and I found faint red lines on my forearms, as if from thin, tight threads. That evening, I lit candles and sat by the fire, but the feeling of being watched was overwhelming. I spun my own wool, trying to distract myself, but the air in the attic grew colder. I decided to investigate the loom more closely, and that’s when I noticed a pattern carved into its frame—a series of interlocking eyes. I remembered an old local myth: the Loom of Bellhaven, which could weave the fate of its owner, but only if it fed on their life threads.

I tried to remove the loom, but it was as if it were bolted to the floor, and the attic seemed to resist my efforts. That night, I had a dream of an old woman with silver hair, her fingers dancing over the loom, and she whispered, ‘You are the pattern now.’ I woke to find my sheets folded into precise geometric shapes, and on my pillow lay a single strand of hair—long, grey, not mine.

For six days, the feeling grew. I saw faces in the grain of the wood, heard my name in the creak of the stairs, and my reflection in the mirror seemed a beat behind my movements. On the last night, I decided to face it. I entered the attic, and the loom was alive, threads shimmering in the dim light. I felt a pull, as if my own life was being threaded into the weft. I sat before it, and my hands, as if with a mind of their own, began to weave. I saw in the fabric my own childhood, my arrival, my daily routines, and then—a gap, a blank space where the future should be.

Suddenly, I understood. The loom had been a prison for the previous weaver, a woman named Elspeth, who had been trapped in the fabric for decades. I was meant to replace her. But I had brought my own yarn—a skein of indigo that had belonged to my grandmother. In a desperate move, I threaded it into the shuttle, and as I dropped it, the threads snapped, and the loom fell silent. I found myself on the floor, exhausted, the attic empty but for dust.

Now, months later, I still live here, but I never use the attic. Sometimes, at night, I feel a phantom touch, and I check my clothes for loose threads. I see Elspeth in the mirror occasionally, her silver hair a reminder that the loom is patient, and its patterns are not easily broken. I don’t know if I truly escaped, or if I’m just another thread in a design I cannot see. But I’ve learned to lock the attic door, and I never, ever weave after midnight.