The Painful Weight

At fourteen, I thought I knew fear. Growing up in the narrow, damp streets of Preston, I had heard tales of the old textile mills and the workers who died in them, their ghosts said to linger among the broken looms. But I never believed, not really. Then a boy named Liam moved into the house next door, and his stories of his grandfather’s last days—he had been a weaver, and his death was slow, from a wasting sickness that made his bones ache—planted a seed of unease in me. I didn’t know then that I would become entangled in something far older and more terrible.

One night, I woke to a crushing pressure on my chest, as if a giant hand was pressing me into the mattress. I could move my limbs, but my belly was a stone, and every breath was a battle. The pain was sharp, like a needle being pushed through my navel, and when I tried to sit up, it felt as though my entrails were being torn. I gasped, but no sound came. In the corner of my room, I saw a shape—a tall, thin figure, its head bent at an unnatural angle, its arms hanging too long. It didn’t move, but it seemed to be feeding on my struggle. Then darkness took me, and I woke in the morning with a dull ache and a faint bruise on my stomach.

I told my mother, but she dismissed it as a stomach cramp or a bad dream. I tried to forget, but the memory of that figure lingered. A few weeks later, my friend Emma and I decided to hold a séance in her attic, a cramped space filled with old trunks and dusty furniture, the air thick with the smell of mothballs. We used a board we had drawn ourselves, and a glass as the pointer. We began by asking for any spirits to speak to us. The glass started to move, spelling out a name: ‘Elias’. Neither of us knew an Elias, but the board went on to spell out a message: ‘He left me to rot.’ I felt a chill run down my spine, but Emma was pale, her hands shaking. The glass began to move faster, spelling out more ominous words: ‘You will join him.’ Then it spelled my name, ‘Martha’, and I felt a sudden, overwhelming sadness that was not my own. I tried to pull my hand away, but it was as if it was glued to the glass. I began to cry, tears streaming down my face without any control. Emma was yelling at me to stop, but I couldn’t. The glass kept moving, spelling out a series of numbers that made no sense to me. Then, just as suddenly, it stopped.

I managed to end the séance properly, following the ritual to close the board, but as I did, I felt a sharp pain in my stomach again. That night, I dreamed of a man—his face was a blur, but his body was broken, as if he had been crushed. He whispered, ‘You have awakened me.’ When I woke, I found a long, thin mark on my stomach, like a scratch, but it was red and swollen. From that night on, I began to feel a presence in my room, a heavy weight at the foot of my bed, a cold spot near my desk. I tried to tell my dad, but he said I was being dramatic. There was a history in this town that we couldn’t ignore: the old weaving mill, closed for decades, but some said the machines still ran at night, and the sound of the looms could be heard if you listened closely.

I started to research the history of the mill, and I found a record of a boy named Elias who had worked there in the 1800s. He had died in an accident, crushed by a machine that had been faulty. The records said his death was ‘unfortunate’ and that the factory owner had paid a pittance to his family. I also found that the owner of the mill at that time was a man named Charles Whitmore, and his descendants still lived in the town. That’s when I realized: the spirit might be seeking revenge, and I had opened a door that should have stayed shut. The pain in my stomach grew worse, and I began to see the figure more often, not just in my room, but in the corners of my vision, in the reflection of the mirror when I brushed my teeth.

One afternoon, I felt a pull toward the abandoned mill. Against my better judgment, I went there, stepping over the ‘Keep Out’ signs. The air inside was cold and musty, and the floorboards creaked under my feet. I saw the old looms, their gears still intact, and I heard a whispering sound, a mechanical clatter that seemed to grow louder. I turned to leave, but the door had slammed shut behind me. The pain in my stomach intensified, and I doubled over, gasping. I looked up and saw the figure standing at the far end of the room, its head tilted, its mouth open in a silent scream. It pointed at me, and I felt a cold hand on my neck, then everything went black.

I woke up outside the mill, lying in the grass, with the sun setting. My stomach was sore, but the pain had dulled to an ache. I went home, and I have never told anyone the full story. But I know that the spirit is still there, waiting. Sometimes, at night, I feel the weight on my chest and the phantom pain, and I know that I have not escaped it. I carry that weight with me, a reminder that some doors should never be opened.