The Rag-Woman’s Lullaby

In the autumn of 1987, I was nine, living in a cramped apartment above my uncle’s antique shop in the old mill district of Port Blakely. The building had a musty smell of old wood and dust, and my room was a narrow space under the eaves, with a single window that looked out onto the alley below. My bed was a creaky iron frame shoved against the wall, and I often slept with a nightlight shaped like a lighthouse, because the shadows in that room seemed to have a weight of their own.

That night, I woke with a sudden, inexplicable dread. The air was cold, and the silence was so thick it felt like cotton pressed against my ears. I sat up, my heart hammering, and in the same instant, I saw something at the foot of my bed. She was crouched there, perched on the mattress like a spider, her body so thin that her bones seemed to push against her skin. Her legs were stunted, barely reaching the edge of the bed, and her arms were too long, ending in fingers that twitched as if they were feeling for something. She wore a torn, grey dress that hung loose on her frame, and her hair was a wispy tangle that floated around her head as if underwater.

But it was her face that froze me. Her mouth was stretched wide, impossibly wide, in a silent scream that also looked like a grin. Her eyes were black, without any white, and they were locked on me. She reached out with one hand, her fingers bending at odd angles, and started to hum a broken lullaby that I recognized from an old music box my mother used to have. The tune was cracked and off-key, and it made my blood turn to ice. I couldn’t move. I felt a paralysis that was not physical, but something deeper, as if my very will had been stolen.

Her fingers brushed my shoulder, and at that touch, the world erupted. I finally screamed, a raw, tearing sound, and I flailed my arms, trying to push her away. But my hands passed through her like smoke. She laughed, a sound like grinding glass, and then she leaned closer, her breath cold and smelling of iron and rot. She started to sing the lullaby in a voice that was not a voice, but a vibration in my skull. ‘Sleep, my child, the night is deep, and dreams are but a step away…’ She sang, and as she did, I felt an immense drowsiness, a pull toward that darkness.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but I woke the next morning, drenched in sweat, with a strange scratch on my shoulder. I told my uncle, but he dismissed it as a nightmare. Yet, every night for a week, she returned. Each time, she looked a little more solid, and my resistance grew weaker. The lullaby became more familiar, and I found myself humming it during the day without realizing.

On the seventh night, I decided I couldn’t stay silent. I hid under my blanket, but that only made it worse. She seemed to materialize from the darkness itself, her form weaving through the threads. She was closer than ever, her face inches from mine. She didn’t reach for me this time. Instead, she opened her mouth wider, and from it, I heard the most horrific sound: the screams of children, hundreds of them, all pleading, all in pain. And then, I realized that I was not just the victim; I was part of the collection. She had been building a choir of lost souls, and she wanted me to join.

In that moment of terror, I remembered a piece of advice from my grandmother, who had been superstitious and wise. She said that spirits of that kind are bound to a place or an object, and that to break their hold, you must find their ‘anchor.’ I forced my eyes open, ignoring the sight of her, and I scanned the room. There, on the windowsill, was an old music box that I had found in the shop and kept on a whim. It was the same one that played the lullaby. She was attached to it.

With every ounce of strength, I lunged for it, not caring if she touched me. My fingers closed around the cold metal, and I flung it out the window, hearing it shatter on the pavement below. The air around me seemed to rupture. The being let out a silent, agonized cry, and then she dissolved into a mist that was sucked out of the room after the music box. The screaming stopped, and I was alone, gasping on the floor.

I never saw her again, but to this day, I cannot hear a music box without a chill running down my spine. And sometimes, in the dead of night, I still hum that lullaby, not because I want to, but because it feels like she planted it in my soul, and it will never leave.