The Tapestry’s Temper

My partner, Lena, and I had chosen to spend the weekend at the Ashworth House, a sprawling Victorian manor turned boutique hotel, known for its dark history and alleged hauntings. It was the night of the harvest moon, casting an amber glow through the frosted windows of the grand foyer. I had always scoffed at such tales, attributing them to overactive imaginations and drafty old buildings. Lena, however, was a believer, and she had convinced me to book the stay as a birthday treat for her.

We had just climbed the sweeping main staircase, the steps groaning under our weight, when Lena stopped and pointed. ‘Look at that tapestry,’ she whispered, her eyes wide. I followed her gaze to a large, hand-woven tapestry depicting a hunting scene, which adorned the wall at the top of the landing. It seemed to be swaying gently, as if stirred by an unseen breeze. I chuckled and walked over, placing my hand on the fabric. ‘It’s just the air vents,’ I said, giving a little puff of air against the fibers. The tapestry barely moved, but at that precise moment, the antique chandelier above us began to flicker, its warm bulbs humming erratically. Lena gasped, and I turned to see her fumbling with her phone, recording. ‘Stop that!’ she hissed, but I only laughed, exhaling again, and the lights fluttered like startled moths before settling back to steady glow when I stopped.

Lena stepped back, her phone still aimed at me, but she was looking past my shoulder at the portrait of the house’s original mistress, Eleanor Ashworth, whose severe face stared down at us from its gilded frame. ‘Do you think she disapproves of you touching her things?’ she said, her voice shaky. I smirked at the camera. ‘If she’s here, she can tell me herself.’ The moment the words left my lips, a cold draft swept down the staircase, and I felt a presence behind me—so palpable that the hairs on my neck stood up. I spun around, but there was no one there. Lena’s face had gone white. She played back the recording, her hand trembling. At the end of my jest, a faint, guttural voice emerged from the static, clear as a bell: ‘No. I’m right behind you.’

We both stood frozen, the air thick with the scent of old wood and rose potpourri. The voice had not been mine. It had been a woman’s voice, low and furious. I forced a laugh, but it caught in my throat. ‘It’s just a coincidence,’ I managed, but Lena grabbed my arm, her nails digging in. ‘Let’s go down,’ she pleaded. We descended the stairs, our footsteps echoing too loudly in the sudden silence. The lobby was empty, the night clerk nowhere to be seen. We tried the library, a room lined with leather-bound books and a fireplace, thinking we’d hide there until morning. But as we entered, the portrait of Eleanor Ashworth—the same one from upstairs—hung over the mantle, and I swore her eyes followed us.

We settled into a pair of armchairs, trying to rationalize what we had heard. Lena was browsing paranormal forums on her phone, insisting we search the house for more evidence. I reluctantly agreed, and we began a systematic exploration, the old floorboards creaking like brittle bones. We checked each room, opulent but suffocatingly still. In a narrow hallway on the third floor, we found a door that was oddly ajar, leading to a small, forgotten nursery. The walls were papered with faded roses, and a single porcelain doll sat on a rocking chair, its painted eyes staring blankly. As we stepped closer, the doll’s head turned with a click, its gaze meeting ours. Lena screamed and stumbled back, and I grabbed her, pulling us out of the room.

We ran down the stairs, not stopping until we reached the kitchen, the room that was said to be the epicenter of the malevolent energy. The kitchen was modern, but an old iron stove stood in the corner, its firebox rusted shut. On the counter lay a single black feather, the size of my hand. Lena picked it up, turning it over in her fingers. ‘This is a magpie feather,’ she whispered. ‘They say Eleanor was a witch…’ Just then, a metal pot crashed from a shelf across the room, clattering to the floor. We both jumped, but nothing else moved. ‘Okay, that’s enough,’ I said, my bravado completely gone. ‘Let’s check the back garden.’ The garden was enclosed by a high wall, overgrown with ivy. In the center stood a stone well, its opening covered with a wooden lid. As we approached, I could swear I heard a faint humming coming from beneath the boards. Lena knelt down, placing her ear close. ‘I hear something,’ she said. ‘It sounds like a lullaby.’ She reached for the lid, and I shouted, ‘No!’ But it was too late—she lifted it, revealing a black chasm.

A rush of cold air exploded from the well, and from it, a sound like a hundred whispers rose, converging into a single, clear voice that we both recognized: ‘You should not have come back.’ Lena let go of the lid, which slammed shut with a deafening bang. We stood there, panting, the garden now dark and silent except for the chirping of a lone cricket. The moon had slipped behind a cloud, leaving us in near darkness. I grabbed Lena’s hand, and we sprinted back into the house, locking the garden door behind us. We didn’t speak as we climbed the main staircase, the very spot where it all began. The tapestry hung motionless, and the chandelier was steady. But as we reached the top, we saw it—the portrait of Eleanor Ashworth was gone. In its place was a mirror, and in that mirror, behind us, stood a tall figure in a black mourning dress, its face obscured. Lena turned to look over my shoulder, but there was nothing there. I looked back at the mirror—the figure was gone, and my own reflection stared back, pale and shaken.

We stumbled into our room, barricading the door with a chair. We didn’t sleep, but lay on the bed, holding each other, the silence broken only by our racing hearts. At dawn, we fled the house without checking out, leaving our belongings behind. As we drove away, Lena played the recording one more time. The voice was still there, clearer than ever: ‘No. I’m right behind you.’ And in the rearview mirror, I saw a woman in black standing at the top of the hill, waving slowly, as if bidding us farewell. I didn’t look back again until we reached the highway. When I finally glanced in the mirror, she was gone, but I could still feel her presence, as if she had climbed into the back seat and was just waiting for the right moment to make herself known. The tapestry no longer hangs at the Ashworth House—they took it down after we reported the incident. But sometimes, late at night, I can still feel a chill at the base of my neck, and I swear I hear a woman’s voice whispering, ‘No… I’m right behind you.’