The Tug at the Loom

Our arrival in the coastal town of Greyhollow in the fall of 2015 was less a choice than a necessity. The job offer had come with a housing stipend that barely covered the ancient, salt-eaten house on Marrow Lane, but it was near the harbor and cheap. We moved in on a Thursday, the air thick with the smell of fish and damp wood. My daughter, Elsie, was seven, and our border collie, Pip, was already nervous, pacing the warped floorboards of the living room. My husband, Marcus, optimistic as ever, was busy assembling an air mattress in the master bedroom while I tackled the kitchen, scrubbing a layer of grime from the counters.

That first night, we slept on the floor, the murmur of the tide a constant, rhythmic hush. But I woke to a different sound—a low, mechanical hum that seemed to vibrate up from the basement, like an old generator. I dismissed it as the house’s ancient plumbing. The next morning, after a restless sleep, I decided to take a hot shower to wash away the travel grime. The bathroom was at the end of a narrow hallway, past a door that was always slightly ajar, revealing a steep staircase leading down. I stood under the lukewarm spray, the steam fogging the small, oval mirror, and felt a sense of being watched. I ignored it, chalking it up to nerves.

After I dried off, I stood at the back of the room, near the window that overlooked the gray, churning sea, and began to comb my hair. The hum from below seemed louder now, a thrumming that I felt in my teeth. Then, I felt two distinct tugs on the hem of my shirt, sharp and deliberate, as if someone wanted my attention. I spun around, expecting to see Elsie, but the room was empty. The door was closed, the air still. A cold knot tightened in my stomach.

I dressed quickly and hurried to the living room, where Marcus was on the floor with Elsie, building a tower of blocks. Pip was curled in the corner, his head on his paws, but his eyes were fixed on me. I pulled Marcus aside and asked if either of them had come into the bedroom. He looked puzzled. ‘No, they’ve been here the whole time. Why?’ I told him about the tugs, and he laughed nervously. ‘Probably just the house settling. Old places do that.’ But I saw his eyes flick to the basement door, which was now closed.

Over the next weeks, the incidents grew. A child’s laugh echoed from the stairwell when no one was there. Pip would whine and stare at the ceiling, his tail tucked. Elsie began talking to someone she called ‘the lady in the blue dress,’ who she said lived in the basement. I dismissed it as a vivid imagination, until one afternoon, I walked past the slightly open door to the basement and heard the hum again, now accompanied by a rhythmic thumping, like a loom at work. I called down, ‘Hello?’ The sound stopped abruptly. The silence that followed was heavy, oppressive.

One evening, while Marcus was out, Elsie came to me, her face pale. ‘Mama, the lady wants me to come play with her. She says she has a loom and can make me pretty clothes.’ I clutched her hand. ‘No, sweetheart, there’s no lady. It’s just the wind.’ But she shook her head, her eyes wide. ‘She has a long face and no eyes. She just wants to braid my hair.’ That night, I could not sleep. I lay awake, listening to the hum, which had become a low, mournful song.

The breaking point came when I discovered a scrap of fabric in the basement, a piece of old, coarse linen, damp and moldy, stitched with a pattern of three interlocking circles. The humming was loud, almost deafening, and I felt a presence behind me. I turned, and there, in the dim light, I saw a shape—a tall, thin figure with no face, its head tilted as if listening. It reached out a hand, and I felt two tugs on my shirt, exactly as before. I screamed and ran upstairs.

We moved out a week later, leaving behind most of our furniture. But the strange thing is, after we left, I found a small, neatly folded piece of cloth in my suitcase—the same coarse linen, stitched with the three circles, but this time with a tiny lock of hair, the color of Elsie’s, woven into the center. The hum still lingers in my ears, a constant reminder that some things in that house were not of this world, and that the lady in the blue dress wanted more than just company. She wanted to keep a piece of us, and I fear we left with less than we arrived.