The Weaver’s Throne

In the autumn of 2016, my daughter and I moved into a rundown farmhouse on the edge of the Cranberry Bog. The place had been abandoned for decades, and the land was overgrown with wild raspberries and thorny vines. The house itself creaked and groaned like an old ship, and the wallpaper peeled in long strips as if the walls were shedding skin.

We began renovations, starting with the parlor, which was lined with dark wainscoting. When we tore that away, we found a curious thing: a heavy, ornately carved back of a chair, embedded in the lath and plaster. The wood was dark walnut, and the carvings depicted twisted branches and intertwined roots, with tiny faces hidden among the leaves. At first, I thought it was a mirror frame, but its shape was unmistakably that of a chair back.

Months later, while clearing out a closet under the stairs, we discovered a boarded-up crawl space. Behind the boards, we found the seat of the chair, upholstered in faded, moth-eaten velvet, and two legs, carved to resemble clawed feet gripping wooden balls. The wood was intact, but there was a faint, unpleasant odor, like old smoke and damp earth.

Now, the strangest part came in the spring. As we cleared the yard of waist-high weeds, we dug up the remaining two legs, wrapped in rotted plastic that crumbled at the touch. These legs were worm-eaten and slightly warped, but still sound. So, we had the entire chair, albeit in pieces.

My daughter, a curious ten-year-old, insisted we assemble it. I gave in one rainy afternoon. We fit the pieces together, and as the last joint clicked into place, a cold draft swept through the room, though all windows were closed. My daughter and I looked at each other, and in the same breath, we whispered, ‘This chair is haunted.’ We dismantled it within minutes, bagged every piece in industrial trash bags, and hauled them to the farthest corner of the garage.

For two years, the bags sat there, untouched. But the chair haunted my thoughts. I dreamed of it, not in fear, but in fascination. I saw it standing in a grand hall, with a figure seated in it, a woman in a flowing gray gown, her face hidden. She seemed to be weaving something in the air with invisible threads.

When I finally moved out, I couldn’t leave the chair behind. I brought it to my new apartment, a small one-bedroom on the third floor of an old Victorian. I set the bags in a corner of the living room, but one evening, unable to resist, I opened the bags and laid the pieces out on the floor. The wood was cool to the touch, and the carvings seemed more intricate than I remembered.

I reassembled the chair, alone this time. As I placed the last leg, I felt a vibration, like a low hum, rising from the wood. I stepped back, and the chair stood before me, complete, silent, as if waiting. I sat in it, just for a moment. The seat felt oddly warm, and the carvings seemed to press into my back, not uncomfortably, but like a hand guiding my posture.

That night, I had a dream. I was in a vast, dim room, filled with a thousand looms, each weaving a tapestry. In the center, on the same chair, sat an old woman, her fingers moving swiftly, pulling threads of light from the air. She turned to me, her eyes milky white, and said, ‘You’ve found my chair. Now you must take my place.’ I woke with a start, the name ‘Evelyn’ on my lips.

I began to research the history of the farmhouse. It had been owned by a woman named Evelyn Marsh, a renowned weaver in the early 1900s. She had built the chair herself, weaving its story into every groove. Locals said she could weave the future, but she vanished one day, leaving only the chair behind.

Now, I understand. The chair is not haunted; it is an anchor. It holds the spirit of Evelyn, and anyone who sits in it becomes a conduit for her weaving. I’ve sat in it again, many times. Sometimes I see threads of color in my peripheral vision, and I feel an urge to weave, though I’ve never woven before. I’ve started to hear whispers, but they are not the cliché ghostly moans; they are the soft sounds of a loom, rhythmic and hypnotic.

The chair is in my living room now, placed by the window. I cannot dismantle it again; it would be like tearing a soul apart. My daughter refuses to visit, saying the chair ‘watches’ her. But I sit in it every evening, and I feel a growing sense of purpose. I am learning to weave. I am beginning to see the threads that connect all things.

And sometimes, in the corner of my eye, I see the old woman nodding, as if in approval.

I know, someday, I will take her place permanently. But for now, I am content to learn the craft, to sit in her chair, and to feel the warmth of the wood, as if it were alive.

I could have thrown the chair away, burned it, or left it in that abandoned house. But I didn’t. I brought it here, and now it has claimed me. The chair is not haunted; it is waiting. And I am its new occupant.

I just hope I’m ready.

But the threads are already weaving their pattern, and I cannot see where they end.