The Weaving

I was twelve, the summer my family moved to the old mill town of Grayhaven. The house we rented was a creaking Victorian that overlooked the Pemberton Gorge, where the water churned and groaned against the rocks. My room was at the end of a narrow hallway, with a bay window that faced the treeline. I had trouble sleeping from the start, but it wasn’t until the third week that the episodes began.

It would happen like this: I’d fall asleep, then snap awake within the hour, my stomach feeling like a nest of bees, a deep, trembling quiver that had no physical source. I’d lie there, frozen, my limbs heavy as stone, my tongue a dead weight in my mouth. The first few times, I thought it was just nightmares. But I knew I was awake. I could see the dust motes dancing in the moonlight, hear the groan of the house settling. And then, one night, I saw the figures.

They stood at the foot of my bed, three of them, silhouetted against the pale glow of the window. They wore long, old-fashioned clothes, like something from a daguerreotype, their faces hidden in shadow. I tried to scream, but no sound came. One of them, the tallest, raised a hand. In it was a thread, silver and shimmering, and they began to weave it through the air, as if knitting a web around me. I felt a pull, a tug at my sternum, as if my very substance was being unraveled.

Night after night, they returned. The fabric of my reality began to fray. I’d see them during the day, out of the corner of my eye, standing in the fields or at the edge of the woods. My parents thought I was just dealing with the move, or that I had an overactive imagination. I tried to tell them, but I could only whisper, ‘They’re in the walls,’ and they’d exchange worried glances. I started to lose weight, dark circles under my eyes, and I knew that if this continued, I would be the next thread to snap.

One evening, I mustered the courage to follow them. I pretended to be asleep, and when the moon rose high, I saw them glide out of my room, not through the door, but through the wall, into the attic. I forced myself to follow, my heart pounding. The attic was a mess of old furniture and trunks, but there, in the center, was a loom. It was ancient, made of dark wood and iron, and the three figures were standing around it, weaving a tapestry. I crept closer, and I saw the design: it was a landscape, a town, with a river, and in the center, a house. My house. And there, in the front window, was a tiny figure, frozen in a moment of terror. Me.

The tallest figure turned and looked directly at me. This time, I could see their face: it was not a face at all, but a smooth, pale blank. They spoke, but their voice was like the rustle of dead leaves, ‘You have seen the pattern. Now you must join it.’ I backed away, but the floorboards gave way, and I fell through the darkness, a scream caught in my throat.

I woke up in my bed, the morning sun streaming in. I was drenched in sweat, but I could move. I could speak. I ran to the attic, but the door was sealed shut, as if never opened. I told my parents what I had seen, and they laughed, saying I had a vivid dream. But I knew it was real. I still know it. Because now, whenever I look in the mirror, I see the faint outline of a thread, trailing from my temple, leading to the wall, and I know that somewhere, in a forgotten attic, three figures are still weaving, and my thread is unraveling, one night at a time.