Still She Weaves (a longer short story)

 

Still She Weaves

“Still she weaves, by night and day, a magic web, of colors gay. She has heard a whisper say: ‘Curse be on her if she stay, to look down on Camelot.’ She knows not what that curse may be, so on she weaveth steadily; The Lady of Shalott.”

Alfred, Lord Tennyson, The Lady of Shalott

Ina clutched her trunk as she made her way up the yawning steps of the mansion. She laughed at herself. It was a mansion such as you have seen in your dreams or in the eponymous Clue game. It was a mansion dark and creaking, with several bare trees like sentinels before the door.

 Ina laughed at herself because this place was her home. She had always owned it, ever since she was a little girl and it had been left to her by a dying aunt. “Who,” she thought to herself as she inserted her key into the front door, “owns a haunted mansion and is proud of it?”

The door swung open with a groan that echoed through the entry, answering her question with a rusty “I do.” Ina laughed again and stepped into the hall. It was a tall, dark place, with a cathedral ceiling that melted into blackness before you could see the top. It was Ina’s home. She felt a strange attraction to this place. Even though Egypt had been pleasant, she hadn’t really felt at home and had left the tour early. As she thought that, she grinned. “Ina Randall, you have just told yourself a lie.”

The house greeted her with a breath of musty air. She smelled the faint scent of molding upholstery from the ajar door of the sitting room. Mouse droppings littered the carpet under the Victorian hall table. Ina noted grimly that something had chewed the skirting board in several places.  

Ina set down her trunk and made her way through the hallway. Her old pumps made soft bumping sounds  on the even older carpet. Her skirt made a swishing noise as it brushed against her long wool coat. The noises of silence sent an unwarranted shiver down her spine. Somewhere a mouse squeaked. “Funny,” Ina thought as she opened the kitchen door, “I don’t hear them yet. I’d think they’d be happy to have me home.”

The kitchen was empty except for a mouse that skittered underneath the old gas range as she entered. The table was dusty, with its yellow checkered oilcloth fading as always on the table. Ina pulled out a chair and sat down. There was nothing in the cupboards, but she had already eaten a meal at the Merry Spirits down in the village.

Everyone had been surprised to see her. “Back from Egypt, eh, Miss Randall?” the innkeeper Mr. Green had said. “I’d ‘ave thought you’d want to doon there ruther than bravin’ the chill up here.”

She’d turned her eyes on his eyes. “Mr. Green, would you want to be in Egypt when at home you know that the seasons are changing and that your house is–is– sitting alone.” She’d hesitated at those last few words because they weren't exactly true.

Mr. Green had eyed her suspiciously. “I doon’t suppose I’d ‘ave wanted to be in Egypt either. Though fer me, I wouldn’t ‘ave gone off to foreign parts in the first place. You know me, Miss Randall.”

She’d nodded a stoic assent and Mr. Green had stood before her trying to get to the real question.

“Eh, Miss Randall, Janie Crandall said ye’d a sweet ‘eart in them foreign places.” 

Ina sighed, remembering Mr. Green’s eyes. She felt her middle-aged bones creak as she shifted in the hard chair. 

She had simply ignored Mr. Green. How could she explain to him the deep feelings she’d felt for Fareed? How could she explain the deeper feeling she had for herself? How could she explain to a man who’d married at seventeen how it felt to be a spinster in love? How could she explain the strange power that had made her leave the tour in the middle of the night, heading for home on the redeye flight? It was inexplicable.

The kitchen door creaked and she turned to see a faint mist emanating from behind it. An involuntary shiver went down her spine for the second time that night. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She’d always loved when the ghosts visited. It was only ignorant fools who found them terrifying.

The mist materialized into a shaky figure. A man, dressed in an eighteenth-century coat and breeches. Ina squinted. Normally the Laughing Lord was much clearer. “What’s up L.L.?” she called in her normal voice.

To her horror her beloved spectral ancestor only pointed upwards. From above, Ina became aware of a thumping noise. It was barely audible, and yet the vibration filled the house. Thump, swish. Thump, swish. “L.L.! Tell me what it is?” She said in a frightened whisper. 

 The Laughing Lord was frozen, his hand still pointing toward the cobwebby ceiling. The thumping became more intense. Thump, swish. Thump, swish. Thump, swish. It rattled Ina’s brain, and she found herself unable to speak. The Laughing Lord began to slowly disintegrate. His waistcoat and bag wig began to separate into tiny particles. All the pieces of him began to swirl around and around Ina as the thumping fell into a hellish music in her brain. The worst part was that his smiling, jovial mouth stayed till last. Before it disintegrated, Ina thought she saw it open and whisper something to her. Something she couldn’t quite catch.

Then, the thumping ceased and Ina was alone in her cobwebby kitchen as darkness fell. She was shaken. Never had she had such a ghostly encounter in 35 years of ghostly encounters. She decided to go to bed. 

Ina made her way up the shadowy stairs. The creaking was chilling tonight for the very first time. She opened her bedroom door. A musty smell greeted her, like mouse droppings mixed with old paneling. Not much liking the smell or the feel of the room, Ina was in bed in five minutes. She pulled the covers over her head, hoping to drown out the disturbing thoughts that haunted her.

“Ina,” a whisper disturbed her reverie. Unwillingly, she peeked over the edge of the blanket. A floating specter beckoned her. “It is all wrong, all wrong, all wrong Ina.” The ghost seemed to struggle to find words. Her large eyes were glowing faintly and the rags of her Regency-era dress blew in an unseen draft. “You must, you must, you must come, come, come.” The voice echoed in Ina’s mind and almost simultaneously she heard again that dreaded rhythm. Thump, swish.

“Louisa Dear, what can be the matter?” Ina managed to croak. But she already felt the rhythm in her mind and Louisa was frozen in place. Ina watched helplessly as another ghostly friend disintegrated before her eyes.

Ina cried into the pillow and tried to shut the rhythm out. It faded, but Ina tossed and turned for most of the night. What was this horrible rhythm above her head? Why was it killing her beloved ghosts, who she had returned from Egypt to see? She loved her home and her ghosts more than anything.

The next morning it dawned chilly, with fog rising from the moor around the house. Ina stood at the window, not wanting to leave her room. It seemed as if all at once everything she’d known had swirled into an oblivion of unknown and confusion. “This is my home, my life!” she muttered angrily.

Now she thought she could detect that faint rhythm again, high above her. Thump, swish. Thump, swish. Thump, swish. She wondered if yet another of her ghostly friends was being annihilated by that horrible rhythm.

She decided to face it. She would go upstairs and look for whatever caused that rhythm.  She left her room and walked down the hall. The noise became stronger and she could feel it pulsing once more in her own brain. She stopped underneath the winding stairs to the attic. The noise was stronger than ever.

The attic. Ina shivered. The attic had seemed unnecessary. She’d never been up there before. A dusty old attic just hadn’t seemed that important when every room of the house was filled with mystery and an old ghost or two. The ghosts had never said anything about it, and somehow it had become a blank in her mind. 

She strode up the stairs. All around her the strange music pulsed and faint mist swirled. She wondered what it was. No ghosts were in sight, which was unusual. Instead, all around her was dim, empty, and cobwebbed. Ina stopped before the attic door.

Fear filled her heart, which was pounding with all its might. Sweat broke out over her body, and as her hand touched the doorknob her mind was overcome with the dreadful rhythm from within the room. Thump, swish went the noise, louder and faster than before. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door.

The attic was dark. The rafters met in a peak over Ina’s head. All around her was dust and old, old furniture. At the far end of the room she saw a shining presence. She was drawn closer unwillingly, her feet moving against her will. She walked the length of the attic to the tune of the horrible rhythm, her feet moving in synchronism to the beat.

She came to a stop before the presence. It was the figure of a woman, bent over a vast loom. The warp and weft were shining silver. At first they seemed solid, but as Ina gazed she saw that every cord was made up of millions of floating particles. Above the woman’s head, transfixed in positions of frozen horror, were the ghosts. The Cook Goodepudding was still holding her eternal mixing bowl. The Lovers who inhabited the garden were frozen in the middle of a kiss, their eyes wide. Professor Murray from the study was chasing his spectacles, which hung suspended forever beyond his fingertips. 

The Weaver did not seem to notice Ina. She yanked on the cord  in her shuttle. The ghost directly over the Weaver’s head disintegrated more. Thump, went the beater. Swish, went the shuttle.

Suddenly Ina realized what was happening. Her ghosts were being woven into this horrible tapestry. Little by little, particle by particle, their spirits were being imprisoned in a living and yet dead piece of cloth. They were being killed with every thump and entrapped by every swish.

“Stop!” Ina gasped, even as the beater went thump once more, followed by the dull swish of the shuttle.

The Weaver turned her head.

Ina wanted to gag as a cold swash of horror climbed her spine. The Weaver was herself, a pale, faded version of herself with faded eyes and wispy hair.

“Stop,” Ina whimpered once more.

“Why?” whispered the Weaver Ina. “They are mine, aren’t they? I want to keep them safe.” Her voice drew out in a hiss.

“But you’re killing them!”

“No, I’m preserving them. Keeping them from being destroyed by people who don’t understand. I want them. They’re mine. No one else shall have them.”

“No!  They won’t be anyone’s if they’re dead!”

“This is my house, my life!” whispered the ghost in a cold voice. “Besides,” the ghost lowered her voice, “They already are dead.”

“No, no it’s not. It’s not. They’re not.” said Ina, really crying this time. “You can’t just preserve everything. You have to let go. You have to live.”

“Let me see you do it,” taunted Weaver Ina, giving her shuttle another swish.

Ina could do nothing. How can you fight with the ghost of yourself? How do you kill your own spirit? The rhythm still pounded in her mind, but it was less now.

She walked down the stairs, mourning the outcome of her selfishness. How could she have been so blind? 

All day, Ina went about her silent house. She realized how empty it was without her ghosts, how dirty, and how utterly dull.

That night, she sat down and wrote a note to Fareed.

 “Dear Fareed,” it read, “I have some things to explain to you. Sometimes the ghosts of our past become entangled with reality. I wanted to say that I'm sorry. Yours lovingly,  Ina.”