Threads of the Unwound

The house on Ashwood Lane had always been quiet, save for the faint whispers that seemed to seep through its walls like smoke. No one ever spoke of them directly—not the neighbors, not even Mom—but I heard them when the wind died and the clocks ticked too loudly. They weren't voices, exactly. More like fragments of breaths, stretched thin across time.

Mom told me never to touch the door at the end of the hallway. It wasn't locked—it didn't need to be. The paint around it was cracked, peeling away in long strips as if the wood beneath were alive and shedding its skin. She said it led to a place where things went to sleep forever, but sometimes, late at night, I'd hear something scratching from the other side. Not nails against wood, but something softer. Fingers, maybe. Or roots tearing through soil.

One evening, after the sun sank low and painted the sky with streaks of bruised purple, the sound changed. It wasn't just scratching anymore—it was humming. A tuneless, hollow hum, like air being pushed through broken reeds. My chest tightened every time it stopped, only to start again moments later, louder than before. I tried to ignore it, burying my face under pillows stuffed with feathers that smelled faintly of damp earth. But sleep wouldn't come.

By midnight, curiosity gnawed at me harder than fear. I crept out of bed, bare feet cold against the warped floorboards. The hallway stretched longer than usual, shadows pooling thickly in corners where none should have gathered. At the far end, the door stood slightly ajar, a sliver of blackness leaking out like tar.

I shouldn't have gone closer. I knew better. But the humming pulled me forward, each step heavier than the last, until I reached the threshold. The scent hit me first—sharp and metallic, like pennies left out in the rain. Then came the chill, wrapping itself around my ankles like icy fingers.

Peering inside, I saw nothing but darkness. No furniture, no windows, no light. Just an endless void that seemed to swallow sound whole. Yet the humming continued, vibrating somewhere deep within the emptiness. And then—a flicker. A pale glow appeared in the distance, wavering like candlelight caught in a draft.

Against all reason, I stepped inside.

The floor shifted beneath me, soft and spongy, as though covered in moss. Each movement sent ripples spreading outward, tiny tremors that made the glow pulse faster. As I moved toward it, shapes began to emerge from the gloom: twisted silhouettes hanging limply from invisible strings, their forms contorted into unnatural angles. Their faces were blank, smooth as river stones, yet they turned toward me in unison, following my progress with unseen eyes.

And there, in the center of the room, sat a figure hunched over what looked like a spindle. Its hands—too many of them—moved deftly, spinning threads so fine they shimmered like spider silk. The threads connected to the figures suspended above, tethering them to the spindle like marionettes. With every pull, the figures twitched violently, mouths opening wide in silent screams.

The humming grew louder now, resonating in my bones. That's when I noticed the source: the figure at the spindle wasn't alone. Beneath its seat, curled into a tight ball, was a child. Its lips moved constantly, forming words I couldn't hear over the deafening drone. Its eyes met mine, wide and wet, pleading.

Before I could react, the figure at the spindle paused. Its head tilted slowly, impossibly, until it faced me fully. Where its face should have been, there was only a gaping hole ringed with jagged teeth. From within came a voice, layered and guttural, speaking directly into my mind.

"You shouldn't be here."

I stumbled back, heart hammering wildly, but the floor gave way beneath me. Threads shot up from the ground, coiling around my wrists and ankles, pulling me down. Panic surged as I realized the child beneath the spindle was no longer looking at me—it was me. Older, gaunter, hollow-eyed. Trapped.

From somewhere far away, I heard Mom screaming my name. Her footsteps thundered closer, shaking the walls. The figure hissed, releasing me abruptly. The threads snapped, recoiling into the shadows as the door slammed shut behind her.

She dragged me out, shaking and sobbing, clutching me so tightly I thought my ribs might crack. For days afterward, she barely spoke, retreating into herself like a wounded animal. But the worst part? Every night since, I've woken to the same humming, growing louder and clearer, until it feels like it's coming from inside my own chest.

Now, when I look in the mirror, I see threads wrapped loosely around my arms, trailing off into places I can't follow. And sometimes, in the reflection, the child beneath the spindle watches me still, waiting patiently for the day I'll take my rightful place beside it.