The Yarn Spinner

Living in the little, abandoned hamlet of Bristow was an elderly woman called Agnes, sometimes known as the Yarn Spener. Agnes was blessed in that she could spin the best yarns and create the most gripping tales. Enchanting youngsters and adults alike with her stories, every evening they assembled in her dimly lighted parlour.

Agnes started a different narrative one cool autumn night while the wind howled outside and leaves danced in the moonlight. Her kind but forceful voice captivated everyone in as she described a community buried far into the forest where time stopped still. She said that although the people never aged, their perpetual youth paid a cost.

Both intrigued and little alarmed, the listeners bent in closer. Agnes's needles clicked in time; the sound matched her words. She told about a nasty spirit that paid the community one annual visit on the first night of winter. This ghost asked a sacrifice, and it gave the people another year of young life in return.

The fire in the hearth flicked and the room appeared to get colder as Agnes's narrative darkened. She told how the people selected their sacrifice - a name taken from a black velvet bag. The selected one would be brought to the village center, where the ghost would show itself and seize its victim.

Agnes abruptly stopped. Usually kind and inviting, her eyes glazed away as she fixed her gaze on the flickering flames. The room went still, the only sound coming from the corner a grandfather clock ticking. Then she said, "Tonight, the spirit visits again," with a voice that made their spines quiver.

The once-cozy parlour suddenly seemed stifling as the listeners exchanged tense looks. Agnes carried on with a very calm voice. She said the spirit could roam and demand sacrifices from wherever where its narrative was spoken, not limited to the village.

The room echoed with dread. Was this component of the narrative or something darker? Agnes's knitting needles clicked furiously now, faster. She said the spirit had selected among them someone. Fear widened eyes, and hearts raced as one peered about not knowing who it would be.

Agnes then gently, with a last motion, pulled a black velvet bag from her knitting basket. Her skeletal fingers extended inside and pulled one slip of paper. She raised it, staring directly at one of the listeners. Her voice little above a whisper, "The spirit has chosen."

As Agnes handed Emily the slip of paper, the young woman selected felt a shudder down her spine. Trembling, Emily opened it and let her scream fill the room. She wrote in blood-red letters.

Panic broke out. The room darkened at once as the candles extinguished one other. Though it wouldn't move, the listeners scumbled toward the door. Sealed windows caught them inside. They heard Agnes's voice in the pitch black; now, guttural and otherworldly. 'The spirit comes for its due.'"

The parlour was engulfed in a chilly wind, and an awful cry emerged. The terrible roar drowned out Emily's calls for aid. The room became deathly quiet as suddenly the breeze ceased. Emily was gone when the candles came back to life.

Agnes stared blankly, immobile, the black velvet bag empty at her feet. The last people listening left the house never to come back. In Bristow, the legend of Agnes the Yarn Spinner grew to be a warning to anyone who may dare to hear her stories.

Years later the house still stood, abandoned and crumbling. On cool fall evenings, however, the breeze would carry the faint sound of knitting needles clicking and a voice murmuring in the darkness, carrying on the narrative and waiting for the next sacrifice.