The Seamstress in the Dark

It started with a hum.

Not the low mechanical kind from washing machines or old pipes. This was soft. Almost like a lullaby. Sweet and strange, floating just above the edge of hearing. I wouldn’t have noticed it if I hadn’t gone downstairs alone that night.

It was a weekend, and I was staying at my aunt’s apartment. She lived in one of those old brick buildings where the laundry room was shoved deep into the basement. That night, close to midnight, I went down to wash some clothes. My aunt had warned me not to go there late. She never gave a reason, just said, “It’s different at night.” I laughed it off.

The stairwell leading to the basement was cold and damp. My slippers echoed on each concrete step. By the time I reached the bottom, the hallway lights were flickering and one was already dead. The air felt heavy, and it smelled faintly of mildew and rusted metal.

When I pushed open the laundry room door, the darkness inside swallowed me whole.

No lights. Just the dim red glow from the exit sign above the door behind me.

I used my phone’s flashlight. Rows of old dryers lined the back wall, huge and clunky, some with broken glass windows. Dust floated in the beam of my light, swirling like tiny ash. The machines were off, but that lullaby was still playing. Light and shaky, like an old music box winding down.

I followed the sound.

It was coming from behind the last row of dryers, in the farthest corner. My feet crunched on loose coins and lint balls as I moved, each step louder than it should be.

Then I saw her.

At first, she looked like a pile of discarded baby clothes. Pale fabrics, soft blues and pinks, stuffed into a human shape. But then she moved. Her neck twisted with a wet snap, revealing a bonnet where her face should be. A wide, crooked smile stitched across the front. Buttons for eyes. Her body was hollow, but it twitched like something inside was trying to escape.

Her arms were made of sleeves, and inside them, I saw long, spinning sewing needles. They clicked and whirred like insect legs.

She stared without blinking.

The humming grew louder.

I couldn’t move. My legs locked. My throat dried up. When she took a step toward me, the needle-arms jerked like puppet strings. With each step, tiny fabric scraps fell from her like dead skin.

I turned to run.

But before I could take a full step, something yanked the back of my jacket. I felt a sting. Then another. Threads had shot out from her body and hooked into my clothes like fishhooks. One pierced my skin, anchoring me in place.

I screamed.

She was right behind me now, humming that awful lullaby into my ear. Her breath smelled like mold and burned fabric. I pulled hard, tearing free, leaving bits of my jacket—and skin—behind. I didn’t look back.

I ran up the stairs, slammed the basement door shut, and locked it. I never said a word to my aunt. I left the next morning without my laundry, without sleep.

But the story didn’t end there.

One week later, a boy from the building disappeared. His name was Jordan. Eight years old. He was playing hide and seek with his cousins and ran off. The last place they saw him was near the laundry room door.

Search parties came and went. Police questioned everyone. But he was gone.

Then someone noticed something strange.

Behind the dryers, where that thing had stood, there was a new patch of fabric. A neat, fresh square sewn into the wall of clothes that made up her body.

It was red and blue.

Spider-Man pajamas.

His favorite.

Now the humming never stops. It plays at all hours, even in the day. If you listen closely, you can hear voices behind it. Tiny whispers, like children crying.

No one goes down there anymore. The building’s laundry piles up. People drive across town to wash their clothes. Some even move away.

But I still hear her sometimes. Even when I’m far from the building.

That lullaby. Spinning, whispering, promising to stitch me into her forever.

I never told anyone what I saw.

And I know she’s still waiting.

For the next child to play too close to the dark.

THE END

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