I had always considered myself an ordinary person—plain, forgettable, like the beige walls of my tiny apartment. But lately, the walls felt closer than ever, pressing in on me with a suffocating weight of loneliness. Hoping to break free from the isolation, I joined a knitting club in the quaint little town I had recently moved to.
The “Knots & Needles” club met every Thursday evening in a creaky, old community hall that smelled faintly of lavender and mothballs. The members welcomed me warmly, their smiles a comforting patchwork of kindness. But beneath their cheer, there was an undercurrent of something I couldn’t quite place—a tension stitched between the pleasantries.
Each member seemed to have a unique specialty. Margaret, the oldest, crafted elaborate shawls, her gnarled fingers moving with uncanny precision. Then there was Sylvia, whose colorful scarves seemed to dance as if alive. And finally, Ellen, who knitted small, intricate dolls with unsettlingly lifelike details.
I threw myself into the craft, grateful for the distraction. The rhythmic click of needles and the softness of yarn felt soothing, almost hypnotic. But soon, I began to notice strange things. One night, I picked up Ellen’s latest doll and froze. Its eyes, black beads sewn meticulously into its face, looked too human—too real. The fine lines of its knitted expression mirrored despair, and when I touched its tiny arms, I swore I felt warmth.
“Careful with that,” Ellen warned, her voice clipped. She snatched the doll from my hands, cradling it like a fragile infant. The other members shot me wary glances, their needles never pausing.
The next week, I stayed late, pretending to struggle with a particularly tricky stitch. One by one, the others left, bidding their goodbyes with forced smiles. When the hall finally emptied, I crept to the corner where Ellen kept her bag of dolls. My curiosity had grown into a gnawing need to understand.
I pulled out a doll with golden hair and a bright green dress. It looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it. As I turned it over in my hands, a chill shot through me. Knitted into the hem of the doll’s dress was a name—”Amelia.” That was the name of a young woman from town who had vanished months ago.
Heart pounding, I rifled through the bag. Each doll bore a name: missing people whose faces I had seen on posters. My breath hitched as I saw a half-finished doll with dark, curly hair. Its sweater matched the one I was wearing.
“Looking for something?” Ellen’s voice echoed from the doorway.
I turned, clutching the unfinished doll like a shield. The other members flanked her, their knitting needles glinting ominously under the flickering light.
“You shouldn’t have looked,” Margaret said, her voice heavy with regret.
“What is this?” I stammered.
Sylvia stepped closer, holding out her scarf—a writhing, twisting creation that seemed alive. “We preserve them,” she whispered. “Every stitch holds a soul.”
I stumbled backward, but they closed in. “Don’t worry,” Ellen cooed. “You’ll be part of something beautiful, forever.”
The last thing I felt was the sharp jab of a knitting needle against my skin.
Now, I wait, frozen in time, my soul bound within a half-finished doll, my silent screams lost among the threads. And every Thursday night, I watch as the needles click, weaving new victims into the tapestry of dread.