Cryptid Knitting Circle

Hidden deep in the Pacific Northwest, where the trees grow too close and the fog rolls in like a secret, there’s a cabin that no map dares mark. Smoke curls from its chimney on Thursday nights, and if you listen closely, you might hear laughter muffled by thick forest and thicker scarves.

Inside, by the glow of a fireplace, the Cryptid Knitting Circle meets.

Bigfoot—everyone just calls him “Foot”—sits in a hand-carved rocking chair that creaks in rhythm with his stitches. He works on an oversized sweater that could double as a camping tent. Across from him, Mothman knits with tiny black needles, hunched and muttering about symmetrical stitch counts. The Flatwoods Monster lounges in a high-backed chair in the corner, knitting gloves with uncanny precision, steam rising from her ever-full mug of pine-needle tea.

“Foot, you get that new yarn you were waiting on?” she asked, eyes never leaving her work.

Bigfoot gave a deep grunt and nodded, pulling a skein of deep emerald wool from a burlap sack beside his chair.

“Yep. Kev brought it last night.”

“Kev?” Mothman blinked. “That conspiracy-theory blogger?”

Foot grinned, his wide teeth glinting in the firelight. “That’s the one. He’s my guy. Drives out every few weeks, leaves the yarn in a hollow log. I let him take a photo, leave him some scones… It’s a whole thing.”

“You let him take your picture?” Flatwoods raised a brow ridge.

“Well…” Foot scratched his head, sheepish. “Not exactly. I stand just out of focus. Usually behind a tree. Sometimes I smear a bit of Vaseline on his lens while he’s not looking.”

Mothman snorted. “Classic.”

“Fair trade,” Bigfoot said with a shrug. “He gets internet clout. I get this soft alpaca blend that doesn’t itch my armpits.”

The door creaked open with a gust of wind, and the Jersey Devil stomped in, dragging a tote bag full of tangled yarn. “Miss anything?”

“Just Foot admitting he’s an influencer,” Mothman said.

The room erupted in laughter, the kind that fills up the dark corners and keeps the forest at bay. They returned to their knitting, hands working in silence while the fire cracked and the wind whistled outside.

Outside the cabin, the world spun on—busy, skeptical, and oblivious. But inside, beneath the dim lamp glow and the scent of pine tea and wool, legends rested their weary bones and kept their stitches even.

And if one day you find a scarf wrapped around a tree in the middle of nowhere, knit in impossibly large loops… well, maybe that’s just Foot’s way of saying hello.