The Knitter of Hallow Souls

Mrs. Thimbleton moved into our neighborhood on the first frost in October. I remember this because the morning she arrived, our breaths hung like cotton in the air, and I helped her carry only two things into her house: an old rocking chair and a large basket of yarn.

At first, we thought nothing of her gift of scarves. They were ordinary-looking, albeit beautifully comfortable. Each one was unique and delivered with a gentle knock and a crooked smile. “For the winter,” she whispered, stuffing a scarf into our palms. “It’s coming.”

Becka, from across the way, wore hers first. It was pink with purple stripes. Within days, the worry lines that had creased her forehead since her mother passed smoothed away. Her eyes grew distant, peaceful almost, but empty.

Then came Tom, our resident insomniac accountant. The dark circles under his eyes vanished after wearing a Thimbleton scarf of blue and silvery white. Now, he sleeps fourteen hours a day.

Little Amy stopped having tantrums. Mr. Zachary’s drinking ceased. Mrs. Blume’s anxiety evaporated. Slowly, my neighbors transformed into perfect versions of themselves, yet…hollow.

The scarf she made for me sits untouched. At night, I watch through my window as she rocks in that chair, knitting. The yarn she uses shimmers with an iridescence, much like oil on water or tears in moonlight.

Yesterday, I saw what feeds her loom. A strand of silvery light stretched from Becka’s window to her needles. It looked like spider silk, but I know better — it was free will, purpose, and maybe a bit of soul.

The T.V. forecasts the temperatures to drop tonight. This morning, another scarf appeared on my porch, ruby-colored this time. It lies there still, coiled like a snake.

Winter is coming. And Mrs. Thimbleton is still knitting.