Knitting

Reads: 76  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 1

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
There's no possible danger with knitting.......is there?

Submitted: February 22, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: February 22, 2017

A A A

A A A


Knitting

 

My Aunt Ruth decided that I needed something to do to keep me occupied. I had been seriously ill; for a while it had been touch-and-go whether I would pull through at all, but here I was and I was bored with doing nothing.

 

I’ll teach you to knit, Mae,” she announced one day, when she was on one of her frequent visits.

 

No thanks. I really don’t think that’s me!” Wasn’t knitting something that was done mainly by old ladies? I was twenty-two, way too young to take up such a hobby.

 

Not you? Of course it is. It’s something you can do whenever you like. You can pick it up and work away for hours, or for just a few minutes. You can do something that’s easy, or something you really have to concentrate on. Knitting would be ideal for you!”

 

That was the problem with Aunt Ruth; once she got an idea, that was it. She would be reluctant to let it go. I did have another argument against it though. “You need wool to knit though, don’t you. And needles, a pattern......I’ve not got any of those,” I pointed out.

 

"No problem there, Mae. I've got plenty. Tonight I'll sort something out and I'll get you started when I come and see you tomorrow." Aunt Ruth picked up her cup of tea signalling that the discussion was over

 

But.......” I started to say.

 

No ‘but’s. You‘ll thank me in the end, just you wait and see.” I knew there was no point in trying to argue any more.

 

The following afternoon, Aunt Ruth arrived with a large carrier bag crammed full of balls of wool. Knitting needles poked up from the bag but I could see no sign of a pattern.

 

Pick a colour, Mae, and I’ll start you off. Once you’ve got the basics I’ll bring you a pattern but for now you can make yourself a scarf. No increasing or decreasing or fancy stitches, just something simple to keep those hands of yours busy.”

 

For her it might have been simple, easy, but it wasn’t proving to be that way for me. The needles felt wrong, awkward, and my fingers were clumsy with the yarn. After thirty minutes of getting nowhere I was more than ready to call it a day.

 

It’s no good,” I insisted. “I’ll never get the hang of it.”

 

Nonsense! You give up too easily.” Aunt Ruth sat beside me and yet again began the painstaking process of guiding my fingers, and this time, after a while, I seemed to get the hang of it.

 

I’ll leave the wool with you and you can practice whenever you feel like it,” she said as she left later that afternoon.

 

I had no intention of practising once she had left. I pushed the bag with the balls of wool aside but it must have tumbled over during the night because when I woke the following morning there were balls of unravelled wool scattered all around the room.

 

It took me quite some time to tidy it all up. I would pick each up and wind it back up, not very neatly I’ll admit, but by the time Aunt Ruth turned up the wool was all back inside the bag at least. I’d spent all morning tidying the stuff up and the last thing I wanted was to see any more of it that day. But my Aunt was adamant, and she can be a very hard task-master. I spent the afternoon knitting, and at last seemed to be getting the hang of it.

 

I wouldn’t say it gave me any enjoyment but it did make the endless days pass a bit quicker. The strange thing was that I began to feel compelled to pick up those needles all the time, to keep them clicking away. Even Aunt Ruth was surprised by my sudden progress. She brought more and more wool to keep me going.

 

And then there came a night when I just did not feel like it. I wanted a break. I wanted to just read for a while and not worry about being productive. I picked up a novel I had started a week ago, found my place and began to read.

 

I was sure there was some kind of movement at my side but I knew it had to be my imagination. There was nobody in the house apart from myself, after all. I turned my attention back to my book until I was hit with some force by one of the balls of wool.

 

It made no sense. Nobody threw it and it defied the rules of physics that it should have just hit me. It had to have propelled itself up and to its right to do so. I hastily returned the yarn back to the bag, then resolutely turned my page.

 

I couldn’t concentrate though. My eyes kept returning back to that bag. I did not trust it at all. Perhaps if I put it out of sight somewhere, stuck it inside a cupboard, I’d be able to forget about it.

 

Before I’d even got so far as to move from my chair I found myself being pelted by them. One after the other of the balls of wool flew from the bag to strike me with some force. But this time they did not stop there but unravelled themselves and wrapped around me, holding me tightly in place on my chair.

 

I tried to cry out but soon found myself being gagged by the stuff. I struggled to free my arms, my legs, I could not even turn my head as it had wrapped itself quite firmly around my neck. I was held totally immobile by that wool. Struggling was futile and eventually I must have drifted off into an exhausted sleep.

 

When Aunt Ruth arrived in the afternoon she found me pushing away the final strands of wool. I had gathered up the yarn, stuffed it haphazardly into the bag where it sat in a tangled mess.

 

Take it away,” I pleaded with her. “Get it away from me and keep it away.”

 

Aunt Ruth looked perplexed but she could see my all too obvious distress. She must have wondered about my change of heart, but to her credit she did not try to make me explain. I could not have done so any way, not in a way that wouldn’t make me seem totally crazy.

 

She left early. I had not wanted to talk to her, or to prolong her visit. I just wanted that wool right away from me. When she had left I dozed for a while, still exhausted from the night before.

 

Later in the evening I felt more myself again. I reached for my book and began to read. After a while I became aware of a clicking noise........sounding almost like those needles knitting away. But that was nonsense! All that stuff had gone. Hadn’t it?

 

And it was then that I questioned just what I had done with those needles. I had stuffed them in to that bag. I must have done!

 

But if I had, how come one of them was heading straight towards my heart, point first, at an incredibly rapid rate?


© Copyright 2017 hullabaloo22. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

Comments

avatar

Author
Reply