It is fair to say that small and fluffy parts of my soul went into the Web of Woe. Standing before it’s beast-trapped span of stitching and spiderness a mix of pride, horror and panic at leaving it behind washed over me.
We all suffer moments of graffiti knitting mourning, when the lamp post you adorned is bare once more, when the railing you wrapped is dull and knitless.
It is in these moments that you wonder why. You wonder why and you wonder where. Is Mothra living under a bridge spending his nights as a hobo’s pillow? Do the dust mites lurk beneath the bed of a burglar? Will the dragonfly become part of a passing light-fingered fisherman’s careful plans to catch the one-eyed pike that has always eluded him?
A dark wondering place blossoms in your heart.
And out of this dark and wondering place your horror takes form…
And a Ghostmouse is born.
My Ghostmouse was melancholy and sorrowful and sullen from being kept in a special chamber for the safety of society.
He liked his cheese bitter and blue. Yet he had such skinny ribs.
He never ever said a word. He simply stared and stared.
He was nothing like his brother, the grey mouse.
He took his place in the Memorial of Melancholy in small yet stony silence.
He is out there now. Somewhere in the city. Free to scuttle where his skelebones please.
The Ghostmouse doesn’t like you.
Steal him if you dare.
Please note: Deadly Knitshade is not legally responsible for any damages the Ghostmouse will cause resulting in financial troubles, mental or physical trauma or loss of life. This does not affect your statutory rights.