I was mid-project, unraveling a ball of yarn for a cozy crochet piece, when I spotted something that made my skin crawl—a hideous spider nestled in the fibers. I froze. My heart raced. Thankfully, I had a tissue nearby and managed to scoop her up without screaming. But the moment lingered. What if she left behind a sack of eggs? What if her creepy little offspring were waiting to burst out and surprise me later? I kept glancing at the yarn, half expecting movement. It was the kind of encounter that turns a peaceful craft session into a horror scene.
I’ve never been great with spiders. Something about their legs, their stealth, their sudden appearances—it all unnerves me. I try to be humane, but this one tested my limits. She was bold, tucked into my yarn like she owned the place. I couldn’t help but wonder how long she’d been there. Had she watched me from the shadows? Had she made that yarn her home? The thought made me shudder. I sanitized the area, checked every inch of the ball, and still felt like I was being watched. It’s irrational, but very real.
After the adrenaline wore off, I inspected the yarn again. No signs of eggs, no movement, no more intruders. Just a single scrap that had been her hiding spot. I posted about it, half-joking, half-traumatized. Someone replied with concern, asking if the whole ball was compromised. I reassured them: the rest of the yarn is safe. I wouldn’t let one eight-legged squatter ruin my entire project. Still, I’ve set the scrap aside, just in case. I’m not ready to trust it again. It’s now the “haunted yarn” in my stash.
It’s funny how something so small can hijack your day. I’d planned a relaxing afternoon, maybe finish a scarf, sip some tea. Instead, I ended up battling a spider and spiraling into egg-sack paranoia. I know it sounds dramatic, but if you’ve ever had a surprise spider encounter, you understand. It’s not just the bug—it’s the betrayal. The invasion of your safe space. And when that space is your yarn, your comfort zone, it hits differently. I’ll never look at a ball of yarn the same way again.
Despite the scare, I’m back to crafting. I’ve chosen a new ball, inspected it thoroughly, and resumed my project. But I’m more cautious now. I shake out the yarn, check the corners, keep tissues nearby. It’s a new ritual, born from a single moment of panic. And while I laugh about it now, I know I’ll always remember that spider. She’s part of my crafting lore now—a warning, a story, a reason to stay alert. Because you never know what’s hiding in the fluff.
So here’s to haunted yarn, unexpected guests, and the resilience of crafters everywhere. We face tangled threads, dropped stitches, and yes—spiders. But we keep going. We keep creating. And we learn to laugh at the chaos, even when it crawls out of our comfort zone.
