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The night rolls in early over Bainbridge Island in late October, painting the sky in bruise-colored purples and deep indigos. The ferry from Seattle cuts through the black water, carrying passengers who have heard the rumors, seen the photos, and felt the strange pull of a suburban street turned into something altogether more mystical and morbid. On a modest front lawn, the glowing red eyes pin the darkness like two embers plucked from a furnace. This is Grimothy. He is eleven feet of welded steel and wire, a Frankenstein creation built for no other reason than to pay tribute to a very strange, very beloved, very deformed raccoon named Jimothy, whose bumbling adventures once captured the hearts of an entire city. Jimothy, with his stubby body and awkward gait, had been a real-life underdog who limped across balconies and fences in Seattle, clawing his way into the public’s affections. Now, his monstrous counterpart towers over a quiet neighborhood, a Halloween decoration that has somehow become so much more—a pilgrimage site, a community gathering point, and a testament to the sheer, unpredictable brilliance of human creativity when it decides to make something wonderful.
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Behind this goliath of lawn art are two brothers: Matthew Inman, the cartoonist and New York Times bestselling author best known as the creator of the wildly popular webcomic The Oatmeal, and his brother, Bryce Inman. For most families, Halloween decorations mean a few carved pumpkins and a string of orange lights. For the Inman brothers, it means spending weeks in a workshop, wrestling with steel, sparks, and an ambitious vision that could very easily have ended in disaster. The process was brutal, painstaking work. The main ring structure, the massive circular hoop from which Grimothy’s limbs and head extend, required careful welding. But steel rods are finicky, unforgiving things. As Bryce explained, a weld that’s even a fraction too hot burns straight through the metal, slicing the piece in half and ruining hours of labor. One small mistake, one moment of distraction, and the entire project would have collapsed on his head—quite literally. It’s the kind of pressure that would send most people back to the store for a plastic skeleton, but the Inman brothers thrive on this sort of gloriously impractical, self-imposed challenge. The result stands as a monument not just to Jimothy, but to the sheer stubborn love that goes into making something unique with your own hands.
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What Grimothy lacks in anatomical accuracy, he more than makes up for in character. Matthew proudly announced the arrival of the installation on Instagram, composing a wonderfully dramatic introduction: “Behold: Grimothy is here, the Jim Reaper, Dark Lord and Father of Jimothy.” The contrast between father and son is deliberate and delightful. Where Jimothy was small, shadowy, and somehow adorable with his ragged charm, Grimothy is a towering nightmare, designed to be menacing in the most entertaining way possible. The brothers fitted him with bright-red eyes that seem to follow you across the yard, and a tongue painted in a deep, bloody crimson. He is chaos given form, a Halloween villain born from out of a splash of fan fiction. And the people cannot get enough of him. The Inman family’s front yard has morphed into an all-hours tourist attraction, with cars lining up even late into the night. At roughly 9:30 p.m. on a Saturday, the street was still clogged with vehicles, a moving river of headlights and curious faces. Matthew confessed that they had accidentally turned their quiet domestic space into a destination, a spot where neighbors and strangers alike share a moment of awe and laughter. It’s amusing to imagine this grumpy, demonic-looking creature presiding over a block party, drawing crowds of families, dog walkers, and gawking visitors who snap photos and whisper stories.
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But to understand Grimothy, you must first understand the strange saga of Jimothy, the living creature who inspired it all. Jimothy was a raccoon with a distinctly unusual body, shaped as though the universe had playfully recycled a few spare parts. His back legs and hips were not quite right, making his walk a funny, rolling waddle that endeared him to everyone who watched. His stubby frame seemed almost cartoonish, as if he had stepped out of a doodle rather than from the wild. When Seattle residents began posting videos of Jimothy lumbering across backyards, climbing balconies, and peeking into windows, the internet did what the internet does best: it fell madly, unconditionally in love. He was an unexpected star in the Emerald City, a scrappy little survivor navigating a human world that was far too big for him. In the way that people root for the underdog, that they embrace things that are different or imperfect, Jimothy became a hero for the odd, the unusual, and the gloriously awkward. Every wobble was watched, every stumbled step celebrated. It was as if his physical quirks made him more approachable, more real, and in a way, more human. He turned an ordinary raccoon’s life into a shared emotional journey for a whole city.
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The fame of Jimothy reached its most surreal peak in August, when he was honored at a Seattle Mariners baseball game. On a balmy evening as the Mariners faced off against the Tigers at T-Mobile Park, the crowd erupted not just for baseball but for a raccoon who seemed to represent the city’s scrappy, lovable spirit. The first 20,000 fans through the gates received trading cards featuring Jimothy, complete with his essential stats—hometown listed as Ballard, a trendy Seattle neighborhood, and a throwing hand described simply as “all fours.” It’s the kind of absurd, self-aware humor that Mariners fans have come to cherish. One card, however, was special: a one-of-a-kind autographed version that found its way into the hands of a 13-year-old girl named Abby. What little girl wouldn’t treasure such a strange, wonderful piece of sports history? The story, however, took an unexpected turn when Oliver Moy, a Florida-born social media influencer and founder of the Asian American boy band North Star Boys, entered an online auction for the card. In a display of enthusiasm that left everyone’s jaws on the floor, Moy dropped $20,100 to take the prized Jimothy card home. Let that sink in—twenty thousand dollars for a photograph of a misshapen raccoon, in a world filled with real art, real treasures, and real investments. But to Moy, and to the thousands of fans who followed the story, it was worth every penny. It was an act of devotion, a piece of internet history, and a tangible connection to a moment in time that brought people together in the most unexpected way.
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And so, as Halloween approaches, Grimothy stands vigil over Bainbridge Island, a strange and beautiful monument to the bond between a community and a creature that none of them ever truly owned. The Inman brothers could have built a traditional monster, a generic ghoul to scare trick-or-treaters. Instead, they built a tribute—a giant, menacing, red-eyed tribute to a small, clumsy raccoon whose biggest crime was trying to make it through life. In doing so, they have created something rare: a piece of art that makes people smile, laugh, slow down, and connect. The line of cars outside their home isn’t just about looking at a cool prop. It’s about sharing a story, a moment of collective joy that has grown organically from a single mutated raccoon to a full-blown shared cultural touchstone. It’s a reminder that the best things in life are often the weirdest, that community can be built around the most unexpected idols, and that a little bit of humor can make even the spookiest season feel warm and welcoming. Grimothy is not just a Halloween decoration. He is a reaper, yes, but of loneliness and disconnection. He symbolizes the power of imagination, of brothers playing in a workshop, of a city falling in love with an underdog. He is proof that home can be transformed into a gathering place by sheer creative force. So if you ever find your eyes locking with his bright-red gaze, don’t be afraid. The Dark Lord of Jimothy is there to make sure that no one, however strange or different, is ever truly forgotten—and that even in the deepest shadows of October, there is always room for a little heart.
