Ohio is a hotbed for queer cryptids. Yes, queer cryptids.

By E.F. Schraeder

Welcome to Ohio, home of laws that try to take down drag, where well-funded, hyper-organized hate groups target queer youth. To be honest, the news is often pretty bad in the Buckeye State. But there’s also plenty of evidence of resistance, persistence, political change and resilient queer joy. Sometimes you get to dance. Sometimes you try to hide in plain sight. It’s a weird place to be. Maybe that’s why so many unusual beings call Ohio home. 

While deniers and haters may claim such creatures are fakes dreamt up to scare people (especially children), believe it or not, Ohio is home to a large and diverse population of cryptids. Such entities have been reported all over the state. They dance like nobody’s watching. The Dogman of Defiance, Loveland’s Frogman, Ohio Grassman, Sandusky’s Lake Monster Bessie and Mothman (Gallipolis, OH and Point Pleasant, WV), to name only a few. 

These beasts of legend are celebrated at numerous festivals and depicted in iconic ways by artists and enthusiasts at events like the Frogman Festival, Bigfoot Conference and Cryptids & Curios. In fact, annually, thousands of people venture an hour or more to attend these and other events around Ohio. 

The pure act of celebrating in community disrupts a lot of binaries. And let’s be real, that sounds a lot like PRIDE. 

But the congruity between cryptids and queer community doesn’t end there. The validity of cryptids is doubted by naysayers. Politically speaking, some recent policy discussions in the Buckeye State suggest plenty of folks are prone to dismissing lived experience and professional expertise in favor of denial and suppression. Using erasure to avoid inclusion. In fact, there are swaths of Ohio policymakers who seem content to pretend non-conforming identities are impossible and simply don’t exist. Nobody’s life is improved by questioning the existence of anyone else’s humanity. As far as I’m concerned, anybody that has to prove they exist has a permanent seat at the queer family table. 

To take the analogy a step further, it’s unclear exactly where or how many of them (or of us) there are. To some, that’s terrifying. To others, a comfort. Ensconced in shadows and myth, cryptids often live along the edge of two worlds, almost invisibly. Why? Because angry villagers carrying pitchforks and torches certainly pose real threats. Unless they choose to reveal themselves, cryptids quietly lurk in the woods, beneath the water, on the edge of towns. They always remain just out of view. Whether they feel unwelcome or just afraid, it’s almost as if cryptids vanish into hiding and yet insist on being seen. Such is the paradox of developing a balanced sense of self and general well-being in a hostile world, where personal safety and mental health require constant nurturance and support. 

Added to that, cryptid bodies themselves often defy classification. By definition, their amorphous identities do not fit into predictable categories, even when they blend known and unknown attributes. In fact, their bodies and actions actively blur distinctions between categories. Bipedal frogs, hairy hominids, flying humanoids, giant lake lizards. Why not? Not every body fits into one category. Cryptids are complicated. Liminal beings are not one thing, and they live as examples of a basic truth: Be who you are. 

Well, that all sounds very familiar. 

Some consider Ohio lucky to have all these strange creatures, but maybe there’s more to it. Maybe there’s something to be said for cultivating a welcoming space. Jessica Oktober, owner of occult shop Oktober’s in Lakewood, Ohio’s Birdtown neighborhood, thinks so. 

Oktober believes Ohio is a cryptid hotbed because of Lake Erie, the Emerald Necklace Metroparks and the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. She states, “there are tons of places for them to call home with just the right amount of privacy.” According to Oktober, plenty of Ohio cryptids also spend time near her store, where she suspects the murals and artwork have created a kind of “Cryptid Corridor.” 

Oktober says, “We have quite a few cryptids in Birdtown” and recounts that they’ve been seen “lurking in corners, sometimes stopping in to say ‘hey’ when (weirdly) no other customers are around.” Jessica describes the Cryptid Corridor functioning “like a beacon” because “they know we’re a safe space for them.” 

Are they pests? Do they interrupt business? Oktober thinks not. To the contrary, Oktober has found Ohio cryptids to be some of the coolest people. She describes them as artistic, well-read and generally having great taste in music. A few signals of welcome make all the difference, even if not everyone believes. 

Maybe every unique member of a community is vital. Without cryptids (and queers), the Ohio landscape might be described as mundane. Some may question their reality and their humanity, but maybe they exist happily, beautifully and impossibly. The ultimate outsiders, cryptids aren’t so strange as they are familiar. Wouldn’t it be cool to live in a world where no matter what, members of all communities were plainly seen and treated as people? Rest assured, if you’re planning a visit to Oktober’s, you’re sure to be welcomed. Wings and all. 

Librarian and Cleveland native E.F. Schraeder is the author of The Case for Cryptids: Field Notes of a Believer, and other works.