Last week, I mentioned that the first story I ever wrote was called “Phobia,” from around 19 years ago. I initially thought it was probably lost to the sands of time, since there was no way for me to save it back then. But I remembered I printed it, and I left open the possibility my mom may have tucked it away somewhere at the house.
Well, somewhat predictably, she did … or, at least, part of it. It’s printed on perforated, holed printer paper in some sort of odd Serif font. I’d say it’s clearly influenced by Stephen King, but that seems like far too high praise for it. Let’s just say that I’m quite sure it’s influenced by Stephen King, and I won’t be bothered if no one else picks up on that.
Anyway, for the sake of mildly entertaining you, and embarrassing myself, here’s an excerpt from Chapter 2 (small background for the reading: Shawn is deathly afraid of sharp blades):
He circled to the front of the mower and yanked on the cord to start this old green John Deere walk-behind mower. It started up with a nice purr he had not associated with a lawn mower. He decided that Mr. Miser wasn’t kidding when he said he takes great care of his yard and mower.
He started out without a snag at all. He was coasting around the yard with great ease. The mower did a lot of the work itself. It was one of those self-propelled ones, so all Shawn had to do was steer it in the right direction while walking behind it. About halfway through the job, he felt like he was doing a pretty good job and was beginning to even enjoy it when the engine all of a sudden stopped.
At first, he was at a loss. He couldn’t think of any reason it would have stopped running so suddenly. Then, he remembered something Mr. Miser had said: “Sometimes, grass does get caught between the blade and the hub. If the mower stops quickly, just come over to the patio and tip the mower up so y’can take the grass out from under it.”
He pushed the mower over to the patio. He thought how more amazingly difficult it was to push without the gears turning the wheels for you.
Shawn tipped the mower up to look under it, and his heart leaped up high in his throat. Under the hub of the mower was a blade. Not just a blade, but a huge blade. A blade large enough to take his head clean off with enough momentum left to go halfway into that oak’s trunk over there.
“That, that, thing was making that purring noise. It was less than a foot from my foot,” Shawn thought to himself.
His throat became unbearably dry, and he tried to swallow but couldn’t. He began to feel lightheaded, and he thought he was going to faint when he heard a voice.
“Mr. Miser? Hello?” Shawn whispered, though to him it seemed as though he had yelled.
“No, it’s me, Mr. Deere.”
“Who’s Mr. Deere?” Shawn asked, now barely conscious but still holding up the lawn mower.
“John Deere. I’m right in front of you.”
Shawn, realizing what, or who, he was hearing, let the mower go and it hit the concrete with a metal-slamming clank.
“Hello, Shawn. I’m Mr. Deere. I’m your new master. Let’s shake hands on it, shall we?”
The mower started to slowly move toward him, as he tried to back away. The faster he tried to get away, the faster it pursued. Shawn could hear the blades begin to turn ferociously, as Mr. Deere began to go faster and faster, the gears turning and pumping like on the wheels of a fast-moving train.
“Shawn, you know you can’t escape me. Look, I’m getting kind of tired now. Why don’t we just quit all this running around and play a game. How ’bout it, Shawn? I like to play Bloody Knuckles. Whatdya say? A good game of Bloody Knuckles with your good pal Mr. Deere?”
Shawn’s heart was pounding heavily in his chest. He felt like he was in one of those late-night horror movies he had read about or one of those Stephen King novels he’d read, but this was no movie, and this definitely did not belong in the fiction section of your local bookstore.
“This is the last chance I’m going to give you, Shawnny-boy. Lord knows I don’t ask for much. Just a little gas, some cleaning every once in awhile, and an occasional game of Bloody Knuckles. If you humor me here, I might let you live. If you don’t, you will die. Oh yes, you will die.”
Shawn heard this plea from Mr. Deere behind him, and it almost seemed to make sense this time.
“Hey, all I have to do,” Shawn thought to himself, “is play this one stupid game with him, and I can go home without any more trouble.”
“Shawn, I betcha he’s a lot better at Bloody Knuckles than you are,” a new, unidentified voice spoke up from inside his head.
He decided this voice was right, and he began to run even faster than he was before, as if an extra muscle had kicked in that hadn’t been working all the way before. As he entered his yard, though, he could feel the breeze from the fan inside the hub of the mower, indicating it was very close.
It made what hair there was on the back of his leg stand up. He began to think he was finally going to get caught, just 30 feet from his house when he heard sputtering from behind him.
As he did, he fell to the ground, and the mower coasted toward him. It inched closer and closer to his body. He saw this, and his eyes widened to twice their normal size. The mower came closer and closer to him, as its engine began to die out. The last words Shawn heard before the mower reached his face were:
“We’re … going … to … play … now!”
Feel free to offer any thoughts in the comments below, or you can tell me how much my 17-year-old self sucked on Twitter and Facebook.
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