Igor, Froderick
10-11-2014, 12:01 PM
To be festive, thought I'd post something eerie. Hope you like:
The mowers were at it again. Every single morning in the infernal suburban neighborhood he called his home, some gardener flicked the switch of a machine, igniting the racket that would continue for the next few hours. He didn’t mind it much during the week—or did he?
No, he decided. But on the weekend, he didn’t have to leave the perpetual groan of small floral blades behind. The weekend was supposed to be his quiet time.
His wife had heard his complaints, and although she could handle the noise, they both thought the least thing an H.O.A. could do was synchronize a day where everyone’s individually-hired hedge-pruners worked, preferably midday so that incessant mowers weren’t a morning wakeup call. He had voiced this to one of the association’s members, but the man must’ve interpreted it as a half-truth joke.
On this day, he’d had enough. It was 7:30 in the morning on a Saturday and, once again, he was woken by the sounds.
“I’m thinkin’ of takin’ a walk outside the neighborhood,” he said in the kitchen while his wife sipped her coffee. And conspiratorially, “You wanna come?”
“You go ahead, honey. I’ll finish reading the paper.”
The drone in his head inevitably increased as he exited his house. He turned on the country path, leading out his block towards the farmlands adjacent to his neighborhood.The fresh morning air revived him, along with the diminutive hum, ever decreasing and replaced with the chirps of birds and croaks of toads.
At a bend in the dirt trail stood on old abandoned house. Approaching, he admired its historic colonial architecture, despite the paint being faded and cracked. It sat on a knoll, and its lawn was clumpy, uneven and overgrown. Clusters of trees made up the woods behind the edifice, ominous witnesses to those who trespassed.
Something drew him to the front door. He’d always passed by the place when he hiked with his wife. He wondered why he just now was investigating. Amazingly, the door was unlocked. Before he stepped in, he noticed tire tracks at the side path that winded towards the back of the house.
The place smelled antiquated and musty. Old furniture was scattered throughout, covered in decades-old dust and vermin pellets. He walked to the back of the house, bypassing the rickety stairs to the second floor. For a moment he paused and took in the serene silence offered by an old country house, away from all the noise, nosey-bodies, and neatness. As if remembering something, he sauntered to the living area next to the backdoor.
An olfactory assault seized him, death clogging the air. Perhaps a large raccoon had made this area its final resting place. He stopped at the threshold and it clicked. Before him were the bodies of the recently missing gardeners. There were three of them. Three less mowers, he thought. A fourth and differently dressed man lay lifeless at the end of the row. It was Carl Lundegaard, a neighbor a few houses down—whose hobby was gardening. That’s right, he’d gone missing too. People thought there was some connection with the gardeners.
He admired his work with neither smile nor pride, only basking in the silence the dead offered.
He went out the backdoor, following the familiar tire marks down the driveway to the main path, returning to his own home. In the distance, there were only one or two mowers fishing up. A smile crossed his face. He had work to do.
The mowers were at it again. Every single morning in the infernal suburban neighborhood he called his home, some gardener flicked the switch of a machine, igniting the racket that would continue for the next few hours. He didn’t mind it much during the week—or did he?
No, he decided. But on the weekend, he didn’t have to leave the perpetual groan of small floral blades behind. The weekend was supposed to be his quiet time.
His wife had heard his complaints, and although she could handle the noise, they both thought the least thing an H.O.A. could do was synchronize a day where everyone’s individually-hired hedge-pruners worked, preferably midday so that incessant mowers weren’t a morning wakeup call. He had voiced this to one of the association’s members, but the man must’ve interpreted it as a half-truth joke.
On this day, he’d had enough. It was 7:30 in the morning on a Saturday and, once again, he was woken by the sounds.
“I’m thinkin’ of takin’ a walk outside the neighborhood,” he said in the kitchen while his wife sipped her coffee. And conspiratorially, “You wanna come?”
“You go ahead, honey. I’ll finish reading the paper.”
The drone in his head inevitably increased as he exited his house. He turned on the country path, leading out his block towards the farmlands adjacent to his neighborhood.The fresh morning air revived him, along with the diminutive hum, ever decreasing and replaced with the chirps of birds and croaks of toads.
At a bend in the dirt trail stood on old abandoned house. Approaching, he admired its historic colonial architecture, despite the paint being faded and cracked. It sat on a knoll, and its lawn was clumpy, uneven and overgrown. Clusters of trees made up the woods behind the edifice, ominous witnesses to those who trespassed.
Something drew him to the front door. He’d always passed by the place when he hiked with his wife. He wondered why he just now was investigating. Amazingly, the door was unlocked. Before he stepped in, he noticed tire tracks at the side path that winded towards the back of the house.
The place smelled antiquated and musty. Old furniture was scattered throughout, covered in decades-old dust and vermin pellets. He walked to the back of the house, bypassing the rickety stairs to the second floor. For a moment he paused and took in the serene silence offered by an old country house, away from all the noise, nosey-bodies, and neatness. As if remembering something, he sauntered to the living area next to the backdoor.
An olfactory assault seized him, death clogging the air. Perhaps a large raccoon had made this area its final resting place. He stopped at the threshold and it clicked. Before him were the bodies of the recently missing gardeners. There were three of them. Three less mowers, he thought. A fourth and differently dressed man lay lifeless at the end of the row. It was Carl Lundegaard, a neighbor a few houses down—whose hobby was gardening. That’s right, he’d gone missing too. People thought there was some connection with the gardeners.
He admired his work with neither smile nor pride, only basking in the silence the dead offered.
He went out the backdoor, following the familiar tire marks down the driveway to the main path, returning to his own home. In the distance, there were only one or two mowers fishing up. A smile crossed his face. He had work to do.