The Knife

 Today's featured writing is a short story I had written when I was only 9 years old. For that matter, the entire direction and purpose of the story should be merely entertainment, something unusual to add to your collection. Revised over 30 years later, the actual story is weirder than it attempts to be frightening. Because of this, I take the reader behind the scenes and describe how that 9-year-old boy found inspiration for his work. Sit back and enjoy a tale of terror that could only come from the mind of a young boy.

The Knife

Such a gruesome tale that would project the reader into a blood bath of terror: to produce the ultimate horror story was a 9-year-old boy's ultimate dream. I sat upstairs in the living room one Sunday afternoon, and dreamed of being a writer, an author who would shock the world with his terrifying story.

I descended the staircase into the basement, and entered a dim room that my parents called "the study". It was a simple room of nothing more than an old, wooden desk with a chair and a small bookshelf that contained my father's business books. Sitting on the desk was an old, tackle box which contained antique art supplies such as paint, small brushes and chalk. The very existence of the art supplies was my reason for coming down into the study. The cover of my book needed to be created first, as it would help me to dream of the story. With feverish intensity I used the antique paint and brushes to produce a large knife with blood dripping from the blade. And the background was smudged with additional red paint to give it a gruesome appearance.

But the preliminaries to writing weren't over yet, not for this young author! In the closet of the study was an old, leather belt. Red paint was soon smeared on the strap. Then the walls of the study were repeatedly whipped. Red blood had streaked on the drywall with every crack of the leather strap. And when the red looked to be thin, more paint was added to the belt. It was actually an aerobic workout as that 9-year-old boy played out the tragic beating of an unfortunate soul, whose blood splattered on every wall. By the time I had completed this dance of gore, the room resembled a slaughter house! There, now the book could be written!

***

Once upon a time, a series of murders had terrified a small town. Bodies with multiple puncture wounds that were violently administered by a sharp object were discovered in various places of the woods. In an effort to protect citizens from any further killings, police urgently warned residents to keep out of the local forest preserves. A killer could have been at large, and the best way to prevent further murders was to avoid the woods all together.

But for such a beautiful, sunny morning; a nameless woman was tempted to throw caution to the wind and enjoy a casual stroll in the forest. She parked her car at the entrance; a gentle breeze picked up which rustled the leaves of trees into a dance of warning with the reflection of sunlight. But the warning was ignored as she entered the arborous world of solitude and isolation.

Onward she traveled, deeper and deeper into the thick, green realm of danger. But outside of her own footsteps, not a sound could be heard. There were no birds, no furry creatures and no appearances of deer. It was as if the forest, itself, was terrified of the blood thirsty presence which was in search of a new victim. Perhaps this is why the nameless woman's senses were keenly tuned to the surroundings where an unusual sight had been noticed.

It was a flash of light, sort of a metallic reflection of sun that caught her eye. Some 50 feet to the right of the walking path, a glowing object bobbed in midair. And as the nameless woman followed the trail with eyes on the mysterious sight, her direction turned so that the new angle had revealed that a large knife floated in midair.

Startled, she walked quicker; but the knife began to float towards her. The unexplained phenomenon only produced an instinctive terror with a need to run. Faster and faster, she looked behind her; but the pointed edge trailed closely. What would it do if the running stopped? Most likely, she assumed, the knife would penetrate her flesh. Perhaps this was how the brutal murders had taken place in the woods. And it was soon realized that the force behind the blade was merely playing with the nameless woman. Occasionally it increased in speed so that it would slice at her arm, her back, her neck; all the while creating a sense of laughter and delight.

But the nameless woman refused to be another casualty at the hands of the devious knife! And as luck would have it, she spotted a cabin distanced by a mere 100 yards. Could she make it?

The knife remained just inches from her back as the nameless woman's lungs were seconds from exploding! But how could she stop to open the door? In a desperate attempt to distance herself, she went past the cabin and turned left so that she circumnavigated the perimeter of the building and back to the door. Apparently this stalled the floating knife, but there wasn't a second to spare! The door was opened and slammed shut. The sound of the knife poked and rattled in the wood.

Violently breathing, sweat pouring down her face and shaking in terror, the nameless woman found safer ground in the cabin. But how could she escape? Leaving the building would only invite another chase by the knife. And the woods were void of any life. Sensible residents of the small town stayed out of the forest as they heeded warnings of police.

Just then, there was the sound of shattering glass! The knife had projected itself through the window and towards the frightened woman. She ran into the bedroom but felt a sharp sting in her spine, then her kidneys, then the back of her neck. The knife repeatedly stabbed her... and stabbed her... and stabbed her... and stabbed her... and stabbed her... and stabbed her! It was a bloody mess!

***

Of course completing the first chapter of a book required a celebration. This was done by applying more paint to the old, leather strap and whipping the walls until they were bloody red. Then I ran upstairs in excitement to proudly show my mother the new book. But she was not happy, threatening to cancel cable TV, because only ideas like my story could come from watching paid programming.

A few weeks later, my parents discovered the gruesome scene in the basement; and I was asked if I put red paint on the belt and whipped the walls with them. I denied this, of course; but couldn't think of anything to suggest. Maybe our dog did it. She was always conspiring ways to frame me so that I would be wrongfully punished. I almost suggested that perhaps someone was murdered in the study, but I didn't think they would believe me.