August 5, 1988

Two hours ago I was hanging out with Doug in the park. My biggest concern was trying to figure out what those two rivet holes in my Converse All-Stars were for.

Now I’m watching something kill a cat.

Mr. Spinach deserves it.

What a stupid name.

He’s always crapping on Dad’s lawn right next to Mom’s Hydrangeas. Dad’ll be happy when he hears about this.

The problem is: what do I tell him?

The Thing is lined up perfectly between two pyramidal evergreens beneath the bay window at the Wellingtons’ house. It doesn't know I'm here, so I don’t dare move in case something rattles on my ten-speed. Fortunately, the tortured mewling coming from Mr. Spinach is working in my favor.

But what the fuck is it?

I look closer, squinting into the shadows.
Really focusing on the details.

It’s some sort of robot.

That much is obvious.

The body is made from an inverted propane barbeque tank, its nozzle positioned between two skinny, wide-spread legs. Similar looking arms are working with a doggedness on Mr. Spinach. With the Thing’s back to me, I can’t see its face, but two metal prongs jut up from the top of its forehead, presumably fashioned to look like devil horns.

In a quick jerking motion I hear a wet tearing sound and Mr. Spinach wails in anguish. The sound sends the hairs on my body standing straight up.

But only for an instant.

Nausea hits me as a wet clump of Mr. Spinach is tossed nonchalantly back over the Thing’s shoulder, landing in one of the evergreens with a rustle.

I can taste my own stomach acid as it burns up into my throat.
My vision twists, like the world is being constricted by a massive anaconda.
Oh God, I’m going to throw up.

My head is pounding like a drum.

I start taking deep slow breaths and concentrate all my will power into not vomiting.

I hear a weak whimpering.
Mr. Spinach is still alive.

The Thing lifts its free arm and I can see that it’s holding a club.
Or, more accurately, a spoon.

It smashes down hard on Mr. Spinach’s head.
Silence.

My foot slips on the pedal sending it spinning. The whisper of turning metal is so faint I barely even hear it.

The Thing stops.

I recognize that feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s no longer the feeling of needing to puke.

It’s dread.

Slowly, the Thing turns towards me. The head and body are one and so it needs to shuffle its feet until it is completely facing me.

We both freeze.

Gumby.

That’s the first image that pops into my mind.

Its facial features remind me of Gumby. They look like flat pieces of sheet metal cut out into facsimiles of a mouth, a nose and two eyes and fixed flush to the canister.

The Thing is just as surprised to see me as I am to it. I don’t know how I know that. I just get that feeling. And it has nothing to do with the expression on its face, which seems to be one of everlasting antipathy.

I’m no longer so sure that this thing is a robot.

I want to run.

Just drop the fucking bike and run.
Drop the bike.
Drop it. Drop it. Drop it!

I’m staring at it and it’s staring right back.

Or is it?

It’s not moving. The Thing is just standing there like some sort of macabre garden statue.

Did I just imagine all of it?

I blink for the first time in minutes. It still hasn’t moved.

Man, I need to lay off that shitty weed Doug keeps buying.

Shaking my head at my own foolishness, I get back on my bike. The street lights are already on and Dad is going to give me shit for being late—

The hair on the back of my neck stands straight up. I squeeze the hand brake and spin back around.

The Thing is gone.

The evergreen to the left is still shaking. Scanning quickly to the next house, I can’t see it. Deep shadows cling to every corner and swallow up the space between the houses.

I hear metal nicking against stone further to the left.

Fuck, it moves fast.

Terror grips me and I take off like a bullet.

All I can focus on is getting home. My house is just around the corner.

I’m on my driveway in less than a minute and fumbling with the side gate.

A sudden urge to turn around and look at the street grips me.

Nothing. No sign of it.

Wait.

I just heard it.

I scan the houses across the street, paying special attention to the shadows. It likes to hide in the shadows.

How do I know that?

Still nothing.

Hold on.

Between the Crilley’s house and Mister LaSala’s, I see the Thing..

No. That’s not quite right. I don't actually see it. It’s too dark to see anything. Rather, I sense it. I don’t know how, but I know it’s there.

And I know it’s watching me.

My fingers find the gate latch. I fumble with it because I’m too busy trying to see the Thing that’s watching me.

Fear boils up inside me and I feel this overwhelming urge to run again.

I need to get into the house.

Finally, the latch releases and I get behind the gate. I fumble for my keys and open the side door, not once taking my eyes off the shadows across the street.

Shutting the door behind me and locking it, I breathe a sigh of relief.

Outside I hear a crash and I jump.

What the hell was that?

It’s my bike.
I left it out front on the driveway.

Then I hear what sounds like my bike being dragged along the cement just outside this door.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

What do I do?

I flick on the outside light and run through the hall and up the stairs.

“Whoa! Where you going, buddy?”

My dad.
He’s watching TV in the living room.

“Gotta go to the bathroom,” I call back.

“Come down when you’re done.”

“Ok.”

I lock myself in the bathroom. I’m pacing like a caged animal.

This is fucking insane!

I know I’m not high. I only had a couple of puffs. There has to be a rational explanation. But right now I can’t even begin to think what that explanation could possibly be.

No. I shake my head.
That Thing is real.

What the hell is it?

Think. Think. Think.

It’s definitely not a robot. It doesn’t move like a robot. Robots are slow and roll on wheels. This Thing moves with a fluidity that makes it look alive.

Impossible!

So. If not a robot, then what?

A lawn ornament? Yes! That’s exactly what it looked like!

Like a garden gnome. But this one is made from scraps of metal all welded together.

But that still doesn’t explain why it’s alive.

I take a piss and then head back downstairs. Now I just have to figure out what I’m going to tell Dad.

* * * * *

In the end I didn’t tell him anything.

He gave me a brief lecture on responsibility and respecting the blah, blah, blah.
Heard it all before.

When I woke up this morning I went outside and found my bike put back in the shed. My dad must have put it away before he went to work.

It’s amazing how daylight can so easily purge a person’s nightmares. I was so certain of what I saw last night. But this morning, it felt like a distant memory.

I almost convinced myself that I imagined the whole thing.

Until, on the way to Doug’s house, I saw the police car parked in front of the Wellingtons’ house. The officer was standing on the lawn in front of the window, looking at the garden where that Thing butchered Mr. Spinach.

I could tell by the way he stared down at the spot, looking at it for a long, long time, that he was looking at something... horrific.

I just kept riding.

The rest of the day was spent in quiet turmoil.

* * * * *

I don’t know what’s come over me.

I’m scared shitless. But I have to know what this Thing is!

I wonder if that was Mr. Spinach’s last thought as well?

I head back to the park and prepare.

It’s always deserted at this time of night. Except for me.

There’s a street light, but it’s easily two hundred meters away.

I’m swinging on the swing, waiting for the Thing to find me. Again, I have no idea how I know it’s going to find me here. I just know.
Maybe it’s because I saw it? I don’t know.

But that’s what happens when I don’t mind my own business.

Note to self: Self, next time mind your own fucking business.

I make a point of playing opossum. I try to look and act nonchalant. I look around me constantly without being obvious. The park is big, mostly soccer fields. I’m not concerned about the street. I doubt it will come at me from that direction. What I am nervous about is the woods behind me. That is definitely where it will come from.

That’s the obvious choice.
So that’s the direction I try to look at the least.

A chill runs up my spine. Like hundreds of frozen ants marching up my back, across my neck and into my jaw. The skin on my face tingles and I get a rapid fire twitch under my right eye.
I feel its eyes on me.
A tiger locked onto its next meal.

My heart kick-starts and is already hammering like a piston.

I toe the hockey stick at my feet. It’s partially buried beneath the playground sand around the swings. I feel a strong compulsion to run. Run and not stop until I get home.

A swish of grass detonates my nerves and I jump to my feet, snatching up the hockey stick and spinning to face the monster. Just like last night. I couldn’t see it, but I knew exactly where it was standing.

I point at it.

What the hell are you doing? I scream silently at myself.

I’m calling it out. I seem to have lost my senses.

A chemical transmogrification, from terror to aggression has occurred and it appears that I have no choice but to go with it.

My brain has just commandeered by body.

The unspoken challenge is understood and acknowledged. The Thing steps out of the dark tree line.

My courage starts to bleed out and I reconsider running for my life—

Holy Shit!

It’s charging right for me.

Holy shit!

Now I’m running.

But instead of running home, I’m running toward it.

Because I have a plan.

The camouflage net is invisible against the grass beyond the sand of the playground. I laid it out earlier, anticipating (correctly) from which direction it would come from.

I just reach its edge as the Thing steps onto the far end.

Its face is contorted with wrath.
Its metal spoon is raised high.

I yank the net and it lifts off the grass. The Thing’s pointy feet catch and it trips.

The spoon grazes my knuckles as it takes a swing at me. Blood starts oozing from the gash immedaitely.

I keep it at arms length and start to spin the net in an attempt to wrap it up. My arms jerk as the Thing thrashes violently. I hear and feel both my elbow joints pop.

Strong little fucker.

I flip and twist the net until the Thing is thoroughly entangled. I fall on my ass, exhausted.

I really need to start working out.

The Thing doesn’t make a sound as it rolls around the grass. I watch it for a moment as it struggles futilely against the standard issue military camouflage netting. I have no idea where Doug found it, but I’m glad I remembered he had it.

I did it. I actually caught it.

Now what do I do with it?

The Thing is trying to chew through the net, but stops when it realizes that its mouth is only for show. Through the mesh of the net, I see one of its eyes glaring hatefully at me.

It takes a step toward me.
Then another.

The spindly legs are poking out through the mesh, making it able to walk. The hand not holding the spoon also manages to snake free, grasping desperately for my throat.
I watch stupidly as the Thing’s three pronged hand inches ever closer.

I have to move.

I scramble back, kicking at the grass without getting traction. In a sudden burst, the Thing rushes me. It grabs a claw full of pant leg.

“Let go!”

I kick at it.

My toes crunch as I connect.

Motherfucker, that hurt!

I forgot it’s made out of metal.

I start screaming, hoping someone will hear me. Then I remember the hockey stick. I’m still holding it. I swing at it, but the blow glances weakly off the netting. I adjust my grip and start chopping. Hollow thuds ring with each pointless strike.

I see movement on my peripheral and I turn my head just in time to see a man stride right past me. Without even a glance in my direction he steps behind the Thing, grabs the net with his meaty hands and jerks it back. The Thing lets go of my pants and starts thrashing again, trying in vain to slash its claws at the new threat.

The big man quickly readjusts his hold on the net, winding it up so he can get a better grip on it. He holds it out at arms length with ease. The Thing struggles for a moment longer, then stops. It knows it’s done.

I look at the stocky man. There’s no hint of surprise on his face. His actions are precise and confident, like he’s done this before.

After a quick examination of the bundle, he nods, satisfied.

He looks at me.

“You come up with this crazy plan yourself?” he says in a gruff voice.

I nod.

“Hmpf.” He grunts thoughtfully and scratches at his beard.

“This is good work, son. Clever. You got balls tackling something like this on your own.”

“Thanks.” I’m not quite sure what else to say.

He looks at the Thing for a moment more.

“Damn clever.” With his free hand he searches his coat pocket for something and then hands me a business card. It’s from a window cleaning company. “If you’re interested, call the number on the back.”

I flip it over and I see the number written in pen.

“Tell ‘em Jack sent ya.”

With that, Jack turns around and plods back across the park.