 The Headcutter. That's what they called him. I always thought it was a little on the nose, even as a child. Then again, it was also children who named him, so maybe I shouldn't have expected anything more. The Headcutter was one of those urban legends that everyone had a story about. A story that didn't happen to them, but definitely happened to their mom's friend's cousin's son. So it was undeniable. The story behind him was as follows. He was a tall, sickly, thin man with a piercing laugh. You would always know when he was coming because you'd start hearing that cackle echo from streets away, getting closer as he wound around each suburban house. That and the rumble of the engine. He supposedly drove one of those ride on lawn mowers. He'd sit on the top laughing hysterically, the engine growling like some sort of grotesque backup singer. Now you might be guessing that he uses the lawnmower to do the titular head cutting. That wasn't the case. It was never actually specified how he cut people's heads off. And the lawnmower didn't seem to serve any purpose in his description, other than being sinisterly bizarre. What was specified, however, was what he would do with the heads. The head cutter was said to have a doll, a wonderfully intricate doll that had taken years to craft. Its porcelain face was painted to be so lifelike it practically moved. He treasured that doll for whatever reason. The reasons always changed depending on who was retelling the story. Sometimes the doll was crafted to look like a child he'd lost. Other times it was a gift from his dying mother. And yet other times it had been his only friend in a lonely and isolated life. Regardless, one day, the doll was broken. Its delicate face was shattered, destroying the illusion of life it had once held. And with that illusion, any sanity the head cutter had left was shattered as well. He tried to no avail to replace the doll's head. He searched far and wide for an artist that could recreate the convincing detail the porcelain had once held. Each artist fell short. As he grew more desperate, he turned to darker methods. The head cutter killed his neighbor, decapitating her and attaching her head to the doll's body. At first, he thought he'd done it. Human heads don't keep well, however, and before long he realized he'd have to find a new head for the doll once again. From that day on, he stalked the streets of suburbia, looking for the perfect new doll head. Yeah, pretty dark stuff, especially for a bunch of elementary school kids to be telling each other. I'd always been something of a scaredy cat. The first time I heard the story, I started crying and later told my mom about the frightful tale. Never one for sentimentality. She laughed. A deep, hearty, comforting laugh. There was nothing like the maniacal cackle described in the story. Well, that doesn't even make sense. She said, he rides a lawnmower. Someone cruising around these neighborhoods on a damn lawnmower would never fly under the radar. The homeowners association won't even let us park a red car in the driveway. Nobody stalking children with a lawnmower and going unnoticed. Your friends might as well have said, he comes by on an elephant. At least that would have been interesting. Her amused rejection was effective in calming my nerves and my cries slowly turned into sniffles. There's no head cutter. I asked hopeful. Of course, there's no head cutter. She replied, I wiped a sleeve across my wet face. If my mom thought it was ridiculous, it must be ridiculous. I reasoned. After all, she was a grownup and grownups knew everything. Still, even though I now knew rationally that the story had been deemed farfetched, it lingered in the back of my mind. I'd been in the habit of sleeping with my drapes partially open. There seemed little risk in my second story bedroom. And I liked watching the stars and moon shift into view as I dozed off. After I'd heard the tale, though, I would make sure they were pulled tight every night. My mind had convinced me that I'd wake up to a mechanical whirring one night, that I'd go to the window to investigate and lock eyes with the head cutter himself as he cruised by looking for victims. My short walk from the bus to my house went from pleasant to anxiety inducing to any sound of a car, power tool or other engine would send my heart jumping, my eyes frantically scanning the monochrome suburban streets. Previously, I'd been proud that my mother had trusted me to walk home alone, even if the reason was based more on her work schedule than confidence in my maturity. Now, I found myself wanting to ask if she would meet me at the bus stop. I didn't. Maybe out of pride. I didn't want her to think I was a baby. And maybe out of knowing her answer would be no anyways. Instead, I'd exit the bus, carefully composed and begin walking as quickly toward my house as I could. I never ran for some reason. I thought that if the head cutter was out there, running would only draw attention to my status as a scared and alone child. I kept my head up, trying to look how I imagined an adult would walking a futile exercise for a third grader, but one that distracted me for my anxiety at least. And slowly, as I completed the walk home over and over with every growling engine explained by a passing car or a neighbor doing yardwork, my confidence began to become real. My mom was right. I began to believe not just on a rational level, but also emotionally. It was just a silly story. I watched Penelope the next door neighbor write another complaint about the man across the street. His trash can was too close to the curb or too far or something like that. I wasn't really paying attention. If a few inches of trash can positioning couldn't go unnoticed, a man laughing maniacally while riding along more around definitely wouldn't. My growing confidence was shattered when Layla Thompson went missing. A bubbly, extroverted third grader, I hadn't known Layla well, but I'd known of her. She'd been playing in the cul-de-sac in her front yard in broad daylight. Her mother was the overprotective sort and usually kept an eagle's eye on Layla. That day, she'd forgotten cookies in the oven. She rushed inside to try to save them, probably figuring that Layla would be fine bouncing her pink ball in the driveway for a few minutes. When she returned, the ball was rolling to a stop in the center of the cul-de-sac. Layla was nowhere to be seen. It didn't take long for the police to be called in a frantic search to start. By the time Monday rolled around, rumors were flying. Teachers tried their best to stifle any hearsay, but talks still spread on the playground. By the end of the day, I'd heard at least five variations of what had definitely incontestably happened to Layla. They ranged from the generic a kidnapper promised her free candy, to the more far-fetched she ran away to join a gang of fellow children who wanted to be free from adults. However, a frontrunner in the theories was quickly emerging. The headcutter had struck again. His daughter looked just like Layla, you know? That's why he took her. James, a fifth grader, told my friend Jesse and I with great authority. By Tuesday, this seemed accepted as the gospel, despite the lack of any verifying reports. My old anxiety rushed back in with these new events. I found myself once again jumping at a sputtering car engine, once again having to force myself to not race for the front door. This time, though, my concerns seemed shared by my mother, at least in part. She sat me down after school one day. Now, I know you already know about stranger danger, but it's extra important you remember not to go anywhere with anyone while you're walking home. You're to walk from the bus to the door, no going to friends, not even stopping by the park, at least until this blows over. It's better to be cautious. Do you understand? She said, I nodded with wide eyes. I understand. I hesitated. Do you think the headcutter took her? The headcutter isn't real, but other bad people are okay. Sometimes the scariest people aren't the boogeymen, sometimes they can look just like you and me. And that's why it's important you do what I just told you. She replied. I said I understood again, but remained quietly convinced of the headcutter's existence. A day turned into a week and a week into a month and still no trace of Leila was ever found. The search parties dwindled to just her parents and some family friends and police cars stopped driving by. Even with all my fears, I found myself becoming a little more lax on my walk home each day. Then it happened. It was a sunny Tuesday afternoon, blisteringly sunny. I was walking a little more slowly than usual, not wanting to exert myself more in the already stuffy weather. Still, I was only two driveways from my house when I heard it. A steady mechanical growling emanating from a street ahead of and perpendicular to my house. It's just a car or neighbor trimming their bushes. I reassured myself. Then it was interrupted by a tinny off kilter laugh. The blood drained from my face and I felt cold wash over me despite the oppressive sun. The growling was growing closer. It sounded like it was coming towards my street. A second equally bone shelling laugh broke me from my frozen state. I took off running for my front door. The couple hundred feet had never felt so far as I raced down the sidewalk earlier concerns about drawing attention to myself gone. Any rational thought was gone. Actually, I just knew I needed to get out of there. Time seemed to move in slow motion as I reached my door pulling my key from around my neck. I felt like the air was suddenly made of syrup as I tried to slip it into the keyhole. Another laugh echoed behind me. Definitely closer. I didn't dare to turn around and look instead ripping the key from the door and shoving it open as soon as I heard the lock slide from its place. I practically fell onto the tile entryway. I slammed the door shut behind me. And I sat there for a moment back against the door. And then I realized I hadn't locked it. I reached up and slid the deadbolt back into place then scrambled against the hallway wall. I felt some relief that my mom had closed all the drapes before leaving for work. I sat there back against the wall hyperventilating as I tried to process what was happening. Outside the warring grew louder. It had to be on my street now. And I said a silent prayer that it would continue down the street without passing my house. Thankfully, my prayers seem to be answered as the noise began to grow fainter. There was another laugh, this time barely audible over the fading warring. Was this real? This couldn't be real, I thought, and suddenly found myself rising. I don't know what was going through my head, but I felt that I had to peek out the window. I had to prove to myself that it wasn't real, that it was just a local teenager trying to scare kids or a neighbor trimming their trees. It couldn't be real. I crept to the window, slowly shifting the curtain to the side, just enough to see the road outside. At first, it looked empty. Then, towards the end, movement caught my eye. He was real. I saw him clear as day, just like the stories described. Tall and far too skinny, sitting on top of a lawnmower that was currently turning the corner. I slammed the curtain shut, sinking to the ground. My mother found me still sitting on the ground, a mess of tears and snot when she got home. Her worry was replaced with subtle annoyance when I told her I'd seen the head cutter, but she still tried her best to comfort me. She insisted he wasn't real, that I must have just seen one of the neighbors. I knew what I'd seen, though. The head cutter was real. After my mother had refused to believe me, I was hesitant to tell anyone else what I'd seen. Jesse noticed that I was quieter than usual the next day, though. What's wrong? Are you sick? She asked, eyes widening at the potential of me getting her sick, too. You need to tell me if you're sick, so we don't share juice boxes later. My mom says that's how you get sick. I shook my head. I'm not sick. It's nothing. I don't believe you, Jesse said. I sighed, looking around for anyone who might be listening. Jesse was my best friend. Surely she should be warned about what I'd seen. All right, but you have to promise not to laugh at me. Is it a secret? I paused. Was it a secret? Maybe the other kid should know what I'd seen, too. So they'd know he was lurking out there. Then again, maybe they just laugh it off as my mom had. And they all already knew the story anyway. So it's not like it was new information. Still, an actual sighting they would know where to avoid then. I guess not. I finally said, and I took a deep breath. I saw him. Him? I lowered my voice to a barely audible whisper, chills creeping down my own neck as I said the same name out loud. The head cutter. Jesse gasped. No way. I did. I was walking home from school and I started hearing the lawnmower and his laugh just like the story said. What did you do? She asked. I ran to my house. I thought he was going to see me, but I got inside just in time. Then I went and looked out the window. I saw him turning the corner, but it was really him. Whoa. He could have gotten you. I shuddered at the thought. She seemed to be taking me seriously, at least. I know. My mom doesn't believe me, though. I said, why not? Jesse asked. Her mom always believed her. Or in hindsight, at least said she did. I don't know. I was worried you wouldn't either. Somehow, by the time afternoon recess rolled around, practically everyone was talking about my sighting. Three separate kids, none of whom I'd ever spoken to before, came up to ask me about my encounter. The next day, the fuss had spread. My mom was waiting for me at the bus stop when I got off an unusual sight. So, I got a call from one of your teachers. You've been telling kids you saw the head cutter. She asked as we walked towards the house. I nodded, nervously wondering if I was in trouble. Look, I know you think you saw him, but he's just a silly legend someone made up. There is no head cutter, alright? I know Layla's going missing has been scary, but that doesn't mean a scary story is real. But mom, I saw him on a lawnmower. I did some digging. Mr. Johnson down the street said he has a ride on lawnmower and he said you can come over and see for yourself. I was thinking we could head over there right now and put this whole business behind us. My mom offered. I frowned. Mr. Johnson was a short round man who prided himself on doing things himself. It wasn't surprising that he would have bought a lawnmower instead of hiring people to take care of his yard. Home owner's association be damned. But I doubted he was the person I'd seen. Still, my mom seemed pleased with her solution and not wanting to let her down. I nodded. We walked down the street and around two corners before finally arriving at Mr. Johnson's house. He was sitting outside on the previously mentioned lawnmower. My heart sank when I saw him. There was no way this was what I'd seen. It was all wrong. His height, his silhouette, even the color of the lawnmower, green and gray instead of black. Still, not wanting to get in trouble with my mom, I decided I would just go along with it. Mr. Johnson gave me an exaggerated wave as we approached. Well, hi there, he said. Hi. I said, hoping my quietness would come off as shyness. I wanted to get this over with. I'd now decided that my mom wasn't going to understand and it was best that I just figured out how to handle this myself. I heard you might have seen this lawnmower the other day and gotten a bit spooked, eh? I guess so. I said, well, I can promise you the only thing this lawnmower cuts is my grass. And real evenly in that too. He let out a laugh. It was nothing like the tinny frantic laugh I'd heard yesterday. Yes, there was no way this was what I'd seen. So look, it might sound scary, but there's nothing to be afraid of. You can even come sit on it yourself. He offered. I took him up on the offer and forced a smile and what I hoped looked like relief. My mom seems satisfied that the whole thing was behind us as we walked back to our house that afternoon. I didn't correct her. The week drew on and there was still no sign of Layla. By the following Wednesday, talk about my sighting had died down to replaced by Kyle's parents buying him his own dirt bike for their summer camping trip. He hadn't stopped talking about it once. I had to admit, that sounded pretty cool. I couldn't imagine my mom buying me an actual vehicle. Even a normal bike was pushing it. I was walking home Thursday, watching the bus disappear and thinking about the cool dirt bike tricks I could totally personally do if I just had one, despite my lack of experience. When I heard a familiar whirring sound again, my heart dropped. Just like last Tuesday, it seemed to be coming from around the corner, not the direction of Mr. Johnson's house by any means. The ear splitting laugh echoed through the air. This time, I was still at the end of the road from my house. My heart pounded against my chest as I considered my options run from my house. The corner was only two driveways down. If I didn't make it, he'd seen me for sure and be only a couple hundred feet or so from me turn and run in the other direction. I was in the middle of the street. The corner was definitely a few minutes run away. I decided I'd race towards my house. I took off running for all I was worth, legs pumping as I passed one driveway, two driveways, my house was growing closer. The whirring was to three driveways, I could see the details of the lock on my door now for driveways to to go. And then my worst nightmare became real. I saw the shadow enter the street moments before he did. Time seemed to slow as the bony too tall man rode onto the street, a wide and sinister smile plastered across his face. His smile grew even wider, almost impossibly wide. When he saw me, he let out an overjoyed laugh and then another and another as he yanked the steering wheel of the lawnmower to the left. It turned towards me. He turned towards me gaining on me faster than I thought was possible. To my credit, I didn't stop running. The door was less than 50 feet from me now and then a bony hand grabbed my shoulder. I wasn't sure how he'd caught up to me so quickly, how he'd maneuvered his ride so smoothly. The hand yanked me roughly back and I stumbled and then everything went black. When I woke up, I was in a small dark room. It was almost entirely empty, save for a single overhead light. Outside, I heard a raspy sing songy voice. I'll find your head and that's what I said. I'll find your head and bring you back from the dead. The voice repeated the disturbing rhyme over and over for what seemed like forever. Finally, it stopped. The light shut off at the same time. I sat there in a sudden dark silence shaking as the full extent of my situation dawned on me. That's when I noticed something glittering in the door frame. When the light had been on, it wasn't visible. The dim rays of light slipping under the door, however, reflected off of it. Curious, I stood up, walking closer to see what it was. It was a sparkling metal barrette, the kind you could buy in bulk at Claire's or target. More importantly, it had been wedged in the lock of the door, imperceptible from the outside and just barely visible from the inside. It had prevented the door from locking. I realized this was possibly my only chance to escape this situation, at least with my head. I held my breath as I listened intensely for any movement outside. There was nothing. Slowly, I placed a hand on the door knob. Still no noise outside. I pulled the door open to see a relatively normal looking basement. Dust covered rows of plastic storage crates. A bike leaned against one wall. If it wasn't for the heavy door I just opened, it would have looked like any family basement. Trying my best to remain quiet, I pulled the door shut behind me and began walking through the rows of shelves. The stairs had to be around here somewhere, I figured. As I walked, a dim ray of sunlight caught my eye. It peeked through the rows of shelves, landing on the floor at my feet. There must be a window, I thought. I changed directions, instead climbing through one row of shelves to head towards the light source. I stood up in the next row and froze. The facade of a normal basement didn't continue in this row. Instead, shelf after shelf was lined with human skulls. There had to have been at least two dozen, all pristine and white. I felt bile rise in my throat. You have to keep going, something urged me. I nodded and took a step towards the row of skulls. Forcing down the vomit in my mouth and trying to remember to breathe, I pushed one of the skulls aside and crawled into the next aisle. There, the window. It was about five feet off the ground with a desk covered in dusty tools sitting just below it. With a boost from the desk, I was confident I could make it. I was pulling myself up when I heard a scream behind me. A raspy, infuriated scream followed by rapid footsteps. My heart leapt out of my chest as I struggled to pull myself up more quickly. I stood on the table and it shook as I did so. The window was just within reach and I grasped the lock, pulling with all I was worth. My finger slipped once. The footsteps grew closer. The second time, they didn't slip and the window opened with a blast of dust. I grabbed the window sill, trying to pull myself up. I almost had when I felt my foot slip. Three things seemed to happen at once. I felt a jolt as I plummeted behind the desk. Searing pain filled my face as something cold slammed into it and a silhouette appeared in the aisle behind me. Running on adrenaline now, I pulled myself from behind the desk as quickly as I could manage. Something hot and sticky was running down my face as I turned to see the head cutter himself. He froze as he caught sight of me. I raised a hand to my head and when I brought it down, it was covered in blood. Ruined. He spat. Ruined. He yelled, slamming a fist into the nearby shelf. It shook. I didn't wait for him to make a move. Instead, I turned and jumped for the window sill, this time managing to pull myself halfway through it and knock the wind out of myself as the frame pressed into my ribcage. I expected to feel a bony hand wrap around my ankle at any moment. I wriggled through the window, no doubt scraping my stomach and legs as I did so. The cold grasp never came and in another moment, I felt cool grass beneath me. I rolled over. The head cutter stood just below the window, motionless. He stared with two cold eyes as I scrambled backward, but never made a move to grab me. Go. His raspy voice said, I didn't have to be told twice. I gathered myself to my feet and raced through the empty streets. Once I felt like I was far enough from that dreadful house, I knocked on a door. A young man holding a baby answered. His face went pale when he saw me and he quickly shouted for his wife ushering me inside. They called the police who called my mother. The police were eventually able to find the house based on the description I'd given of my escape route. It was empty when they did though. The owner was an elderly woman who'd passed away years before. It had officially sat vacant ever since. They never found the man who'd kidnapped me. And they presumed also taken Leila. I ended up needing several stitches for the gash going down the side of my face. When I was in high school, my mother offered to let me try a laser scar removal. I turned her off her down. As long as I had that scar, I was ruined in his mind. And I was glad to be considered as such. It felt like a safety net in a way. Not something that had ruined me, but something that had saved me. That wasn't all that had saved me though. They never did find Leila, but her mother confirmed that the barrette wedged in the door had been hers. I'm still eternally grateful to her. If not for her quick thinking, I wouldn't be here telling this story today. So, if you live in a drab, suburban neighborhood and hear a whoring followed by a tinny laugh, walk a little faster, lock your doors when you get home, pick your kids up from the bus stop. It's probably just Mr. Johnson out doing yard work, but I wouldn't risk it. Not now that I know he's still out there looking for the perfect head.