Gansevoort
Gansevoort
Deep in the heart of upstate New York, in a small town by the name of Gansevoort, there lies a mobile home in the middle of the woods, rusted and worn by the trials of time. When I was young, a group of close friends and myself used to hang out in an old barn from which we could see the little trailer. We grew up knowing not to ever approach the shack; our older siblings told us tales about how the previous owner had been a sadistic killer and devoted his life to hunting children, and though we figured they were just trying to frighten us, the stories worked to keep us away. They warned us that despite the fact that the trailer had been long since abandoned, one could occasionally hear the sound of chainsaws echoing through the forest and across the farmland. The stories were genuinely frightening, but even so, we never believed them.
Much later in our lives, when I was almost eighteen and preparing to graduate from high school, a friend mentioned something about the trailer and the stories our siblings told us one day. Until then, I had completely forgotten about the little dilapidated trailer deep in the forest. We reminisced about how afraid we were to venture anywhere in close proximity to the trailer, and recalled, with great clarity, the urge we had always suppressed to explore it. After much consideration and laughter about how childish we were to believe the stories we were told, he and I decided we needed to finally investigate.
We spent hours probing our memories to remember where exactly it was located, and by the time we finally came across it, the sky had dimmed to a deep purple shade. It was late in the evening, but still the stars were absent, and all we had to provide light were our cell phones and a small flashlight. It was dark, but we would not be deterred.
The trailer was in worse shape than we remembered: the windows had been smashed out, and the walls were dented and rusting. Regardless of the state of the trailer, though, something else seemed off. The air was still and even though we didn't want to confess to it, both my friend and I were beginning to experience the same fear of the trailer that we had in our youth. It was hard to remain determined to visit our old childhood monument.
We shined our flashlight in the window to assuage our fears, but what we saw did not do exactly that. We saw exactly what we didn't want to see: chainsaws; piles of them, all different colors, new and old. As true - and not childish - fear began to set in, we heard something behind us. Nearly paralyzed by fear, I found the courage to turn around and face the assailant, just to be sure that we weren't shitting ourselves over a small animal in the trees.
An old man, small in stature and clothed rags was lethargically approaching. His eyes, obscured slightly by his scraggly gray hair emanated complete madness. He promptly blurted something accusatory at us and started running in our direction, at an inhumanly rapid pace.
We exchanged glances at each other and without a word, we ran. We didn't stop running until both of us were inside my friend's house. Finally having made it to safety, we surveyed the trail in the woods from which we had come to assure that nothing was there. It appeared empty, but there was a harsh whisper that seemed closer to the house than the forest. What we made of it was something to the effect of “never sleep with your windows unlocked.”
I didn't live nearly as close as my friend to the old trailer, so I wasn't as worried as he was; the experience nearly drove him to compulsive insanity. He made sure that his blinds were closed and his windows locked every night, multiple times. A few weeks later, he called me in the middle of the night to tell me that he woke up and heard something scratching and tapping at his window. With me on the phone, he peeked out the window and saw the bloodied blade of a chainsaw.
This was enough to drive him out of the house and into the second floor of an apartment in a more suburban area where he could rest comfortably assured that there would be no chainsaw murderer tapping at his window.
He later confided in me that he had been tortured with the sound of a running chainsaw in the distant forest almost every night since the incident of our exploration.
Much later in our lives, when I was almost eighteen and preparing to graduate from high school, a friend mentioned something about the trailer and the stories our siblings told us one day. Until then, I had completely forgotten about the little dilapidated trailer deep in the forest. We reminisced about how afraid we were to venture anywhere in close proximity to the trailer, and recalled, with great clarity, the urge we had always suppressed to explore it. After much consideration and laughter about how childish we were to believe the stories we were told, he and I decided we needed to finally investigate.
We spent hours probing our memories to remember where exactly it was located, and by the time we finally came across it, the sky had dimmed to a deep purple shade. It was late in the evening, but still the stars were absent, and all we had to provide light were our cell phones and a small flashlight. It was dark, but we would not be deterred.
The trailer was in worse shape than we remembered: the windows had been smashed out, and the walls were dented and rusting. Regardless of the state of the trailer, though, something else seemed off. The air was still and even though we didn't want to confess to it, both my friend and I were beginning to experience the same fear of the trailer that we had in our youth. It was hard to remain determined to visit our old childhood monument.
We shined our flashlight in the window to assuage our fears, but what we saw did not do exactly that. We saw exactly what we didn't want to see: chainsaws; piles of them, all different colors, new and old. As true - and not childish - fear began to set in, we heard something behind us. Nearly paralyzed by fear, I found the courage to turn around and face the assailant, just to be sure that we weren't shitting ourselves over a small animal in the trees.
An old man, small in stature and clothed rags was lethargically approaching. His eyes, obscured slightly by his scraggly gray hair emanated complete madness. He promptly blurted something accusatory at us and started running in our direction, at an inhumanly rapid pace.
We exchanged glances at each other and without a word, we ran. We didn't stop running until both of us were inside my friend's house. Finally having made it to safety, we surveyed the trail in the woods from which we had come to assure that nothing was there. It appeared empty, but there was a harsh whisper that seemed closer to the house than the forest. What we made of it was something to the effect of “never sleep with your windows unlocked.”
I didn't live nearly as close as my friend to the old trailer, so I wasn't as worried as he was; the experience nearly drove him to compulsive insanity. He made sure that his blinds were closed and his windows locked every night, multiple times. A few weeks later, he called me in the middle of the night to tell me that he woke up and heard something scratching and tapping at his window. With me on the phone, he peeked out the window and saw the bloodied blade of a chainsaw.
This was enough to drive him out of the house and into the second floor of an apartment in a more suburban area where he could rest comfortably assured that there would be no chainsaw murderer tapping at his window.
He later confided in me that he had been tortured with the sound of a running chainsaw in the distant forest almost every night since the incident of our exploration.
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