Suzuki’s Shadow Looms: Motorcycles—The Unexpected Threat
*Or, How I Learned to Fear the Hum of an Engine
You’ve heard the legends, of course. The whispered tales of riders who vanish into the night, their machines growling like restless beasts. But no one believes them—until it happens to you.
It began on a quiet Tuesday in the sleepy town of Hollow’s End. The kind of place where nothing ever happened, where the most exciting event of the year was the annual pumpkin weigh-in. That is, until *they arrived.
The first sign was the sound—a low, persistent hum, like a swarm of mechanical hornets. Then came the sightings: sleek, black motorcycles appearing at the edge of town, idling in the mist, their riders faceless behind tinted visors. No one knew where they came from. No one knew what they wanted.
Old Man Henderson swore he saw one parked outside his barn at midnight, its headlight flickering in the dark like a single, unblinking eye. By dawn, it was gone—but his prize-winning rooster had vanished with it.
Then the disappearances started.
First, it was just small things—keys, wallets, the last slice of pie left cooling on a windowsill. But soon, people began to vanish. The mailman, last seen muttering about a “shadow on two wheels.” The librarian, who left behind only a single motorcycle glove on her desk. Even the town’s stray cats—*especially the cats—seemed to flee before the rumble of an approaching engine.
The sheriff dismissed it as mass hysteria. “Just some kids on fancy bikes,” he said, right before *his patrol car was found abandoned, the radio crackling with static and the faint echo of revving throttles.
I tried to warn them. I *did warn them. But no one listens to the town drunk—until the town is gone.
Now, I’m the only one left. I barricade myself inside at dusk, listening for that telltale hum. Sometimes, in the dead of night, I see them—silhouettes on their Suzuki steeds, circling like vultures. Waiting.
And the worst part?
I think they’re *smiling under those helmets.
So, the next time you hear the growl of a motorcycle behind you on a lonely road, don’t look back.
Just run.
*Author’s Note: Or did none of this happen at all? Maybe Hollow’s End never existed. Maybe I’m just a paranoid mechanic who spent too long inhaling exhaust fumes. But then again… have you checked your garage lately?