The Headless Biker of Harold Parker
An Urban Legend
The motorcyclist harassed people. That much everyone agreed on. He rode too fast and followed cars too closely. His bike was loud, too loud.
He wore all black from head to foot and roared around the streets of North Reading and through nearby Harold Parker State Forest almost every night. No one knew who he was, but he was a menace, that was certain.
The biker bothered everyone but he angered one man in particular. Often, just as the man was drifting off to sleep, the biker would thunder by, revving his bike as loudly as he could, and the man would leap terrified from his bed. He’s targeting me, the man cursed. He’s trying to drive me out of my mind.
Someone has to do something, the man thought.
I have to do something, he decided.
And one moonless night, he did.
The man strung piano wire between two trees on one of Harold Parker’s narrow curving roads. He gauged the height carefully. And then he crouched in the woods and waited.
Soon he heard the familiar roar, and then the biker flashed by, going full-throttle. He hit the piano wire at neck height, exactly as the man had planned. The motorcycle skidded and careened off the road and into the trees in an explosive crash. The biker flew through the air. The silence was suddenly deafening.
The man crept out from behind the trees and stood there, his heart pounding. There, in front of him, was the biker’s head, severed and bloody. His eyes were open and staring. The man shuddered. He backed away, and started to run. He reached his car and drove home, panting, his hands clenching the wheel.
Lying in bed, he couldn’t stop shaking. But it was quiet. There would be no motorcycle tearing through the night, disturbing decent folks’ sleep. It would be peaceful again.
But wait, what was that sound? No — it couldn’t be! It was the sound of a motorcycle, louder than he had ever heard it. He raced out of house, the door swinging behind him. There in front of him was the biker — and where his head had been was there nothing, only a severed neck, streaming blood.
The cyclist pointed at the man. He pulled the bike into a wheelie and disappeared. But the noise went on. The man fell to the ground, his hands trying to block the roar that was shattering his eardrums and shredding every coherent thought.
The man was found the next morning on his front lawn, dried blood covering the sides of his head, his eyes wide open. His heart had stopped.
And to this day there are people who say that they hear the roar of a motorcycle in Harold Parker, late at night when all decent folks are in bed … and it’s loud.