Though I wound up with three scary incidents in my retelling “The Boy Who Wanted the Willies,” I originally wrote four and then chose the best three. Here’s the one I took out.—Aaron
There was a creaking and squeaking and clanking. Hans turned to see a suit of armor moving away from the wall, holding a battleax.
“That’s a terrible racket you’re making,” said Hans, covering his ears. “Let’s see if we can do something about it.”
He poked around in a closet and found an oil can. The armor stood still while Hans oiled its hinges.
“That should do it,” said Hans.
The armor flexed its joints. Then it raised its battleax and rushed at Hans.
“Hey! That’s gratitude for you!” said Hans, as he ducked and dodged the blade.
Suddenly, two more suits of armor moved out from the wall and started after him. One carried a sword, the other swung a mace.
“No fair, three against one!” said Hans.
He ran among them, bobbing and bouncing, springing and swerving, jumping and jerking, vaulting and veering. And every time they swung at Hans, they missed him and hit each other.
Soon all three suits of armor lay bashed and battered on the floor.
“That’s the last time I help out anyone with a battleax!” Hans said, kicking the pieces into a corner. He settled himself again before the fire. “But I do wonder when I will get the willies!”