The Scissor Runners

Measure twice.

Jan 25, 2026

gray steel scissors — Photo by Matt Artz on Unsplash

My grandmother used to check the locks three times before bed. Always three. Never less. When I asked why, she said, “Scissor Runners measure twice, cut once.”

I was eight. I thought she meant regular scissors.

The town’s had the story for decades. Since the war, people say. Nobody agrees which war. The scissor factory closed before I was born. It’s a concrete shell now. Half the roof caved in. Every surface tagged with band names and curse words and dick drawings. Kids throw parties there. Last Halloween someone set up a haunted house inside. Charged five bucks. The parent volunteers dressed up as Scissor Runners with tinfoil blades taped to oven mitts.

My mom still says “love you” three times before hanging up the phone. She doesn’t think about it anymore. It’s just what you do. Like saying bless you after someone sneezes.

The gift shop sells bottle openers shaped like scissors. The brewery does a Folded IPA every October. Tourism board put up a historical marker by the factory. “Home of the Scissor Runners Legend.”

Nobody my age believes it. It’s a thing the town has. Local color. Cute bullshit for people passing through.

I got my DUI in March. Blew a .09 at a traffic stop. Nobody hurt. Just me being a selfish asshole who thought three beers didn’t count. Lost my license for six months.

Could’ve been worse. The judge said I was lucky. My mom said I was lucky. Everyone said I was lucky except my boss. He said I should figure out my transportation situation before next shift.

The bus doesn’t run past nine. Uber costs money I don’t have. So I walk.

Forty minutes from the warehouse to my apartment. Straight shot down Industrial Drive. Past the old factory. Through the part of town where streetlights are suggestions. I bought good shoes. Started carrying a flashlight. Told myself it was fine. People walk at night all the time. I was being paranoid.

Court-mandated AA meets Tuesdays and Thursdays at eight. I get out at nine. Walk home by ten. The route takes me past the factory’s north fence.

First month was fine. Second month was fine. I got used to it. The dark. The quiet. The occasional car hissing past. I learned to like it.

Then someone died.

Arlis. Guy I barely knew. Worked receiving at the distribution center. Different shift. Young. Twenty-four, maybe twenty-five. The kind of age people still say out loud like it means something.

They found him in the park. That narrow strip of grass everyone cuts through between the bus station and the apartments. Saves maybe eight minutes if you’re moving.

The news called it a tragic accident.

The obituary said unexpected passing.

At the gas station, Marcus told it straight.

“Arlis got folded,” he said, like he was talking about cardboard.

Folded.

“Found him stacked up like laundry. Head set off to the side, still facing the sky.”

Marcus knocked on the counter three times without seeming to notice.

“They say they always tap three times first. Like a warning.”

I thought about my grandmother checking locks.

That night I walked home the long way. Added fifteen minutes. Took me past the closed Dairy Queen and the storage units. Avoided the factory entirely. Felt stupid about it. Felt smart about it. Couldn’t decide which.

I caught myself knocking on my apartment door three times before unlocking it. Habit I didn’t know I had.

At the next AA meeting Jerry the sponsor asked how I was doing with my steps. I said fine. He said I looked tired. I said I was walking a lot. He said that’s good. Walking at night clears your head. Gives you time to think about choices.

He tapped his coffee cup three times against the table. Same unconscious rhythm as Marcus.

I didn’t tell him what I was thinking about.

The stories don’t match. That’s the thing. My grandmother said measure twice, cut once. My mom’s friend Donna swears her nephew saw one standing still under a light and it didn’t even look at him when he ran past. The guy who bartends at Legends says they only come out when it rains.

Marcus says you can hear them tapping the pavement first, three soft clicks. The woman at the library swears they only come for people wearing cotton.

Nobody agrees.

The factory workers died in an accident. Or they were murdered. Or they volunteered for an experiment. Or it never happened at all and it’s mass hysteria and confirmation bias and the one actual death was a regular murder the cops are too lazy to solve.

But everyone over forty does things in threes without thinking about it. Locks. Lights. Goodbyes.

Protection that’s outlived its explanation.

I kept walking. Tried to be careful. But I was tired. Inventory shifts wreck you. Stand for eight hours scanning boxes. Walk for forty minutes. Sleep for six. Repeat. I started cutting corners. Stopped taking the long way. What was the point? Arlis died in the park and I was avoiding the factory. There was no safe route. No pattern.

Two weeks after Arlis, I left my phone in my locker. Didn’t realize until I was halfway home. I stopped. Checked my pockets.

Twice.

Front left. Front right.

That’s when I heard it.

Snip.

One block back. Maybe less.

Snip.

My chest tried to collapse. My legs twitched. Every animal part of my brain said run. But I thought about Arlis folded in the park. I slowed down.

Stopped completely.

Pretended to look at something on the ground. A bottle cap. Trash. Anything.

Snip-snip.

Two of them. They came around the corner.

I didn’t look directly. Peripheral only. Shape and motion.

They moved like distance runners. Elbows tucked. Shoulders loose. That long, patient stride you see near the end of a race. Nothing hurried. Nothing wasted.

Arms that ended wrong. Steel catching the streetlight.
Faces like something unfinished. Like clay someone walked away from.

There was a sound with them. Rhythmic. Soft. Metal sliding on metal. Just out of sync with my breath.

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

Like they were checking the ground for permission.

Snip.

My lungs forgot what came next.

One of them turned its head. Maybe. The sense of being noticed without eye contact.

Snip.

They went past me.

I felt something tug at my jacket. Heard fabric separate. Felt night air touch my ribs through a gap that hadn’t been there before.

They kept going. Down the block. Around the corner. The sound faded into the space between streetlights.

I stood there until my pulse remembered how to work.

At home I took off my jacket under the bathroom light. The cut ran from my hip to my shoulder. Perfect line. It had missed my shirt by millimeters. Followed the seam like someone reading a pattern.

They hadn’t tried to kill me.

They’d measured me.

Once.

I started doing everything in threes. Knocked three times. Checked locks three times. Touched the doorframe three times before going outside. Took three breaths before crossing the street.

It felt insane. It felt necessary.

For a week nothing happened.

Then I got sloppy.

Thursday night. Late meeting. Jerry went long talking about accountability and I zoned out thinking about sleep. Walked home on autopilot. Tired. So tired I forgot to count.

I adjusted my jacket twice. The duct tape over the slash crinkled. I pulled it closed against the cold.

Twice.

I told myself I’d fix it on the next block. Third tap, third breath, third everything, later.

That’s when I heard it.

Snip-snip-snip.

Faster this time. Excited.

I froze.

They came from both directions.

Four of them. Two ahead. Two behind.

They didn’t pass me this time.

The rhythm died. The metallic snip-snip stopped.

The ones in front planted their feet. Shoulders squared. Blocking the sidewalk like a gate.

The ones behind cut off the retreat.

One of them tilted its head. Looked at my jacket. At the strip of silver duct tape holding it together.

It stepped closer.

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

Snip-snip.

It reached toward me. Not fast. Just careful.

I felt the blade against my shoulder. Cold. It sliced through the tape without a sound. Traced the line of my collarbone. Down. Across. Taking measurements.

Another one came from behind. Blade against my spine. Same pressure. Same certainty.

They stepped back. All four of them.

And then they ran.

Snip-snip-snip-snip.

The sound faded.

I walked home. Didn’t run. Couldn’t.

In the bathroom mirror I found cuts. Shoulder to hip. Hip to shoulder. Collarbone. Spine. They hadn't broken skin. Hadn't touched my shirt. Just the jacket. Reference lines for a pattern I didn't want to see completed.

My grandmother died later that year. Stroke. Fast.

After the funeral my mom and I cleaned out her apartment. I found her sewing kit in the closet. Old scissors. Heavy tailor shears.

There was a note tucked inside.

They’re still measuring.

That’s all it said.

The walking got harder after that. The shifts got longer.

I stopped going to meetings. Told my sponsor I was sick.

Tonight I bought a bottle of whiskey on the way home.

I drank it in the dark.

I stopped trying to fix the pattern.

I slept without checking the locks.

I woke up to a sound. Metal sliding on wood.