MicroHorror

He wasn’t a very good magician at all. You spotted the gaps in the linking rings. You saw the extra handkerchief in his jacket. The dove he pulled out of his sleeve didn’t look at all healthy, and you wondered how long it had been crammed in there. You would have walked out if you had had anything better to do.

So if he was such a lousy magician, why did you join him on the stage when he looked you in the eye and asked for a volunteer from the audience? Why did your body obey him, and not you, as he readied his props and described his next trick? You never wanted to climb into the box, but you did it anyway. Why?

These questions, and more, race through your mind as he closes the lid, trapping you with your head sticking out one end and your feet out the other. Now he’s picking up the saw, the blade gleaming silver in the harsh stage lights. A dark stain mars the serrated edge. And you’re not at all confident this trick is going to work out the way you’d like.

Three flashes of red and I’m on the ground, staring at the night sky. My skull waits to collapse and fill itself with the obsidian array of stars above me.

She looks at me with a hazy smile, one of love, lust and lies.

I finally sit up and realize that my body has been on the ground for hours, longer than hers. She touches her chest, arms, and can’t figure out what’s wrong with her.

There’s a new fuzzy feeling sweeping over her body, a newfound sense of hunger and evil.

One kiss and one bite before all of this, she probably just wanted a nice stranger to offer her a drink. Offer her some conversation, a warm glow on a dark evening.

Instead, she found me on one of the few nights of the month that I have to feed. One of the few nights where living forever is the curse painted across my eyes.

She finds the bite marks on her neck and tries to scream but doesn’t have the energy. Her pale breasts heave with her slow motions.

I stand up and smile. Dusk is around the corner and I should be home.

She screams again as I walk away. I lick my lips and taste the metallic aftertaste of her blood.

Tight black dress, long devastating legs. A body like a bullet train. Pouting lips that cried to be bitten.

I turn the corner and leave the alleyway. The remnants of the weekenders slouch their way about the street, ending their night and eager to head home. Eager to drop down into a chasm of blankets and pillows.

I’ll never be that eager because I’ll avoid that need. My one obsession is my downfall and I’m craving more as the stars dissolve in the sky.

Another beauty exits a convenience store across the street. Short blond hair, small breasts and a tender frame. She’s wearing a black t-shirt that I’d love to take off. Red painted fingernails and the dewy vapor of a hangover.

My strides grow faster and I’m next to her. She’s startled but smiles.

She opens her mouth to speak but I place her hand in mine and pull her close to me.

She tries to push away but my teeth are already in her milky white skin, penetrating her and taking what I want. Taking what I need.

She falls back but I don’t catch her. She’s spread out on the cold ground, her skirt hiked up a little, perfect pale legs stretched on the concrete sidewalk.

One more bite and the soft flesh of her thigh is in my mouth. Crimson smeared on my face and I’m delighted.

The sky above is unforgiving as it begins to fade. Speckles of blue in the distance and I know that it is time for me to leave.

I walk away from her and this world and travel onto my own, the one where darkness is the only comfort for my eyes and my soul.

“Virginia is for lovers,” said the old tourism slogan, and you’ll hear no objection from the thousands of couples who flock there each year, lured by the cozy accommodations and Southern hospitality offered by the bed and breakfast establishments that dot the length of the Shenandoah Valley. And so it was that one of these couples was Marshall and Debbie, young, budget-conscious newlyweds from nearby Silver Spring.

They arrived at the bed and breakfast shortly after sunset, looking forward to spending the first night of their honeymoon engaged in some strenuous conjugal activity, but when they entered their room their gazes fell upon the king-sized bed. It was an antique four-poster, with a dark wooden frame clearly a century old. All thoughts of amorous athletics fled as Marshall and Debbie realized just how exhausted they were, from the drive as well as the pent-up stresses of months of wedding planning. With barely a word, they stripped and collapsed into the giant bed, sinking into the soft down mattress, and into a deep, comforting slumber.

Debbie woke up with the light of the full moon shining in her eyes. She looked over at her husband sleeping beside her, his body nestled in the soft bed. She smiled at the sight of him, lying there so peacefully, but then something caught her eye. Something wasn’t quite right. Slowly, impossibly, she realized what it was. Marshall wasn’t merely sinking into the mattress. He was sinking through it. Most of his left leg had already vanished below the surface, and the rest of his body was following.

Debbie screamed, and lunged towards her husband to shake him awake. He didn’t stir. She grabbed his shoulder and shouted his name, but still he remained sound asleep, sinking into the massive bed. Terrified, Debbie leapt onto the floor… or, rather, she tried to. Her legs, like her husband’s, were already being absorbed into the mattress, trapping her. She screamed again, and struggled, but she couldn’t tear herself out of the bed’s grasp. Slowly, inexorably, both Debbie and Marshall sank deeper. Marshall was the lucky one, for he never woke up as he disappeared beneath the surface of the bedclothes. Debbie, however, was fully conscious when her face, bug-eyed and gasping for breath, finally vanished from view. Her outstretched hand was the last part of her to disappear.

When the sun rose, not a trace of Marshall or Debbie remained, except for their clothes and luggage on the floor. Birds sang melodically outside, greeting the new day. The morning was peaceful. The bed had had its breakfast.

I drive her up the mountain in my parents’ borrowed minivan. The summit promises a beautiful view over the entire city, and possibly a beautiful view of what’s under her bra. We hold hands as I drive up the switchbacks. The precariousness of the drive doesn’t even enter my mind as I glance over at her. It feels like love is starting to bloom, and her gorgeous low-cut blouse, her slim white neck, and her big lips and big eyes make me feel a longing of such intensity and passion that I need to suck in a breath of air. We reach the summit, and park the cars on the overlook. We feel like we’re in the 1950s, with a love just innocent enough to make what we’re about to do seem rebellious but not quite licentious.

“What’s your favorite star?” she asks, staring at the sky through the windshield.

“That one,” I reply, pointing at Venus.

“Is that a star or a planet?” she asks naïvely.

“I don’t know.” My reply is equally naïve.

We talk of the universe, of life, of love, of the future, of the past. We talk of all those things lovers talk about. I start kissing her and she starts kissing me back. We are clumsy, but passions boil underneath. Eventually, lost in each other, we start removing each other’s shirts. I fumble at her bra, and eventually get it off. I stare down at her breasts and notice that where the left nipple should be, instead there is a honeycomb of a dozen or so tiny cavities, each the size of a pencil eraser, each with a parasitic maggot firmly entrenched in its home.

Her eyes match the color of the bright blowtorch flame. A pale blue illuminating the basement, each one of her pupils following the inner cone of the vivid burst.

They say that acetylene burns at close to 6,300 degrees Fahrenheit. When the pencil-thin flame hits skin, the nerve endings curl and die immediately, leaving the person with the feeling of ice cubes slithering down his or her back.

She can tell this is coming, and she cries. I stroke her dirty blonde hair and wipe the discharge from her eyes. My brown gloves must feel rough on her cheeks.

When I turn her chair around, she sees the setup in front of me. The surgical tools gleam against the single drop of moonlight peeking in through the basement window. Mosquitoes gather outside, a congregation on this summer night.

Inside, I lean against the wall. She continues to cry.

Spending a night alone with one of God’s mistakes is something she’ll remember forever. It’ll be something she’ll see beyond the darkness for the rest of her life.

I switch off the valve and take a deep breath. Bringing the end towards her face, I let each of her eyes feel the warmth around the tube. She tries to shout.

With a smile, I turn on the valve and let the toothy splintering flame dance in front of her.

Ice cream, I tell her. Think of a popsicle, baby.

“Hi, are you alone?” whispered a voice by my side, and the walls of the coffin suffocated my shrieks.

I live in your cupboard, hidden among your clothes. I sleep during daytime, one of my heads leaning onto your old slippers, my body hanging from a plastic hanger. At night I wake up and spy you from the inside, through the crack of the door your mother leaves open. I know you know I live here, I know you’ve told your parents a lot of times.

I hate you just for that.

For you discovered me.

I’d like to go out and tear you to pieces with my teeth, to make you pay what you owe me for your betrayal.

But I won’t do it. I hide among your clothes and wait, as I always did, suffering my fear in silence.

Because I’m not lurking; I’m skulking.

I’m skulking from the monster that lives under your bed.

I’ve installed a whole surveillance system in my house. I screen everywhere, from the front door to the bathroom. Thirty two cameras placed with the precision of a clock man, always moving, always recording.

I edit all the records, and then watch them. While I do it, the cameras keep on rolling.

Yesterday I saw again the other man standing by my bed, in one of the tapes. I can’t see his face; despite I’ve taken shots from several angles. Why does he only appear in the records? Why can’t I see him?

I ignore his identity, but I need to know.

Pretty soon.

Today, on revising the camera of the living-room, I’ve discovered him sitting by my side in the sofa. And he has leaned his arm on my back while we were watching the tapes.

I entered the shop to take shelter from the rain of boiling blood and saw a crowding mass of demons from different clans in its interior.

“Demons,” I murmured, more an oath than anything else.

A black elf, eyes as red as burning coal, came closer to me.

“I guess, like this whole bunch of loafers, my dear sir won’t be buying a damn thing,” he whispered with its bifid tongue.

“On the contrary, poor little fiend,” I answered. “Truth is I was looking for an umbrella.”

The elf smiled, showing its perfectly sharpened teeth, and led me to a showcase. There laid a beautiful human-skin-made umbrella, its ribs created out of shinbones and fibulae, a femur its handle.

“It will scarcely cost you a few souls, and yet it is maximum quality,” he rustled.

I nodded, then signed a bill with my blood, and, after taking the umbrella, I left towards the street. On opening it, a squeal of pain came to my ears. Surprised, I turn around and my eyes met the elf’s.

“I suppose you wouldn’t have thought we made them with dead people, would you? I told you its quality was the highest,” he whispered.

“You are plenty right indeed,” said I, and went on walking about Hell pinching occasionally the skin of the umbrella, just to hear it moaning anew.