MicroHorror

Mother says it began when I was very young. I cried so much that she thought she’d go insane. At first, room-temperature milk seemed to calm me. Sometimes, still, it will do, as its taste is so close to that of blood.

When milk no longer worked she moved on to animals. She couldn’t kill them herself, being the sensitive woman she is. She discovered that I preferred them alive. Sure, dead they offered the nourishment of congealing blood, and life is still in the blood. But alive! Oh, the life force they contained! I remember as far back as a toddler, holding the kittens, puppies, frogs, birds, whatever Mother found. I remember feeling their terror, feeling their struggle as the life force left them and fed me. I remember the satisfied feeling once their bodies went limp in my arms and they became a part of me forever. Their screams and whimpers serve as my lullaby at night.

I remember the satisfied feeling of allowing Mother to join me in that same way. Now she’s always with me. She even speaks to me sometimes. Usually she’s not very nice. She doesn’t understand that, now that I’m an adult, smaller prey doesn’t satisfy the hunger. Sometimes she pleads with me not to hunt. She cries for those that will suffer eternal torment at my hands. She doesn’t understand that I am the way, the path to eternal life is within me.

Tonight she simply wails. She knows I will feed.

One stormy fall afternoon, my whole class had to stay after school to finish our work. We were working so hard that before we knew it, the stormy day became a dark and spooky night. Finally, our slave-driving teacher gave us permission to go home. Little did we know, it was too late. The janitor had already gone home and locked the doors for the evening. Even the windows were bolted shut! As we wandered hopelessly through the hallways, we began to hear noises coming from somewhere in the school basement. All of the kids in my class, even the tough ones, started to panic. Our teacher tried to make us feel better and suggested that noises were just coming from the pipes. That seemed like a possibility; after all, our school was built over fifty years ago.

We decided to make our way back to the classroom when the noises started getting louder. They sounded like footsteps. I slowly turned around only to find myself face-to-face with about ten zombies. I guess I wasn’t the only one who saw them because pretty soon all of the kids were screaming too. We turned around and bolted down the hall in the other direction. There wasn’t any way out of the school so we spread out like lost rats hoping to find a safe place to hide. James and I went into the science lab while Johnny ducked into a broom closet. “We’re trapped!” yelled James. “We’re goners!” shrieked Johnny from inside the closet.

We stayed hidden for what seemed like forever. Finally we decided to make our way back into the hall, to look for the rest of the kids in our class. The minute we set foot in the dark and deserted hallway, another zombie appeared.. He seemed to be running right at us. Even in the dimly lit hall, we could see that he had some kind of glowing, yellow slime oozing out of his mouth and dripping down his chin. I grabbed James and Johnny and we started running as fast as we could down the stairs toward the cafeteria. I tripped about halfway down. When I got up, there was a zombie standing right in front of me. He handed me a cup full of what looked like the same slime that was now pouring out of his mouth. “Taste!” demanded the zombie. I hesitated for a minute. “Taste!” he shouted. I was afraid to make him angry so I did… and it was delicious! The slime turned out to be nothing but tapioca pudding!

Walking down the sidewalk, you’re on your way home from work. You step a quick, lively pace. Running late, you start to think about dinner: beef or chicken? Kids are at your mother’s, so maybe a couple steaks would be nice. Bottle of wine, a few candles… you smile to yourself and brush a lock of hair out of your eyes. Your only worry is at which store to stop.

You never know he’s there until he’s a breath behind you. You see only the flash of metal; you gasp, then his right hand, hot and grimy, covers your mouth, and a sharp knife is pressed to your throat. He pulls you backward into a darkened alley, the only light coming from behind curtains on a fourth-story window. You stagger back to keep up; you feel cold, curving metal shiver on your throat. Panic rises and you grab at his hands, but he grunts and deliberately jerks the knife. The tip of the blade, bent almost to a fishhook, jumps and rips a neat little hole in the side of your neck. You cry out through his meaty fingers and try to lean away. But the knife tip is touching on the right, and his head presses into the left. Tears come as you realize: you’ve nowhere to go.

His grip shifts only slightly, to better hold you with the knife. Hot breath smells sour as he pants in your ear. His right hand comes down, yanking your arms down with it. Fear drives you now, and you beg.

“Please, no,” you whimper, your body stiffening. His rough tongue licks the side of your neck; his right hand grabs your breast and squeezes. “You can have my purse, just please don’t–”

He growls in frustration and jerks the blade up again, harder this time. You wail, pressing your head back, but his shoulder catches you. Not just a dot now, there is a short, vertical line on your skin that burns white-hot. Weeping, your hands ball into loose fists and you pray for release. Fear begins to ebb as despair gently settles in.

His right hand darts down to lift your skirt and yank down your panties; you hear a zipper. You take one last moment to steel yourself–then he slams into you, rough and fast. You bite your lip rather than cry out again. He pushes again, three times, four, five… Finally you feel him pull out. Relief blossoms, temporarily damping both fear and despair. At least it’s over, you think.

But the instant before he releases you, the knife streaks back in a practiced, circular motion. Knees weak, you drop to the ground and your hand comes up to your neck. A long line burns fiercely, and your hand comes away wet. You stare up at your attacker, seeing for the first time that he wears not rags, as you assumed, but a rumpled yet expensive suit. Instead of filthy and disgusting, he is handsome and stylish.

He stares down at you and your eyes lock. Still panting, he watches intently as you collapse to your elbows, clutching your bleeding throat. He made sure to catch both arteries, so it won’t be long. Despair rears its ugly head one last time as blackness creeps in at the edge of your vision. Blood–your life–drips from the knife he still grips in his left fist. His eyes are black pools, reflecting nothing but madness, and his lips part into a slight smile.

You’re sprawled full-length now–not even your arms will work. Your hand falls limply next to your cheek. You meet his eyes and manage only a whisper: “Why?” His answer–”Because I can”– follows you down as your eyes quiver shut and you breathe your last.

And me? Doesn’t matter–you didn’t know I was there until I was a breath away.

What an idiot. What a fucking idiot. He doesn’t know I can hear him talking to himself. He’s more upset that his cleaning lady and sure fuck is dead than he is about me. Listen to him. If he calls me a slut one more time I swear I’ll rip his heart out. I’m going to do that anyway, just not yet.

And look at the dress he put me in. Baby blue and down to my fucking ankles like I’m some kind of bible-thumping Baptist. Fucking idiot. I hope his heart is still beating when I rip it out of his chest. That way the blood will pump right inside me. Better than your momma’s tit.

I can’t wait to get this stupid dress off. That’s it, dumb fuck; here I come.

It all seems very peaceful. They say it’s supposed to be peaceful, but I don’t know. How would I know; she’s the one that’s dead. All I do know is that sweet ass is gone and now I’m going to have to find some other worthless slut to dump a load into. What is that noise? They have mice in funeral homes too? Didn’t think there would be anything good to eat in a funeral home. What do I know? Stupid slut. You think she could have cleaned the fucking house before she decided to up and fucking die.

Robert. Oh, Robert.

What, now I’m hearing things? Please.

Robert, I hate this dress, Robert.

I swear it’s her voice. But it’s in my head or something. Shut up. Stupid bitch. If she wasn’t such a good lay I’d have put her ass out years ago and now I hear her fucking voice in my head. She’s dead. Dumb slut.

I’m coming, Robert.

I’d be coming too if you hadn’t died. Right in your ass. You wouldn’t let me but I always wanted to. Said that wasn’t natural, even animals don’t do that. I could do it now, though.

Okay, Robert. Do it now. No one’s here. No one will ever know. They’re all gone. I’m going straight to the ground from here. Come on, do it.

I think I’m going to do it. No one is here. The director said she’d give me as much time alone as I needed. I’m going to do it. I hope they don’t lock these things. Christ, my dick’s hard. I swear I could break it open. Oh, too easy. Just a pair of thumb latches.

That’s it, Robert. Close now. It’s going to feel so good. I won’t tell.

Man, is she cold. I kind of like the pale skin, though. I’m going to hate messing up her hair, but who’s going to know. Now I just have to get that dress higher.

Closer, closer. That’s it.

Robert didn’t expect the hand that shot up with those sharp nails that crammed through his clothes, flesh and bones, then deep into his chest. The oh-shape his mouth formed was about a tenth of the size of the hole that was now in his chest. She could hear his last thoughts as his bowels unloaded: Why am I coming? I didn’t even get her dress up.

With her mouth wrapped around the veins of Robert’s heart, she let his blood flow straight down her throat. Better than your momma’s tit. When it emptied she took his wrist and cut deep into the vein with her sharpened teeth and sucked till he was dry. A little more work without the heart to help out but certainly worth the effort. Fucking idiot.

They’ll never know it’s him; all dead bodies weigh the same, don’t they? Now, about this dress.

The darkness always soothes my soul.
Blackness is an unfulfilling hole.
Life is full of dark little secrets.
Skeletons crawl out of my closets.
There are monsters lurking under my bed.
Wait, I think that they might be in my head.
The voices won’t stop, they are calling me.
They are begging me to go on another spree.
They won’t take me alive this time.
I would rather die before I commit another crime.
Today was the last day; the voices have stopped their play.
The bullet in my head has made them go away.

The door opened and the stench of the dead arose in the emptiness of the house. Dead love, that is. There is nothing worse in life than the stench of a love that has died. The odor is so overwhelming that you could taste the pain in the pit of your stomach. How does love come to such a revolting end? There are many ways that it might happen. Love between people is so overrated, and taken for granted. It starts out sweet and beautiful, in some cases. But the ending effect is always the same. Rotting and disposable love is always in the lives of those foolish enough to think any different. What is love, anyway? A feeling that will make you have a desire for something that makes you feel exhilarated. Yeah, for a little while, just to have it ripped away from you like a carnivorous, bloodthirsty animal. Love never lasts, not forever. Life will give you love, and death will take it away. Love is never fair, in any situation. It sounds great for a while, sometimes a really long time. But it will always end tragically. In some way or another. For those lucky enough to feel the love of someone, they should feel blessed. I feel sorry for them when it is dead and gone. Forever.

A sickening crunch. A searing bolt of agony. Delilah fell onto the kitchen floor, sending her coupons flying with a single reflexive sweep of her arm. She had never felt such pain. It raced like fire up and down her spine and sent needles of torment through her limbs. She wanted to scream, but couldn’t find her breath. A crack, and another spasm. Her eyes bulged as she twitched and writhed on the linoleum. Blood began to well up in her mouth. Another crunch, and all sensation began to fade into an icy anesthesia. She couldn’t feel her arms or legs. Her vision turned to blackness, and as she died her lips silently formed the name of her young son. James…

Outside the house, James hummed a tuneless melody as he skipped across the fragmented sidewalk tiles towards home.

Mama always had a love for other people’s possessions. When she came over for a fried chicken dinner with Stanley and me September 10, 1945, we knew she’d want the best parts of the bird.

“Now, Stanley,” she said, “when you kill that chicken, leave a generous neck bone.”

“Sure will, Winnie,” said Stanley, grinning his best son-in-law smile.

Stanley Carlsen aimed to please. This time, however, his aim was off. Stan removed most of Andy’s head, which he placed in a jar. However, the brain stem, which controls a chicken’s reflexes, remained attached.

“Girls! Come on out here and take a look at this ol’ bird! There must be a blood clot or somethin’ or he’d be dead.” Stanley regarded the chicken, which was runnin’ around like a chicken with its head cut off. Mama and me, hearing the commotion, joined Stan in the yard, standin’ by the stump used for killin’ chickens. In the background: a bloody headless chicken, runnin’ from back yard to back yard, wings a-flappin’.

“What the hell is goin’ on, Stanley?”

“Mabel, I don’t rightly know what to tell you. I just know I ain’t gonna kill this particular rooster. I tried, but he’s got nine lives. It’s a wonder! I’m callin’ him Amazing Andy, the Wonder Chicken. I’ll kill us another chicken for dinner tonight.”

Stanley got me and Mama into the act, helpin’ feed Andy with an eye-dropper. We cleared his esophagus and gave him grain and water. I’d say Andy had an eye for the ladies, ‘cept he didn’t have no eyes. The ladies… chickens, I mean… liked him. He was in the hen house doin’ his thing ten times a day, which just proves that bein’ different don’t mean you can’t have a fulfillin’ life.

Word got around quick that we had a chicken with no head livin’ in our backyard in Boonesville, servicin’ hens and actin’ normal. (As normal as you can be with no head, that is.) Crowin’ early in the mornin’ was out. It’s hard to crow when your head’s sittin’ in a jar; Andy was never much of a crower, anyway.

Town reporter Gayle Begley from the Boonesville Times did a story on Andy. Stories in Time and Life headlined “Amazing Andy: The Wonder Chicken.”

We took out an insurance policy on Andy for $10,000 and hit the road. New York. Atlantic City. Los Angeles. People was willin’ to pay hard-earned money to see Andy. Times was tough and cash was scarce.

Mama said she’d like Andy to sleep in her room at night, “to make sure he’s all right.” This seemed kind of dumb, since it was because of Mama that Andy had no head in the first place. Me and Stan humored her; after all, she was helpin’ us keep the books.

The tour was lucrative, as headless chicken tours go.

It wasn’t until Chicago that we noticed money missin’.

“Mama,” I said, “do you know what happened to Amazin’ Andy’s money?” Mama didn’t answer. The look on her face said it all.

We started to watch Mama close, since she always had a love for other people’s possessions. Amazing Andy, the Wonder Chicken was our chicken, whether he had escaped bein’ her Sunday dinner or not, and Amazing Andy’s money was our money.

We was barely speakin’ by tour’s end. Thousands of dollars disappeared. Only a couple hundred dollars left when we got home to Boonesville.

One night, late, back home, I was sleepin’ when I heard a commotion. Shades of September 10th, I thought that Stan was killin’ another rooster. I heard the sound of the axe on the stump. I could see the blood flyin’, in my mind’s eye.

There was screamin’, though. Chickens don’t scream when you’re killin’ them. They just flap their wings and run around with blood flyin’ off their severed necks.

A chicken can live without its head. But a 210-pound woman?

Not a chance.

Psychiatric Report #1: November 3, 2005, Dr. Fiona Higgins: Ten-year-old Caucasian female seated on the grass outside remote Tualatin, Oregon, cabin rocking and humming to herself. Mother, father, eight-year-old brother dead for ten hours. Survivor in shock. Police tracing license plates to determine identity of the victims.

After the trace, the police realized that this family was famous.

The Reynolds family: Gina and Thomas Reynolds, their ten-year-old daughter, Adrienne, and her eight-year-old brother Phillip; Adrienne kidnapped by a bizarre cult, but rescued. Soon, TV news shows were doing specials on her return.

“What was it like in the hills, Adrienne? Were you frightened? Were you tortured?” Diane Bennett, blonde hair perfectly coiffed, shot Adrienne an intense gaze. Diane was about as smart as the ubiquitous birds.

After her return, Adrienne’s flute lessons resumed. Weekly visits to a psychiatrist began. The family thought that a week in their remote family log cabin would protect them from the media frenzy.

Now, Adrienne’s entire family had faded to black.

Courtroom proceedings: a strange tale emerged. The leader of the Manson-like “family”, Bernard Burkin, High Priest of the cult testified.

“I am the Chosen One. All who believeth in me shall be saved.” Bernard was as coherent and attractive as a dung beetle. Deranged. Grungy. Unshaven. Semi-hysterical.

“Sit down, Bernie,” said bailiff Hank Adams. “If you don’t sit down and shut up, the judge’ll make you watch the proceedings on closed-circuit TV.”

Bernard sat down, rocked to and fro in his chair, while drawing pictures of birds.

Burkin’s “other” wife, Lila, smiling dully, shed no light on the bizarre world where the three foraged for food in garbage cans, wandering like nomads, dressed in Burkha-like garments. “Bernard is The One. We must do Bernard’s bidding.”

“Right, Lila,” Hank said.

Many times Adrienne had almost been rescued. Now, Adrienne wasn’t talking. She hummed the hymn “On Eagle’s Wings” over and over.

“I shall lift you up where eagles soar,” shrieked the ragged Burkin. “I know the ways of the eagles. I command the skies. They will lift us up. We must follow the birds!”

Bernie was ushered off, stage left, for his dose of thorazine.

“Come on, Thoreau.” Hank, the bemused bailiff, led Bernie out the door. “Next stop: Walden Pond.”

The shackled prisoner shuffled from the packed courtroom, head down, eyes glazed.
It got even weirder after a visit to the cult’s site. Birds in nests. Birds flying. Birds on tree limbs. Everywhere, birds. Beady eyes. Sharp beaks. Angry talons. Some eagles stuffed, wings outstretched, flying into infinity.

Psychiatric Report #2: November 5, 2005: Following is the text of the conversation with Adrienne Reynolds three days after her discovery:

Dr. Higgins: “Adrienne, can you hear me? Can you tell me what happened?

“The birds got mad.”

“About what, Adrienne?”

“I fixed it. I made it better. Mr. Burkin said I had to, so I did it.”

Rocking, humming. Eyes glazed.

“I told them to come build the nest.”

“What nest?”

“The nest on the chimney. When we die, the birds will take us to Jesus. I wanted us all to be with Jesus in Heaven. Mr. Burkin said, ‘Only your parents and Phillip go now. You later.’ I wanted to go with Mommy and Daddy and Phillip to see Grandma and Grandpa Reynolds in Heaven. Mr. Burkin said I have to wait to go to Heaven. He said it wouldn’t hurt, so I did it. I said the words Mr. Burkin taught me. I’ll see Mommy and Daddy and Phillip in Heaven soon.”

Adrienne smiled a strange secret smile. “I told the birds where to find us. The eagles will take me. They will lift me up on eagle’s wings.”

Police Autopsy Report, November 7, 2005: The Reynolds family died of accidental carbon monoxide poisoning. An eagle’s nest blocked the stone fireplace. The sole survivor, Adrienne Reynolds, has been incoherent since the event. She is receiving psychiatric counseling for her delusional condition.

The small jet sat on a private runway in a major European city. Its side was painted with letters twelve feet high that read “Apogee.” Over the final “e” a huge pair of red lips kissed the air. The inside of the jet was dominated by a large bar ringed with overstuffed reclining seats. There were five of these seats with plenty of room around each of them. Crammed into small spaces in the front and rear of the plane were several standard airplane seats. The overhead compartments were specially fitted as guitar racks. The sound system incorporated amplifiers worthy of a large theater. The cockpit was exceedingly small and there was no galley other than the fully outfitted bar.

This was the flying den of the super-group Apogee, who were setting out on their first world tour since their original bassist was cured of agoraphobia and rejoined the band. Now the original members numbered four, their first lead guitarist having been ousted from the band early in their legendary career. Shortly after his dismissal the unlucky would-be guitar god was incarcerated in a state run asylum where he was found dead within weeks. His death was ruled a suicide and the band continued on for thirty years with his replacement.

The copilot entered the tiny cockpit and gave a surprised look to the man sitting in the pilot’s seat; this was not Bernie, the band’s usual pilot. “So, who are you, then?” he asked.

“Replacement,” the man murmured. “Seems Bernie had a late night with your lads at the farewell party last night.”

Mac, the copilot, nodded; he knew of Bernie’s tendencies. He glanced down at the name tag on the front of the new pilot’s uniform. It read “B. Smith” but Mac didn’t attach any meaning to the name.

“Brought you a coffee,” the new pilot said and Mac drank it down gratefully as they waited for the band’s handlers to round up the band members and load them into the plane. Soon Mac was in a deep slumber, strapped into his seat behind the locked door of the cockpit.

Once the band was loaded into their recliners and some hair of the dog administered to them, the plane took off and started its route over the North Pole to Canada. Somewhere over the Arctic circle, the pilot left his seat. He emerged through the locked cockpit door and walked to the bar. He poured himself a large measure of whiskey as his astonished one-time bandmates stared in terror. “Here’s to the end of the line, mates,” he saluted them and downed the whiskey. Then he turned to mist and vanished through the top of the jet plane.

Two months later an expedition funded by the band’s more rabid fans located the jet’s remains on top of the world.