MicroHorror

Franz was never told what country the prison was in. He was in a nightclub with a girl in Munich, things were going well, and then she pulled a weapon on him. She called five men in riot gear from another room, who bound and gagged Franz. He was driven in a windowless vehicle for eight hours or so, to some stone structure in the mountains. His cell was small and dank and wet, with no cellmate. There was one small window, which was so inset in the wall that sunlight never entered the cell. There was a small bed, and a bucket, and once a week Franz was bound and gagged while guards emptied the bucket. He could hear echoes of other prisoners, but they all spoke Russian and Franz spoke no Russian. The only person he could communicate with was the guard who fed him. He spoke German, with a Romanian accent. He slid Franz a daily bowl under a slot in the floor, and every once in a while he would tell Franz a joke. The jokes were bad but they became the highlight of Franz’s life. Franz never knew how much he wanted, needed human contact. He craved it almost as much as his daily bowl of blood. 

Five hunters each paid $5,000 to kill a zebra, and without leaving Michigan. A small zoo has closed, and the animals sold off. A local hunting lodge bought the zebras. The zebras were in a fenced-off area of 120 acres. As the hunters lifted the barbed wire to enter the zebra pen, a young man rode over on an ATV. A beer cooler was strapped to the back. The young man said his dad owned the ranch, and he wanted to make sure the hunters got the best experience possible. It was 8:00 A.M., but they were on vacation, so they all put their rifles down and helped themselves. The men recounted their memorable shoots. All had bagged deer, ducks and geese. Two of them had been to Africa. One of them had killed a crocodile in Australia. The young man asked if this was going to be a difficult shoot. No, the hunters all said, these animals were accustomed to humans. But it was still a chance to bag a zebra. The young man said, “I heard they drug the animals for these hunts sometimes.” Yeah, sometimes, the hunters responded, but of course these five were skillful enough to bag sober zebras. There’s no sport in shooting drugged animals. “Well, I guess I don’t think of it as a sport,” the young man said, pulling out a handgun and firing. The men were too drunk to grab their rifles and retaliate.

Her ear would not pop! Alisha in 23F had tried to ignore the whole flight by keeping her window closed and doing a couple Sudokus, but now that the plane was descending this was too much. It was like someone was blowing up a balloon in her right ear! Nothing was stopping it! She had gum to chew as soon as the pilot said they were beginning descent. She chewed and chewed, working her jaws and swallowing, working her jaws and swallowing, but it didn’t help. This hurt! She pinched her nose again, blew through it until the air came out the tear ducts of her eyes. No good! She closed her eyes tight, kept the hand pinching her nostrils, and blew again. The pressure built and built in her head, began hissing out of her equalized left ear, but just caused more throbbing in the right. After fifteen seconds of daring, she let go of her nostrils. She needed a release valve! She jabbed a finger in her ear. Maybe her French wrap would reach the key spot. She pulled it out in pain. There was a lot of swelling in the whole ear, and it hurt like hell, but even her nail was too big to get at the sore spot directly. She took the pencil from her Sudoku. She was crazy for doing this, but she just couldn’t go on with this ear! She gently inserted it into her ear, very slowly, not wanting to do anything but make a tiny pinprick. The plane hit a storm cloud head on, jarring it like an amusement park ride. Alisha might have noticed the dark cloud if her window was open. She didn’t notice anything now. The pencil rested with the eraser on the closed window screen, the tip deep within Alisha’s brain. A hissing sound came from her eardrum.

The man had died three days ago, but the vampire within him had just woken. It was dark. He was lying in a coffin. Some sort of metal, with silk overtop. His family spent a lot of money on his burial. They’d be the first people he killed. He had been so worried the night he was attacked, but he was just ignorant. He had been ignorant his whole life, doing so much work for other people’s benefits. All that time wasted on his vile, burdensome family would be paid back in blood. He pushed his arms to the coffin lid. It wouldn’t give. Six feet of earth had some weight to it, apparently. Not to worry; the vampire could feel a new strength in his limbs, the strength of several men. He’d force the lid open, let his new self dominate the world above. He lunged at the coffin lid, to the best leverage a prone body could, and heaved at the lid with all his might. But the lid didn’t budge. Curse it, he had a new life to live on the surface, lives to destroy! He felt around the edge of the coffin, trying to pry it open an inch. The edges were welded shut. His family did this! They would pay for this! Their deaths would be slow, drawn out over days… if he could figure a way out.

The stars were shining bright last night. The cool air was soothing on my skin. I sat outside of my tent on a reclining chair, relaxing, as I gazed into the starry sky. The stars were all arranged in their own personal space, they were all positioned in the sky as if to tell a story.

There was no wind, the air was calm and peaceful, and the wilderness seemed so peaceful, at the moment. The fire that we had built earlier was still blazing strong, and the warmth was welcoming. My friend was off gathering some more wood, to feed the fire. He had been gone for quite a long time, now that I think about it. It shouldn’t have taken that long… gathering wood…

As I stood there alone, relaxing, watching the falling stars… wait, now that I think about it, they were more like shooting stars. And I remember there being so many of them. They were awesome, it was almost like watching a fireworks show… only the fireworks were shooting down to the earth, instead of up into the sky. I watched mesmerized, and I just remember thinking how much I wished my friend would have enjoyed the show with me…but where the hell was he?

I started to get nervous and worried about my buddy’s welfare. I got up and looked around the campsite; it was so dark that I could barely see 20 feet outside of the fire’s glow. I started to walk outside of the campsite. I walked through a little pathway that we came through to get where we were staying.

It was dark except for the starlight from the sky. I didn’t even grab a flashlight; how crazy that seems, who goes out on a search without a flashlight? Especially in the middle of the wilderness, with no light, except from the sky… that seemed to light up the world, unbelievably bright, which was unusual. I looked up into the sky… and I was amazed at how many stars were shooting down from the sky. This didn’t seem to be normal.

Then something really strange happened. I was looking at the sky, as I also walked along calling my friend’s name…then it seemed as if part of the sky had been blacked out, and it was in a circular shape. Wow, what the hell, I remember thinking to myself, this is too damn weird. Then I had gotten goose bumps and chills shot up my spine, because I had just realized that I was alone…

I panicked and started to run now, this was really starting to give me the creeps. I was running and I tripped, and I fell into a puddle, and the ground was hard and cold. But as I was pushing myself up from the ground, I looked down, and by my hands there was this insect-looking type of creature. It looked wormlike, but I knew that it wasn’t a worm. It had eyes and facial characteristics that didn’t seem normal. I even think that it blinked at me. Ewww… that really freaked me out, so I started to run and call out for my friend. And as I was running, I tripped over a mound of slime, and fell hard to the ground once again. To my horrific surprise, I realized that the mound of slime, was indeed my friend… all that was left of him was an empty sack of flesh.

My eyes widened with fear, as I became hysterical and ran screaming. I was not aware of my surroundings and had no reason to care at that particular moment. I just ran and it seems I ran out of luck. I tripped over a rock, and hit my head. Needless to say, I was out.

My brother is oblivious to how serious the situation is. He thinks it’s a game. I tug his hand to hurry him but his feet only shuffle. We have to run. Word reached us that they were coming. Time to move to a safer place.

I wish I had his mind, a seven-year-old trapped in a man’s body. Life would be so much simpler. I’m glad he doesn’t understand and I’m glad he’s not afraid.

We burst into an abandoned house on an unfamiliar street and I rush him upstairs. Giggles come from over his shoulders. I will miss that sound. There is a wardrobe in the bedroom and I tell him to get inside and be quiet. He is good and does as he is told. I guard it, singing nursery rhymes to him, until I hear them coming upstairs, moaning and hungry for flesh. I scream and throw myself to them. I pray my brother will stay quiet.

Mommy said there was no such thing as monsters. Mommy was wrong. The Monsters shot Mommy while she screamed downstairs. Timmy had heard her screams stop, even as his younger sister squealed in terror in one of their arms. They had shot Timmy too… at least everyone thought they had. Who’d have thunk those Happy Poppy books could stop a gun? Timmy didn’t. When the bullet struck the book and drove it into his chest, he thought he was dead. People always die when they get shot, no matter what the movies say. That’s what Daddy said. Guess he was wrong too. He shot one of them back… Timmy heard the Monster laugh… (oh god! That laugh…) It was the same voice that said something about “only the innocent one will work…” Wasn’t Timmy innocent? Couldn’t they have taken him instead of little Cindy? Was this about cute little Mary Smith back in 5th grade? (oh Jeez… Mary… I’m so sorry…) Please, Timmy thought as the grinning Monster left and the frowning one pointed her shiny gun at him. Please let her go… Take me! I’m 15, she’s only 7. I’m a much better worker, Daddy says so. All she’ll do is cry a lot. Hear that? She’s started already. Please, take me! Please? It’s me you want. I’m the one you want. The Monsters always take the bad ones. I’m the one that was Bad. Not her. Please? Not her… Please?

…

They found her body in an empty building after the riots had started to calm down, finally. Timmy cried for three days straight while hiding in a burned-out building, after hearing the news.

…

Mommy was wrong. Maybe she lied when she said there were no Monsters. Maybe she just didn’t know. Or didn’t remember, having worked so hard to convince Timmy and Cindy that they didn’t exist except in stories made to frighten people. But no matter why, or how, Mommy was wrong.

The Bad People were all around you. The Monsters walked among everyone. Timmy could see them now… He knew. The Monsters were real. And he would not be afraid of them again.

Lawrence stabbed the “Stop” button on his tape recorder with a nicotine-stained index finger and absentmindedly rubbed his forehead with his left hand.

Fuck all, this made no sense.

Two months ago, his sister Laura shows up in the county morgue, the victim of a brutal murder. The prime suspect was her shit of a worthless husband. Lawrence had warned her multiple times that he was just like Martin (Father, you mean?). Schizophrenia coupled with multiple compulsive and disassociative disorders, classic sexual predator. And Laura had fallen right into his world of shit like she’d been born into it, mostly because she had…

But… I mean… Fuck! How could he have done that to her? How could anyone even remotely sane have done that?

The idea that Harold had molested and abused little Sarah almost made Lawrence sick to his stomach, but it was unfortunately no surprise. Even less surprising were Sarah’s pervasive and insistent denials of Harold’s involvement in her mother’s death. Lawrence wanted to dismiss her claims of a monstrous Boogeyman as a classic denial syndrome. (because there’s no Monster like Daddy Monster, right?) But how the hell could Harold have done that with two broken legs? Or even at the height of his strength? The facts just… damn it, they just didn’t make any damn sense.

But the D.A. didn’t need to mention all that to send Harold screaming like a lunatic off to his spot on death row. So Sarah came to live with her closest blood relative.

Good ol’ Uncle Larry.

Only Sarah called him Larry now. His buddies had called him that before he got on The Wagon. His first wife had also, but she was just as dangerous as the whisky she kept flowing to Lawrence. The second and third knew him only as Lawrence, the emotionally distant and controlled psychiatrist and recovering alcoholic. Work had become his new drug, and neither woman liked being analyzed the way Lawrence would.

So what the fuck did he know about raising a child? Nothing, that’s what. He sure as hell hadn’t received any nurturing as a child. But then, he’d gotten out… Right? He broke the cycle and knew how to look for the signs. He was certain that he would not let that seed take fruit in him. Sure, everything ever written about medical or psychological ethics said that self-diagnosis was the ultimate form of self-delusional narcissism. But Lawrence could avoid that trap. He could help Sarah. He could find out what really happened for her. He could help her get closure. Help find the Truth.

No matter what the cost.

The Litchfield Hills of Connecticut were the perfect place for a day hike. The rambling hills and dales were only an hour from New York City, and were labyrinthed with trails of various difficulties. When the city-world became too much for me, I drove out to a trailhead and hiked into the trees. That’s just what I had done today, and it had paid off. The sky was blue, the wind was mild, and the smell of burning autumn leaves hung in the air. I struggled up a steep trail to an overlook, where I collapsed on a limestone shelf. Eating a lunch of biscuits and berries, I relaxed, glad to be clear of the week’s work.

I pulled out a pair of binoculars and swept the countryside, over the hilltops and along the river valleys. A few hawks, some new construction on Mt. Riga, and… what was that? I could make out figures dancing in a farm-field below. They sang, sprinted wildly in every direction, and seemed to be having a fine party. A huge old bull stood nearby, chewing grass. Once every minute or so, one of the strange people darted up and caressed the animal. I raised my eyebrows. This was the problem with coming out here to Connecticut- the natives. “Hippies,” I snorted.

Then, as if spurred by my comment, they moved towards the bull one by one, then in a writhing mass, engulfed the beast. I muffled a cry. What were they doing? Fascinated, I scrabbled down the leafy hillside to get closer. In a few minutes I reached a lower outcrop and could see the people tearing meat off the bull, which seemed to be making no effort to stop them. They devoured the raw meat hungrily. I had the feeling that the bull was alive in each of them, though, throbbing with life. Bile rose in my throat, and I heaved my lunch onto the brown leaves.

A shout went up, and I saw someone pointing toward the hillside. Then the group of feasting citizens turned towards me and looked at me with the eyes of madness.

The Reverend Robert Donaldson wore rubber gloves as he blessed a baptismal font, turning it to holy water. The non-believers didn’t go to church, didn’t have a place for God in their lives–and their lives were eternally wanting because of it. They put their money into expensive condominiums, fancy electronics, all manner of personal possessions, and they were never satisfied with them. Couldn’t they see that this gaping hole, which was constantly being filled by $5000 TVs and $500 suede shoes, would never be filled by consumer possessions? Only through Christ would they find meaning. Reverend Robert had dedicated his life to baptizing others as the Lord’s children, and he couldn’t just let one person stumble into his church while the other 99 went to Hell unaware. He had to get creative. He was practical enough, however, to know that the police department probably would not see his creativity as the Lord’s work. So that was why he wore dark clothes and rubber gloves when blessing the baptismal font, which was also the sprinkler supply tank over a luxury condominium high-rise. He climbed down one story from the roof, went to the first penthouse sprinkler head he saw, and held a cigarette lighter over it. The lighter set the sprinkler off, raining holy water down on the penthouse floor, and trickling down to all other floors. All the electronics, rugs and clothing in the building would be ruined. But all the occupants would be baptized, and hopefully a few souls would be saved.