MicroHorror

Gail sat on the porch, stroking Sonar. He alone had survived the house-fire that had claimed her sister’s life on this same day three years ago. If only cats could talk, thought Gail, nuzzling Sonar just before he jumped into the night.

“Come back!” she called.

Leaves rustled as the neighbor boy emerged from the darkness. A cigarette dangled from his lips, the glowing embers of which turned in her direction. “Witch!”

She glared at him and entered her house. Sonar would return when hunger struck. She lay on the couch. Today also happened to be her wedding anniversary, though Steve would be working late. She drifted off, and from within the splintered fragments of her mind, a voice spoke. “The time draws near.”

“What time?” Gail asked.

“Seven o’clock.”

“Huh?” She opened her eyes. Steve was standing over her.

“Listen, Gail,” he was saying, “I found him that way on the road.”

The smell of perfume emanated from his clothes. She sniffed the air.

“Gail, are you listening? Your cat is in my car.”

She ran and flung open the passenger side door. Sonar lay broken and mangled on the floor. She hugged him, crying into his soft, black fur.

“I’m sorry.” Steve spoke from behind.

Gail turned.

“And… happy anniversary. I would have bought you flowers, but…” He shrugged.

She went to her bedroom and slammed the door, listening as Steve sweet-talked his girlfriend on the phone. She pictured their twisted bodies sweating in bed together, as hundreds of votives reflecting their deception erupted in an inferno. Gail rolled her head back and cackled.

Steve knocked. “Gail? You okay?”

She spoke through the door. “Who were you talking to?”

He cleared his throat. “No one. You know, I can buy you a new cat.”

She thought of death: white, faceless, blank. “Forget it.”

Silence echoed before his footfalls pattered away.

She lay back and an orange orb descended. “The time has come.”

She stood and fetched a canister from the closet before gliding across the lawn and splashing kerosene on the neighbor’s house. She lit a match and threw it. Flames erupted. The neighbor boy flung open a window: “Witch!”

His lips cracked open and blood flowed over his white t-shirt. She padded away, ignoring his screams. She set fire to her own garage and watched as Steve’s car burst into flames that spread to the house. She pictured him, snuggled up in the bed they’d never shared together, dreaming of his concubine.

“Burn, baby, burn!” she hissed.

His stricken face appeared in the window; comprehension dawned: “You witch!”

Her eyes were hollow as her lips parted to mouth three words: “Happy anniversary, Steve!”

Flames licked her nightgown and she cackled. Sirens wailed.

“Whose houses are those?” a fireman asked the cluster of neighbors.

“That one belongs to the witch,” one of the neighbors answered.

“There ain’t no such thing as witches,” someone countered him.

He turned to see who’d spoken but no one was there. He turned back and the fireman was gone, as were the trucks. The house across the street still smoldered. Goose bumps rose on his flesh as a black cat brushed his legs. He bent down to stroke it and read its gold-plated nametag which glinted in the glow of the street-lamp. “Sonar! Strange!”

He picked up Sonar and entered his house, where the flames from the gas stove he’d left on had already spread to the lace curtains.

“Oh, crap!” He fanned the flames with his hands, dropping Sonar in the process. He waved frantically even as his cotton shirt ignited and seared his flesh. He turned in circles, screaming in a panicked frenzy.

Sonar purred softly and trod over burning embers to escape into the night. His gold nameplate tinkled, announcing his mission to anyone astute enough to figure out that “Sonar” is an anagram for “Arson.”

• Copyright: © 2007 Pavelle Wesser

The Lord stood waiting on the dark plateau; his faithful servant sat close by tending a small fire. The early morning chill wind blew easily through his thin linen shirt–but he felt no cold. He could hear the screams of the innocent as they were slaughtered in their beds. He waited… he waited…

In the distance he could see a lone figure walking towards him with the unmistakable swagger of The Dandy. He felt the balance of his pistol and knew his aim would be true… but for him that was not the question this morn. The bloodied fiend stopped twenty paces from his foot.

He taunted The Lord; The Lord stood unwavering and seeing his enemy for the first time since he had created him from the darkness of his mind. He looked to the foul fellow and leveled his pistol; The Poet the same. The moments exchanged between them, The Lord waiting for his God-given pain.

The shot of The Dandy took him in the left shoulder. He took but a short time to compose himself, blood soaking into his apparel. He aimed true; his shot split his enemy’s skull asunder–to die like a man was to be his only honour. The Lord pushed his hand through his mane and beckoned his man shall follow…

…His lad rotted…. alone and without redemption.

• Copyright: © 2007 A D Dawson

Marv entered the darkened bar and ordered a shot. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed her.

“Hi,” he smiled.

She moved closer.

“My place is close,” he offered.

“Let’s go,” she said softly.

He grabbed her ice-cold hand, which caused his teeth to chatter, and took her to Justin’s place, where he was crashing. He was fortunate enough to have his own room, where he now sat beside her on the bed.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Samina,” she answered, then kissed him on the lips before removing her black dress, beneath which she wore nothing. Marv discarded his own clothes before succumbing to her commands. Later, he would recall being transported through a wormhole into the next phase of galactic evolution. He sifted through the cosmic sands as the quasar lay naked beside him. Huh?

His swollen eyes cracked open. His limbs ached and his head pounded. She lay beside him. “Could I use your address for some mail I’m expecting?”

“Sure.” Marv took the paper and pencil she offered and scribbled Justin’s address.

“Thanks.” She threw off the covers. Her dress was on. Embarrassed, he drew the sheets up to cover his nakedness. As soon as she left, he fell into a deep and soundless sleep.

***A month later, Marv returned to crash at Justin’s.

“You’re back.” Justin raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah.” Marv rubbed his stubble.

“Say,” said Justin. “Do you know someone named Samina?”

Marv flinched. “Why?”

“A letter arrived from the health clinic informing me that I’d contracted a deadly strain of venereal disease.”

The color drained from Marv’s face. “What?”

“Exactly, Marv. I’d never even visited a health clinic. So I looked at the envelope and saw it was addressed to Samina.”

“I…”

“After you left here, some green fungus was growing out of your bed. I bombed it with that crap from the hardware store.”

Justin stood and stepped toward Marv.

“Sorry, dude, I’m under strict orders to turn in anyone connected…”

“NO!”

Marv ran from Justin’s apartment. He raced through the streets toward the one place he’d sworn never to return. His mother sat at the kitchen table, nursing a martini. “Marvie?”

She wobbled toward him, arms outstretched.

“Don’t touch me!” he said. “I’m going to my room. I’m not well.”

“Whatever makes you happy, sweetie!” she slurred.

From his closet, Marv removed his favorite stuffed bear. He hugged it, rocking back and forth, as pain wracked his body. He closed his eyes against the bile that rose within him and finally spouted out in a torrential stream of vomit over the walls. Blisters foaming pus burst open on his flesh and his abdomen burned until his guts exploded. The last thing he saw was her shrewd gaze mocking him.

“Marvie?” When there was no answer, his mother opened the door… and screamed.

***She gulped a martini while choking back her tears. The doorbell rang.

“Who are you?” she asked the young woman.

“Samina, your son’s girlfriend.” Tears filmed her eyes. “I came to tell you I’m sorry.”

“That’s very kind,” said Marv’s mother. “Come in.”

“I can’t. I have to leave.”

“That’s too bad. We could’ve shared a martini.”

“It’s a little early. Actually, I have something to give you.”

“What?”

“Information regarding your son.”

Marv’s mother gasped.

“I’ll send you a letter which you should receive within two weeks.”

“An e-mail would be faster.”

“There is no e-mail where I’m going. Good-bye.”

“No. Please stay.”

Samina closed the door.

“Wait!”

Marv’s mother flung open the door but the young woman was gone. She returned to her kitchen, and, with shaking hands, prepared her next martini. It would be a strong one, as she was trying hard to ignore the voice inside her head–the one that told her she’d be dead by the time Samina’s letter arrived.

• Copyright: © 2007 Pavelle Wesser

“This is the one. I knew it when I first saw it.”

The Bride’s fingers caress the silk folds of the wedding Dress. The bodice rises and falls with each breath, molding around her delicate ribcage like skin. The skirt rustles with a whisper when she walks, but she can’t quite hear what it says. It shines with a light of its own, almost a living thing. All brides must feel this way about their dresses, she reasons.

Behind the Bride’s back, the Dressmaker takes the last pin from a seam. The Bride does not see that the white pins are hewn of bone.

“It’s as if it was made for you.” The Dressmaker’s gaze skims covetously over the young Bride’s dewy skin, the florid blush in her cheeks. “You’re absolutely beautiful.”

The Bride nods, believing, staring at her reflection. She feels dizzy; it must be her nerves. The color is draining from her face. “You don’t remember where the Dress came from?”

The Dressmaker shakes her head, dislodging a piece of gray hair from her chignon. “This Dress is a very old dress–one of a kind. You’re very lucky to have it.”

The Bride stumbles. The Bride’s mother hands the Bride a cup of water, and a bridesmaid steps in with make-up to mask her sudden pallor. The Dressmaker fades into the background of the wedding preparations.

Her work is done–she has sold her moment of beauty.

***Weeks later, the Bride brings the Dress back to the Dressmaker. Despite her Caribbean tan, the Bride is ashen. Her gums are white, and her sun-streaked hair is disintegrating in clumps. A web of lines spreads beneath her eyes.

The Dress has been folded into a box. The Dressmaker assures her that the Dress will be carefully preserved for the Bride’s daughters.

“Once it’s done, you can’t open the box,” the Dressmaker explains. “It will yellow right away.” She pats the Bride’s hand reassuringly as she leads her out the door. “I’ve done this thousands of times.”

The Dressmaker carries the box to the fitting room, crowded with pale, ghostlike dresses in plastic bags. She pulls the Dress from the box, shakes it out. It’s blindingly white, engorged in all the youth and vigor of the once-Bride.

Thin white filaments bristle up from the interior of the dress. Fine as hairs, they inquisitively taste the familiar air of the shop, moving as asynchronously as grass in a breeze.

The Dressmaker shrugs out of her suit, unfastens the back of the Dress and steps into it. The tendrils burrow into her skin, as they did the Bride’s. The dress molds around the Dressmaker’s body, as if it were made for her.

Of course it was. It’s her dress.

She breathes deep, as the Dress infuses her with that scalding whiteness of youth. The shadows under her eyes soften. Her gray hair darkens to chestnut. She can feel her skin growing taut.

The Dress drains out. The brilliance of the silk fades to a more ordinary white, and she can feel the tiny threads retracting into the fabric.

She steps out of the Dress and into her clothes. She glimpses her smooth reflection in the mirror. She is easily ten years younger, thanks to the Bride. She hangs the Dress beside the full-length mirror.

The Dressmaker tapes the empty preservation box shut. No one will look in the box for at least twenty years; the former Bride would be cold in the ground by within a month.

A jingle at the front of the shop alerts her to her next appointment. The Dressmaker leads a new Bride to the fitting area. Among the sea of pearly dresses, one stands out–the one hung beside the mirror. The Dress.

The Bride reaches out to touch it. It pulls her, like a star with its own gravity.

“This is the one,” she sighs. “The Dress.”

• Copyright: © 2007 Laura Bickle

imagine a man in the compartment of a Euro train
alone but for one other passenger

and imagine the other passenger slumping over
falling to the floor
and as the train lurches into a curve of track
blood spills from the seat
dripping on the malignantly wounded passenger

rushing to his assistance
the man immediately discovers that the passenger
is perforated with stab wounds
just barely breathing

he will signal for help
but the bleeding man admonishes him to stop
he is done for, the passenger explains
his only concern this kind man offering to help
after all, how will it look to the authorities
the two of them alone in the compartment
perhaps on the entire train so late in the evening
the passenger most likely dead
by the time the next station is reached

the situation overwhelms the man
without the passenger to corroborate events
who would believe that another assailant
an unknown third party
was responsible for this atrocity

there was only one thing to do
the passenger suggested
throw his body from the moving train
and most imperatively
before they reached the station
he would hate to die
knowing that he had condemned an innocent man
for a crime he did not commit

after the initial shock of the idea
and much protest–surely there was another way
the deed was sickeningly done
the man fleeing the train
as it rolled to a stop
losing himself in the city beyond

he was shocked
first thing next morning
when he read a newspaper account of a man
who had been attacked and severely knifed aboard a train
thrown from the speeding train apparently for dead

miraculously, the old man would survive
and equally important, could identify without any doubt
the perpetrator of this heinous crime
going into a lengthy detailed description of the culprit
giving with frightening effect a most vivid portrait
of this very man reading the newspaper

with an ever-present look over his shoulder
the man suddenly led the life of a fugitive
which was unbearable in itself
but what really bothered him over the days
as he moved from place to place, city to city
was that he was becoming increasingly unsure
that his perception of events was entirely accurate

perhaps the victim’s account was the reality…

• Copyright: © 1997 Alec Kowalczyk

When the drifter came upon the scarecrow,
he recognized a kindred spirit,
and so liberated the straw man
from the very field where it was crucified,
making it his soul companion on his travels.

Their first encounter was with a peddler,
his ancient truck overladen with sundry wares,
and when they asked him for a lift,
he nodded affirmatively but the scarecrow had to stay.
Outraged, the drifter tore him from the cab,
striking him in the head with a found rock–striking him again.
The dark liquid transfixed the drifter,
pulsing rhythmically out of the staved-in head,
like crude oil seeping back into the earth,
as no doubt the scarecrow was fascinated.

The second encounter was in a tavern
for much needed food and refreshment.
The proprietor noticed immediately
a mouse peeping out of the straw man’s blank eye socket,
and ordered the rodent-infested scarecrow removed at once.
Outraged again at this affront to his friend,
the drifter lashed out,
crowning one patron with a near-full flagon of lager,
spearing another with unerring accuracy in the heart with a meat fork,
making a fine mess of things–many injured, some fatally,
before he was finally subdued.

The most horrible thing the crowd noted
was the vacant look in the drifter’s eyes,
coupled to the bits of straw that stuffed his shirtsleeves,
and the locked grimace of his mouth.
Meanwhile, his companion was suddenly animated
by the appearance of a field mouse,
dangling its tail from the stitched-open,
permanent smile of the scarecrow.

• Copyright: © 1997 Alec Kowalczyk

Mary had gone mad. Those annoying little brats had finally driven her over the edge. Making the punishment fit the crime, she drove the school bus over the edge of the road and down a grassy knoll–part of the very park she was supposed to take them to. As soon as she went off road, her ears were assaulted by the immensely irritating sound of screaming teenagers.

“SHUT UP! GOD I HATE YOU! I HATE ALL KIDS BECAUSE OF YOU!” she screamed, crazed and short-fused.

She drove the bus though a craggy slit in the earth, a cave just wide enough to fit the school bus through. Not a full second later, the school bus hit the wall of the cave, killing everyone inside and sending several corpses through the windshield long enough for their blood to splatter against the earthy bulwark.

All around the park, trees and other plant life died suddenly.

***

Nine days later, two infants were found sleeping inside the cave. One was a baby boy, found in a corner holding a squirrel like a teddy bear. Strangely, the squirrel didn’t seem to mind. The other was a female, who was found napping with one hand behind her head and the other resting over her baby cunt.

***

It is now twenty-one years later. To this day, dead remains of once-beautiful trees tower above those brave or foolish enough to go to that park. Despair comes to all who do. Rumor has it that there is a third child there somewhere, now a twisted abomination of a man. If only Mary had worn earplugs…

• Copyright: © 2007 Yuichi Mendez

“How about we begin with, ‘Every day when I get home, I find a naked body in the bed’?”

“I don’t understand why we have to begin with that line. Where are you going with all these bodies? It just doesn’t make sense!”

“Look, you promised you’d help me with my novel and now you’re arguing with the very first line.” Richard’s whine suddenly turned to something harder. “The line is staying!”

“Okay, okay, don’t get pissy on me.” Peter raised his hands in a placating gesture. He knew they’d make no progress if Richard got into one of his snits. “Just tell me where you’re going with this. Help me understand.”

“I tell you it does make sense. The housekeeper comes home and finds a naked body in the bed…”

“I have no problem with one dead body. It’s the every day part that I have a problem with. Look, let’s relax for a bit. We’ll get it straightened out. You’ve just been working too hard. Come on, Dickie, sit over here with me.” He patted the sofa invitingly.

“Okay. But I’m very upset, Peter. You’re making me feel ill. I’m beginning to think you don’t care for me at all. You’re just using me.”

“Now why would you think that? Come here and tell me all about it. You know I adore you, you silly old thing.”

“I think you only want me for my book. You’re jealous of my talent.”

“But you were the one who suggested we work together…”

“But you argue with everything I say.”

“We can’t have more than one body.”

“But having only one body is too close to what really happened.”

“So?”

“I know the people involved, okay?”

“But you said you read about it in the paper.”

“I did. But I still know the people, all right?” Richard’s face was feverish now, and his whine had become a wail. “I need to be alone. You’re giving me my nervous tummy…”

“You can’t write the story alone. You said yourself you need help with the police part. I’m the one who’s the expert on crime scenes–that is why you need help, isn’t it?”

“Ooh, hoity-toity. You’re only a police photographer. You’re no expert on procedures. Hah!” Richard, expression spiteful, left the couch and pranced towards his desk.

Peter’s sigh was of the long-suffering kind. “You’re annoyed about that boy down at the gym, aren’t you, Dickie? I told you he meant nothing to me. I need a diversion sometimes is all.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“How come all of a sudden you don’t need my help? And what do you know about crime scenes? You’ve had no experience. Anyway, how about, ‘The other day when I got home there was a dead body in the bed’? Will you quit playing with that letter opener? It’s annoying!”

“No. We can’t do that.”

“But why, Dickie? We can work with that! Why do we need more than one dead body? We need to be realistic.”

Richard stabbed the letter opener viciously into the pad of paper that lay on his desktop. “I don’t want realistic…” He made a futile attempt to curb his rising hysteria.

“But why –? Hold on a minute… There’s more to this than you’re telling me, isn’t there? Who is this friend of yours, anyway…? Now wait a minute, Richard… Richard–”
But it was too late. The letter opener had found a target far more satisfying than the pad of paper.

“I said there was more than one body…”

***

The housekeeper was most distressed the next day when she entered the apartment. It was just too upsetting to keep finding these dead bodies in the bed.

• Copyright: © 2000 Margaret B. Davidson

“Did you see that, Fred?”

“Did I see what?”

“He gave her two of those pills. He’s only supposed to be giving her one!”

“Are you sure, Flo? How d’you know how many she should have?”

“I was sitting on the wall right above the bedpost, and the doctor’s instructions were clear. He said to be careful to give her only one! I don’t know what they’re for, though. I’m going to fly down and take a peek.”

“Be careful, Flo.”

But she was gone already. Fred watched her hover around the bedside table for a few seconds, then fly back to join him on the wall, clearly agitated.

“There are two bottles down there. One contains tranquilizers and the other says something about ‘heart.’ I was afraid to land and so couldn’t see the label clearly. D’you think he’s trying to get rid of her?”

“I don’t know… Hey, there’s somebody coming. Let’s get out of here before we get swatted.”

They flew out the open window.

The next day Flo and Fred took up position on the wall a few feet above the bed. The doctor arrived to check on his patient. He admitted to the woman’s husband that he was at a loss as to how to diagnose her illness and suggested that she be taken to the hospital for tests. The husband was adamant in his refusal, saying that his wife would be miserable in the hospital and that he was more than capable of caring for her himself. The doctor shrugged and left.

Flo and Fred were discussing this latest development when all of a sudden there was a rush of air and something big and flat landed on the wall. Splat! The two flies barely dodged the blow. They decided to move to safer quarters before the man came at them with that can of really foul-smelling stuff that had overcome some of their friends last summer.

Once safely outside they resumed their conversation:

“What are we going to do, Fred? We can’t let him off her!”

“Don’t use that word around me, Flo!”

“Sorry… We can’t let him kill her.”

“What can we do? We’re just two flies. Nobody is going to listen to us. We’re just pests!”

Flo didn’t answer. She was deep in thought, her antennae jiggling. Then suddenly she took off, leaving Fred to follow.

A few hours later the patient was lying in a stupor. Her husband came into the bedroom to check on her. He was just reaching for the pill bottle when he looked up and noticed what looked like a black cloud approaching the open window. He replaced the bottle and went to take a closer look. Just as he was reaching to close the window, a thick swarm of bluebottles came at him, engulfing him with their iridescent blue-green bodies. They wandered over him with their black hairy legs, invaded his nostrils and gaping mouth.

A little later the man was found dead of a heart attack by his cleaning lady. There wasn’t a fly in sight. The patient had not yet regained consciousness and so hadn’t seen her husband’s demise. Relatives were called and it was decided that she should go into the hospital. Tests were run, and her heart and diabetes medications were adjusted. She was home again only days later, and at last report was managing well with a little daily help.

The cleaning lady was annoyed by two pesky flies that flew in through the bedroom window every time she opened it a crack. No matter what she did she couldn’t get rid of them.

Rumor had it that a werewolf was terrorizing Kent county, down near the English Channel. That was what Dr. Pierpont Rumor, noted demonologist, scholar and monster slayer, decided after examining the grisly remains of a young female.

“Yes,” Rumor commented to his trusty, towering, silent manservant, Innuendo Jones. “This lycanthrope is left-handed, favors his right leg, an old injury, no doubt, and attacks his prey in a very telling way.”

Jones nodded slowly, impassively.

They both knew who it was. Keller. Keller was back. You just can’t keep a good, or bad, werewolf down.

The following night a full harvest moon rose huge over the foggy countryside. Everything was still, even the crickets were silent. A long female figure came walking down a winding, gravel road. Somewhere in the woods the scent of prey was picked up. The beast began his loping run, on the hunt, bloodlust rising.

The solitary walker paused, adjusted her pony tail, hearing the rustlings in the thicket. As though fired from a cannon, the werewolf exploded from the forest, lunging forward, claws and fangs extended, ready for the savage kill.

But then things took a decidedly different turn. The young woman didn’t move, didn’t flee, scream or express any panic or terror. She just quietly turned from flesh and blood into silver metal.

The werewolf slammed into her as though he had struck a brick wall, which in one sense he had, except this unmovable wall was a living being made of solid metal. The werewolf was hurled backwards, bruised, with his fur burning where he had made contact with the figure.

Silver. The metal girl was made of silver. Deadly to werewolves, vampires and witches.

She leaned over and slapped the werewolf on the snout several times, like a bad dog, which caused his fur to smolder. The force of the blows knocked him face down hard to the gravel. “Your killing spree is over, Keller,” said the girl with a slight metallic quality in her voice.

“Indeed.” Dr. Rumor suddenly appeared on the road, Innuendo Jones at his side. “Thank you, Emily, for delivering this monster to us.”

Emily Scandal, the third member of Dr. Rumor’s team, had the ability to transform herself from flesh to any metal she had touched. An odd Nazi experiment had caused this to happen, something Third Reich science had not envisioned, but now cursed themselves for creating such a powerful being who was their sworn enemy in October of 1940. It was child’s play for Emily to escape them then.

Keller was an SS terror agent, using his werewolf curse to kill and unnerve English civilians. Put the Englanders on edge with the thought of centuries-old monsters roaming their homeland.

The werewolf looked up at the trio. In pain and trapped, he snarled angrily and leaped forward for Dr. Rumor, desperate to rip flesh and taste blood.

But Innuendo Jones raised and fired the antique revolver he held, sending a silver, blessed bullet cleanly through the werewolf’s heart. The beast collapsed without a sound, slowly transforming back into a bloody and very dead Hans Keller.

Emily changed back to flesh, and Innuendo blew away the smoke from the gun’s barrel.

“One Nazi agent stopped in his tracks for good this time,” Dr. Rumor commented.

“His very hairy tracks,” Emily added wryly.

Innuendo Jones just smiled.

• Copyright: © 2007 Rod Drake