MicroHorror

Ava flew up Route 9, pushing the old Accord as hard as she could, listening to it strain and rethinking the purchase. She’d bought the car cheap, and it seemed to drive fine. But she didn’t exactly look it over, having bought it in the heat of anger. She’d totaled her old car, and she’d needed a car in order to leave. So she took it.

It was dusk, scenic Ohio beautiful in hues of sunset, and she had her stereo on loud, blaring The Cramps beyond the limits of her crappy stereo. Listening to the music thunder at her with tinny, cracked quality.

She needed the noise.

Brian hadn’t even made eye contact with her when she told him she was leaving. Everything had been downhill since her accident, since she’d wrecked her old Metro and messed up her face.

So she left. It was just what he wanted.

Ava stomped harder on the gas pedal as she thought about it. She felt the car whip around the windy turns too fast, her stomach flopping around like a dying bird, the tires squealing, and her hands clutching the wheel too hard.

Then the thudding started.

At first, she thought it was the speakers. It had to be. Loud thumping, like someone pounding on the front door of her house, except she wasn’t at her house. She was in the car.

Just great. She blew the speakers. Ava sighed, exasperated with herself for damaging the poor old car, for ruining her sound system, and reluctantly turned it down.

The thudding stopped. Ava tried to take her mind off the music by putting her windows down. Who cared if it was cold? She needed a distraction, something to take her mind off everything, and quiet music just wouldn’t cut it.

The wind stung her face, froze her skin, but it felt good. As long as she could at least kind of hear her music, and she could feel wind in her face, she was ok.

Then the thudding started again. It sounded almost desperate, its tempo having sped up.

Ava turned off the stereo. Rolled up the windows. It stopped.

For a minute.

When it started again, Ava jumped, the car swerving to the side of the road hard enough to bounce off the guardrail. Ava panicked and hit the brakes. Tires screamed as she slowed, whipping the steering wheel back and forth to gain control of the car. It zig-zagged like a serpent.

The thudding quieted. Ava was shaking when she found a place to pull over. She was in the middle of nowhere.

No one would find her.

Ava thought again about the wreck, the feeling of gravity disappearing and then pain. Her face had cracked into the steering wheel, the airbag not ever going off, and she remembered the sound of crunching metal and shattering glass, and she remembered the horror of the glass in her skin, and she’d thought she was going to die there was so much blood.

She had survived. Changed, no doubt, but alive.

Everything was quiet as Ava sat, contemplating whether to move the car. She shut off the engine and thought.

Then the thudding restarted, and, this time it was even louder, and it didn’t stop, just pounding and pounding.

Ava shook as she pulled the key from the ignition and stepped out of the car. The night air was brisk. Her hands trembled as she fumbled with the keys and opened the trunk.
It was dark, but she could see sharp semi-white forms. Teeth? They lined her trunk like a mouth.

Out of the dark, a form rose and glistened, striking the sides of the trunk to produce the sound.

A tongue.

Ava looked at it for a minute before reaching in, unable to believe.

And Ava’s last thoughts involved the inspection of cars and the general lack of safety involved in buying a car you don’t know much about.

Evers took aim. The figure ringed in the circle of his scope moved along the strong axis, left to right, and Evers breathed in and held. His finger applied the least pressure necessary. There was no sound as the projectile exited the rifle and crossed the terminal distance between Evers and his target. The figure fell. It became a pile on the ground. Then the figure began to fade. It became momentarily transparent, then vanished.

Evers took aim on the next.

Then the next.

Soon the street was empty.

Evers switched from the sniper rifle to grenades. He had thirty-seven in his inventory. He flung two down into the street before jumping off the edge of the roof. He hit the street and rolled. Pools of blood were still fading before vanishing and a bit got on his shoe. He left faint blood prints as he ran down the street and around the corner. In the distance Evers could hear sirens. He opened the door of a waiting car, threw the driver out and sped away, remembering to avoid the water.

Sergeant Tolliver climbed from his car and surveyed the waste. Their were bodies littering the street. Blood was everywhere. There were shoeprints marking the direction the killer had fled. Tolliver rubbed his hand across his mouth and turned to one of the uniformed cops already on scene.

“What the fuck is this shit?” Tolliver asked.

“Looks like we got a sniper, Sarge. We think he was on that roof up there,” he said pointing two stories up. “We got no witnesses, obviously.”

“Son of a bitch must be crazy to do all this,” Tolliver shoved his hands into his pockets and took a second look around. The carnage was overwhelming.

Evers entered his apartment. He changed clothes. He knew that he’d be safe. The cops would forget about him now.

“Don’t look back!… Don’t turn around… Do not turn around. Nobody saw anything. Nobody was around. It was dark. Not my fault. Don’t even look back there in the damn mirror! Concentrate… Concentrate on the road. Slow down… big breaths, watch the road, 35 miles per hour good.”

Tom left early from the company picnic. He always dreaded the first Saturday in June. But he was the boss and was expected to go. The men and ladies that worked for Tom really let loose at the annual event. Free beer, free food, awards and prizes, Tom’s thank you to everyone who had made Twinn Shipping successful. It was nothing but a “drunk fest” to Tom after he stopped drinking abruptly a few years earlier.

He called his wife on the cell phone to find out about Tommy Jr. His wife assured him that his son was all right, but having some problems with teething. They truly were his life.

Tom came up on the worst stretch of his yearly commute home. He wished there was another way to the interstate. Tom drove his BMW slightly over the posted speed limit in an attempt to get out of the area more quickly. The corner that haunted his dreams and thoughts was almost in his sights. 7th and Taylor. He told himself to just concentrate on the road and it will be over shortly. But Tom did not take his advice this year, as his vision unintentionally traveled over to the right side of the road.

A red Cardinals hat sat on the concrete curb as his car approached. Tom felt his heart beating and took note of his breathing. He tried to calm himself down when he saw the beat-up, weathered hat. Impossible, he thought to himself, and looked first in his mirror and then physically looked back to make sure it was there.

He stopped. Without thought he got out of his car and walked to the hat for a closer look. It was the hat he saw a million times in his mind. The only piece of clothing he could remember.

The Cardinals hat waited on the curb for Tom to pick it up. On one knee he looked long and hard at the hat and begun to cry. He finally mustered up the guts to pick up the hat. It felt very heavy in his hands as he looked through tears at the inside of the cap.

“J. M.” was written on the bill of the hat in black marker. The J and M were obviously written by a child.

Tom was violently hit by a car.

He lay face-up many feet away from the curb. Pain hammered through his body that was bleeding from every orifice. Tom tried to breathe but could not get air into his body which desperately needed it. He could see light but could not focus. Sounds were oddly clear.

“I’ll make sure the son of a bitch dies here on the side of the road.”

Pressure and pain exploded into his ribs. The same feeling started on the other side of his body. Many words fell on Tom as he concentrated on the sounds. He finally heard what he needed to hear. The forceful pain never left his ribs but started on the side of his head and face.

“Someone get Joey’s hat…”

Moonlight hit the ground, painting its silver glow on the grass, the trees, the lake, the bridge, and the couple sitting on the bench together holding each other close. A cool autumn breeze blew the fallen leaves off the ground, fluttering them into the air.

The two souls on the bench were in love.

Forever and ever.

“I love you,” the man said.

“And I love you,” the woman responded.

Their memories came back to them on the first day of their marriage: a small wedding in the church; the passionate honeymoon; the first day in their new life together; their first child–a daughter, a blessing from God; their first home painted white with red shutters, a red door, a huge porch, and a bed of flowers underneath the living room window.

Life had been good to them.

Even when the woman had a miscarriage, they had tried over and over until God blessed them with a son. Now, they had two children to carry on their family name. Their family’s bloodline.

Forever and ever.

So many wonderful years.

The man held the woman close, softly kissing her on the temple. Then her forehead. Her cheek. Her lips.

She kissed him back.

Love radiated off of their bodies.

The night passed, bringing the first signs of the morning. Birds chirped. Squirrels ran about, digging up buried nuts. The sun blazed and started to show itself. The world was waking up.

“We had best be going, Margret,” the man said.

“True, Charles. Very true,” the woman replied.

The sky began to lighten up, becoming a pleasant shade of blue. Clouds drifted around a bright, rising sun.

The couple rose up and walked straight into the lake where they had perished not so long ago. They had lost control of their car and run off of the bridge into the water, sinking straight to the bottom. Frantically, they tried to open their windows, but couldn’t. Water came rushing inside, filling the space to the brim instantly. The vehicle became a metal tomb. A metal casket.

They held hands as their bloated, swollen bodies submerged under the water until it eventually covered their heads. Footprints trailed behind in the dirt leaving pieces of decayed, decomposed flesh. Even their long but not forgotten presence would remain on the river bank.

Forever and ever.

His breath caught in his throat. The woman at the bar next to him was beautiful. She curved her full lips into a smile.

“You want to go somewhere more… private?” she asked, her velvet voice filled with longing.

The moment they were outside, she pressed her lips to his. He felt his lust and desire, his life, slowly being sucked out of his body by the woman in his arms.

“What are you?” Joseph breathed. Darkness was coming for him.

“Damned,” she answered, her reddish eyes never leaving his.

He died seconds later, in her deadly embrace.

He wakes with a start; it must still be night for it is pitch dark and he can’t see a thing in his room–he doesn’t usually wake up in the night; strange, that, because he hates the dark. He’s hot. He’s not usually hot because he has all of the windows open at night; he likes the fresh air in his room. He hears creaking and he goes to sit up.

BANG

His damn head has struck something–he sees stars as he falls back to his pillow in the darkness. He is frightened and he fumbles for his bedside lamp.

BANG CRASH WALLOP

What the Dickens is occurring? His bed has smashed asunder and he is laid in the debris–he can feel it around him. He tries to sit up but he can’t… something is holding him down. Wait–it is the ceiling; the ceiling has come crashing down onto him–he must escape. He rolls over and squirms towards where he thinks the door should be–he still can’t see anything; it is too dark. By fortune he has chosen the right direction. He begins to cry, however; the door is nigh on seven feet and his room is nearly less than one now–it opens inwards. He is doomed. He scratches furiously at the ceiling as if it were a coffin lid for an undead… the man from upstairs should come running–he seems a good sort.

He sat upright in bed; he could hear scratching on the floor—rats, I would wager.

AAAAAAGH!

He dives under his covers–then he dares another peep. His ceiling, it is twice the height as before–and it is light; he hates the light, it burns into his pale skin and the height gives him vertigo. What should he do? He can’t… he dares not move from under the covers. He does eventually dare an arm, however, and he bangs down onto the floor with his fist; someone new moved into the flat only yesterday and they are bound to hear him… they would help, to be sure…

I wouldn’t count on it…

I was excited.

For the first time in weeks I had a chance to sit down at the computer and write a scary story. I leaned back and waited for inspiration to strike.

A movement outside caught my attention. I turned in time to see a silver disc hovering above the woods behind my house. Something dropped from the craft and landed in my back yard. It was my dog Furatu. I hurried outside, pausing just long enough to grab the rifle leaning behind the door.

In my driveway, I knelt and squeezed off two carefully aimed rounds into a couple of zombies who had wandered too close to the property line. Their heads exploded like water balloons and I was on the move again before their bodies had toppled.

Furatu lay on his side about thirty yards away. I stooped to pick up the rope attached to the drain spout, tied a loop around my waist and went to retrieve my dog.

I lifted Furatu’s remains and discovered they were dry and hollow thanks to those pesky aliens. I tucked him under one arm and turned back to the house–which had predictably disappeared. I closed my eyes and followed the rope with my free hand, ignoring the
ominous slithering sound that trailed me.

Once safely inside, I carried Furatu downstairs. My twin brother screamed and raged from his cell, throwing his shoulder into the heavy wooden door as I passed. I ignored him. I chose a different door, reached out and pulled a string. The forty-watt bulb barely pushed away the shadows. I opened the lid of the deep freeze and placed Furatu inside, right beside Mother. I smiled sadly at both of them as I closed the lid. On impulse I moved to the southeast corner of the room, knelt and felt for the metal ring. The trap door creaked upward and a musty odor invaded my nostrils. I grabbed a flashlight from a nearby shelf and lowered myself into the dank chamber. The beam of light pierced the darkness, illuminating the Amontillado. I mentally reminded myself to grab a bottle on the way back up. First things first, however.

I stooped and inched my way down a dripping passage until I came to the reinforced steel circle set in the stone floor at the end of tunnel. It serves as a hybrid manhole cover and bank vault door. I pressed one ear to the cover and listened. I staggered quickly to my feet after only a few seconds. My ears burned and I wiped at the blood which now poured from my nose. That’s a door that should never, ever be opened.

I hurried back toward the wine cellar–forgetting the Amontillado–and climbed back up the ladder. I discarded the flashlight, closed the trapdoor and pulled the string, leaving the room in darkness.

My twin brother continued to rave as I passed his cell and I felt a twinge of guilt. One of us must be the “Evil Twin” in the equation, and it certainly isn’t me. Best that he stay locked up.

Upstairs I peeled off my bloody T-shirt and tossed it onto the pile. The laundry gnomes would take care of the laundry while I slept. As long as they got their customary sacrificial sock, they served obediently. I shrugged into a black dress shirt that had once
belonged to a priest who was famous for conducting exorcisms. Or maybe it had belonged to a serial killer. I don’t remember anymore.

Back in my little office where I do my writing, the computer waited patiently. I was surprised that it had grown dark outside. The sound of chains rattling echoed from the attic. Something groaned mournfully and slowly descended the creaking stairs.

I stared at the computer screen.

Nothing.

I sighed resignedly and pushed my chair back again.

No scary stories today. Too many distractions. I’ll have to try again later and hope that inspiration strikes.

Cory felt panic rise as he awoke and adrenaline hit his stomach. He looked at his watch and saw that he’d been on the subway for hours, and had no idea where he was or which direction they were headed. It was already a quarter to midnight and Liz would be worried about him. He checked his phone only to see it searching for a signal. He looked around and didn’t see anyone in his car. He got up and looked through the connecting doors and didn’t see anyone in the next car either. Resigned to the fact that he would just have to wait until the next station, he sat by the door.

A voice cracked on the speakers and mumbled something about City Hall and that the subway was stopping service and all passengers should disembark. “Fan-fucking-tastic!” he thought. Six stops away from home and he had to get off. Well, he could catch a taxi at least and still be home in fifteen or twenty minutes if he were lucky. His phone was still searching for a signal so he may as well go up to street level.

He made for the first escalator and stopped short, reading the Access Closed sign strung across the railing. Well, that’s great; the main entrance was closed and he’d never gotten off at this station before. He looked around for another way out and saw at the very end of the platform some nondescript stairs leading up and around a corner. Within twenty feet, a noxious odor wafted toward him from the stairway. Involuntarily retching, he stopped in his tracks. Some twisted combination of feces, urine and decay lay beyond that stairwell and he wondered if he could still find a way out via the blocked access.

He braced himself, held his breath and began to climb the stairs. Not even wanting to touch the hand rail, he vaulted two steps at a time hoping he would gain the top quickly. After two turns he began to wonder where the hell these stairs went. Finally after what seemed like three flights he reached a hallway. In one direction he saw a mall with stores and a McDonald’s, all barred by a large locked gate. Wonderful! He couldn’t get out this way. Looking the other way, the hall just curved back and to the right into darkness. He looked past the gate again and yelled. Listening carefully he heard no one answer. “Oh well, guess it’s the path toward certain doom after all.”

As he made his way down the curving hall, he noticed the light growing more and more dim. When the next locked gate presented itself, he screamed in frustration. “How in the fuck am I supposed to get out of this labyrinth?!” Looking around he found another, even darker hallway, lined with ancient porthole windows and art deco relief sculptures. Was this section even used anymore!? He heard a noise behind him and saw a huge, dog-sized rat crawl through a bent section of the gate. It looked at him and began to advance. Cory yelled and rushed across the ancient hallway, reaching some stairs at the other end. Though it wouldn’t have seemed possible to him before, an even worse stench arose from the depths of those stairs. He paused for a moment to see the rat gaining on him and threw himself down the stairs. About four flights down he stopped to see a pool of viscous, rancid water where the steps continued downward. Nowhere to run now, and his sinuses burned with the rank odor. The rat had stopped a few steps up, raised itself on its haunches and shrieked loudly. He heard a splash in the water behind him and saw something moving under the surface, something large enough to cause waves. Suddenly two long, black, leathery tendrils shot out of the water and wrapped around his head, pulling him face first into the murk.

The fog thickened as Theo stepped off the path and into the field, and the sound of crickets seethed outward across the silent space. Tendrils of mist rose from his back and hair streaming behind like a tattered, ghostly cape. The night was alive with a gentle hum, its energy being fully exerted in every small display of exhilaration. From the cacophony of reptile chirps to the constant whir of locusts, and from the strobing forest to the accented flurry of leathery wings, he felt a pure connection to the night. He lost himself to the luxury of the experience of this blissful and natural chaos.

He inclined his head, basking his face in pallid moonlight, forgetful of his burden. His eyes focused on the space between himself and the tree line, allowing the flickering insect lights in the trees to merge with the sky and its twinkling array of starlight. For one moment he felt he was at the edge of the world, peering into the vast array of nothingness, content to drift away.

His shoulder ached suddenly and he was far from complete in his task. He longed for a better place and a better time, but alas, he was who he was. Lately that seemed to be as close to nothingness as he was ever going to get. He walked a bit further into the field and dropped the large garment bag which landed with a sickly, wet thud at his feet. He grasped the handle of his spade firmly and began to dig. For nearly two hours he labored, careful to separate the sod from dirt beforehand. Digging, digging, beneath the pallid moon.

Melisa had reached her breaking point. At 5:15 PM her tolerance broke down, leaving her in a quiet, dismal place where sound and light no longer reached her. She had placed herself so entirely into work after her divorce and the subsequent death of her daughter Kimberly that work was all she cared about anymore. There simply wasn’t anything else left in her life. No joy, no hope, nothing but work.

But after two weeks with the flu, and her endless doctor visits, her company insurance had cut her off. High risk, over-allotted visits, etc., was what they had told her as some form of excuse. Then she had started having problems with her accounts. Two new marketing executives had been assigned to her and neither would agree nor budge, no matter how insignificant the matter. Six write-ups later and her position was in jeopardy, as well as her car, her house, and her livelihood. She had received a memo from the head of her division stating her probationary status two write-ups ago. He had also taken to personally antagonizing her. “How’s quality!?” he would shout into her cubicle

She felt the strands of her sanity being pulled apart when she saw memos noting her accounts’ rejection of the finally completed proposals that had taken her months to complete. That would mean two more write-ups and her certain termination. She sat at her desk until 5:30, got up from her desk and took the freight elevator to the roof. The wind pressed her clothes against her body and the vertigo was the strongest sensation she’d felt in months. Her hair whipped around her face and she felt its sting lashing her over and over. She held her breath and stepped off. Wind rushed around her and her stomach flip flopped. She tried to hold her eyes open but the pressure was too great. Tears streamed across her cheeks as she saw the street rushing toward her. She didn’t want to be cheated out of the one pure sensation she would have left–of fear.

Seconds later she yelped and sat up in her chair. She looked at the clock on her phone and read 5:16. She suddenly wondered if she could gain access to the freight elevator at all and wondered if Mr. Will the maintenance man would lend her the key.