MicroHorror

His tiny, cranberry-like eyes gazed in wonderment at the single droplet of blood perched precariously on the tip of his bowie knife.

“Do you see that?” He switched his line of sight briefly to the girl.

“Mmmmmmrgh… mmmmrrrrrgh!!” she responded from beneath the eloquently placed duct tape.

“It’s like a metaphor for life, don’t you think? You see, the droplet rests at the apex of its existence. At any moment it will inevitably move from its finely balanced position and either roll down the hilt of the knife and continue on, joining with the knife in its dynamic activities or it will roll off the tip of the blade completely and fall into the dirt below thus ending its existence forever. You see?”

“MMMRRRGH!!!” she replied with apparent distaste.

“Please. Please, allow me.” He spoke through his yellowed and withering lips, spittle crossing the short distance between their faces and landing on her waxy pale cheeks. He tore the tape from her face in one quick motion.

“You sick, sick, sick mother fucker. Do you torture ALL of your victims with unending hours of prose and hack philosophy before you do away with them? Or is there something you think you see in me which gives you the impression that I actually give a rat’s ass what you say? Fuck! Get it over with already before I throw myself down on your blade just to end my misery.”

“Ol’ Mickey Donald had a farm, A-E-I-O-U…”

“Would you get it right?” Sissy’s brother yelled from down the hall. “It’s Old MacDonald–E-I-E-I-O.”

“Ronald McDonald had a farm…”

“Now you’re just being silly,” Brother said as he pushed open the door to his sister’s room. He looked at the farm animals grazing in the middle of her bed. “What are you doing?”

“Playing Old MacDonald,” Sissy replied. She moved the cows toward the edge of the covers. “They’re stuck on a mountain and can’t find their way down to the farm.”

Brother just stared at his sister and shook his head.

“Have to use your imagination,” she said. “See, this cow is about to fall off a cliff.” She pushed the cow over the edge. Eeee.

“You’re nuts,” Brother said. As he turned to leave he muttered, “Sheesh. Old MacDonald…” But instead of walking back out the door, he stepped off the side of a mountain. “Eeee iiii…” Brother yelled as he fell.

“Would you get it right?” Sissy yelled from up above. “It’s E-I-E-I-O!”

No sooner had Balin left the gates, left from within the prison walls, than the sirens screamed of his escape and reverberated off of the huge field that lay out before him. Tall, wet, grass flourished the land. Woods lay close in the distance.

Finally free…

Balin ran as fast as his legs would carry him. His pants and shoes became soaked. Storms had hammered the area the night before, leaving puddles everywhere.

The sirens wailed, vibrating Balin’s skeletal frame. It was like a lighthouse blazing its watchful eye around and around across the ocean for lost ships. And if it had been a death-ray, Balin would’ve been burnt beyond recognition. The smell of scorched flesh would linger in the air.

Right before he made it into the woods, right before he took his very first step inside, he heard the first of the howls blend in with the wretched sound of the siren.

The Hounds had now been unleashed.

Time was of the essence.

Huge, tall trees stuck out of the ground, nearly touching the skyline. Birds chirped, flying overhead, and peered down at the show.

If I only had their wings I could join them and hide from the oncoming Hounds; perhaps even fly high into the clouds and arrive safely with Gili, my beloved…

Leaping over rocks, running around bushes, and dodging around trees, Balin saw the exit. The end of the woods. It exposed yet another field full of tall, wet grass.

Behind him, the footfalls of his pursuers hit the ground, pounding the soil.

Bark from the trees was shaved clean off, leaving fresh wounds. Bushes were mowed over. Rocks were crushed. The soil was ripped open like tearing away flesh.

Death was only a whisper away.

Balin tried to hurry his pace as fatigue washed over him, settling inside his skin. Inside his muscles and tendons. Around his bones.

The howling continued.

The pursuit did not let up.

If failure of his escape was in the midst, terrifying images played over and over in his head: the feel of the razor-sharp claws sinking into his back and bringing his body straight to the ground; the back of his neck being torn open, exposing blood and bone; and his spine ripped solely away from his frame.

But he did not want that to happen.

He wanted Gili. He wanted to see her blue eyes. Feel her soft brown hair. Kiss her tender lips.

Finally, he entered the field as excitement coursed his veins. Relief took hold of his emotions.

Happiness followed.

There, in the distance, was his spaceship. The Authorities had not even destroyed or dismantled it. And it only had room for one astronaut. One survivor. One escapee. One Balin.

He sprinted towards the craft. His side flared, telling him to stop this punishment. Stop this abuse. But now, he would not. Could not.

I’m on my way, babe!

How long had he been imprisoned? Months? Days? Hours? God only knew.

Slipping inside the craft he closed the door, hit the controls as they lit up in numerous colors, and heard the hum of the engines roar to life.

Right before he lifted off of the ground, he witnessed the first of the five robotic hounds emerge out of the woods. Bright yellow eyes, a metal jaw lined with razor sharp teeth, nostrils steaming, blades for claws, and a bulky metal frame made up the full profile. The others followed suit as the sun reflected off their shells.

Balin had beaten the machines, knowing of no other that had.

The ship launched high into the sky, soon becoming nothing but a dot under the two bright suns and the light green skies.

The Hounds could only stare at defeat to the human that had eluded his capture.

The Charles W. Morgan sits in the Mystic Seaport, one of the tall ships for schoolchildren to explore. Built in 1841, it has been a floating museum since 1921, showing generations of children of the hardships of whaling life. A few times a year, tourists witness a ghost, usually by a low moaning sound. EVP investigators (electronic voice phenomena) have set up microphones and cameras overnight, to catch the ghost in action. The cameras never capture anything, but a peculiar groan is heard on certain sections of the audiotape. No words can be immediately distinguished, which the audio technician says in standard procedure for EVP. He changes frequencies and modulations of the tape, and isolates the various portions that hold the most promise. After a week of scouring every inch of the audiotape, the technician gives up. There were probably lots of languages spoken on board this ship over the years, but nothing he heard came remotely close to a human voice. The technician would have had a lot more luck, however, had he been listening not for human voices but for whale songs.

The titanium-steel cage kept Leon confined, and windows kept the moonlight in Leon’s face. And the room reeked of wolfsbane, but it didn’t seem to be having an effect. That was the point of capturing him, though: scientific experiments. Now that he had Leon in his cage, Roland could begin his experiments. Did wolfsbane poison? What about silver? How correlated were Leon’s wolfings to the lunar cycle? When he had his answers, then would come the books, and documentaries, and zoo exhibits. Best of all, he’d be able to start the hunt for vampires–but he’d have to refit the room, sine vampires could mist out form the bars. First things first, though.

“What do you want from me?” Leon asked, putting on a brave face.

“I want to learn everything there is to know about your kind,” Roland replied. “You stay alive so long as you cooperate. You’ll be famous.”

Leon was quiet.

Time for the first test. Roland clicked a remote control, and five cameras started rolling. He grabbed a pike, and poked at Leon. Leon dodged. “You’re making a mistake,” Leon said. Roland stabbed again, and missed. “I don’t mean trying to cut me. I mean my kind don’t show up on cameras.” Then Leon collapsed, and Roland expected to see hair sprouting or his muzzle to lengthen. Instead he saw Leon melt out of his clothes, turn into a running white plasma that pooled outside the cage. It quickly condensed, and Leon stood up, with pale skin and rows of teeth like a shark. He bit down with every tooth into Roland’s neck, happy as always that vampire-hunters and werewolf-hunters never realized they were hunting the same snark.

Ingredients:
2 “prepared” veal chops
1 half-cup flour
4 tsp. olive oil
1 lemon, squeezed
One tsp. rosemary
One pinch salt
One pinch pepper

The Maiden’s Veal can be prepared with any veal chop or cutlet, but it is strongly recommended that properly prepared meat be used. Maiden’s veal is not available in supermarkets, so a trip to your local butcher is required. Certain shops specialize in these fine cuts of veal–but don’t bother asking any kosher butcher shop. Like all veal, Maiden’s veal comes from male calves that have been kept in small pens and fed a milk diet to keep the meat creamy and tender. Animal rights activists have fought for better conditions for veal calves, but the activists fortunately seem unaware of Maiden’s veal so far. Maiden’s veal calves are kept in a pen, but one with spikes on either side, much like the famous iron maiden. The spikes are arranged to punish even the smallest movement with a poke from sharpened iron. Veal calves are overwhelmingly tender in these, having been forced to stand still for their entire lives. Periodic spike resizings allow the calves room to grow large without incurring fatal injuries. When calves are fat enough, a hand crank at the base of each maiden cage extends the spikes, slowly killing them. One twist is given each hour, and death usually takes 12 hours. This slaughtering method is more from tradition than anything else, but some chefs do claim that the prolonged suffering of the calves adds an additional level of tenderness. For the true Maiden’s veal fans, ask the butcher to attend his next Maidening ceremony–maybe he’ll let you turn the crank on a few calves. Once the veal is procured, preparation is simple. Wet the veal and bread with the flour. Sauté in mixture of olive oil, lemon juice, rosemary, salt and pepper, turning each cutlet twice. Serves two.

All of the sudden, Harry became terrified of blood. He happened to be looking at his statue of Leatherface when he had his change of demeanor. Leatherface was holding a bloody chainsaw, wearing a bloody apron, and standing by a to-scale shelf of severed body parts. My God, that statue was sick! The thought of those horrible murders was overpowering… It was just a movie, but just the idea of those evil killings was too much to think about, not to mention creating a statue that glorified it. Harry ran from his computer room where Leatherface stood by his monitor, and into his bedroom. He shrieked, for the first time in his life. There were katana and nunchaku on the walls. These were instruments of war! Why was he using them for decorating? He ran from there, into a living room piled high with black-sleeved DVDs. He remembered gleefully watching all of their murders, as well as special features on rendering popped eyeballs as realistically as possible. It sickened Harry now. He dashed into the bathroom to retch. But the only room in the apartment for his Aliens vs. Predator figures was the toilet tank. Harry stifled his nausea, ran for the front door, but a cardboard cutout of Michael Myers scared him away. Harry cowered in the kitchen, the only room free from these horrible images. He put his arms in front of his face and began to cry. He opened them, to see a demonic stare coming from a hockey mask. Harry had forgotten about his tattoos, of all his favorite characters. These monsters were literally under his skin. Harry could not be any more terrified. It was oddly comforting when he picked up the cheese grater, and the fear was replaced by simple pain.

Bruce Waltemeyer was living the hermit’s life even before the dead started walking the earth. He owned a cabin in Nova Scotia, went to town once a month for supplies, and his few conversations with neighbors were strained. The worldwide nightmare had not increased his communicativeness. Waltemeyer would politely assist the few living islanders who made it to his barricaded front door, sharing food or ammunition, but under no circumstances did he let anyone inside. Even with society in ruins, Waltemeyer knew he would be judged harshly. In Waltemeyer’s basement, chained to a bed, was an undead girl. Thick chains restrained her limbs, and her body was warmed by eletric blankets. Her head was secured in a guillotine, activated by one push of a panic button. Waltemeyer had cheerleader outfits, nurse’s uniforms, bathing suits and other women’s apparel in the top drawers of a dresser, and knives and branding irons in the other. The undead girls usually lasted a month before Waltemeyer had to hit the panic button. It fit well with his still-monthly trips to town. In addition to scavenging supplies, he would now also find a new undead girl that fit the clothing. Waltemeyer had no one he wished to admit this to, but this was the happiest time of his life.

A small part of the Denali National Park in Alaska is home to a military cemetery. You can find it off a road permanently adorned with an UNDER CONSTRUCTION sign. Alaska officially has no military cemetery, which is just as well, because the bodies of all the soldiers in this cemetery were never announced as recovered. The soldiers’ families have buried empty coffins in other cemeteries. The real bodies are here, though, under ground that is frozen many months of the year. The cold keeps them sedate. The oldest date back to the Spanish-American War. The dates of the white marble tombstones swell during the years of World Wars I and II, Korea, and Vietnam. The freshest graves are being dug every month, from Baghdad and Kabul. America’s soldiers have been hit by many unusual weapons, but the worst has been weaponized necromancy. Attempts to decapitate the soldiers’ bodies have become too risky too keep up: even undead, a soldier’s training is considerable. Shoving a corpse at its first stir into a concrete box and shipping it to Alaska is a much safer option. There’s perpetual talk of just cremating the dead soldiers where and when they are found. But there is patriotism to consider: these are American soldiers, and they deserve a military funeral.