MicroHorror

You may remember me from a few years ago. I’ve been away for quite some time, but rest assured that I am back. Remember the days we used to spend together, watching cartoons and playing with your pet hamster? Or the nights we used to spend together, cuddling in front of the fireplace after Mom and Dad went to sleep. Those were the days. Remember that one night, when we were fifteen, when you got cold and came into my bedroom? You asked if you could sleep in my bed, your reasoning being that our combined body heat would help fend off the chilly winter air. You put your arm around me, and I was okay with that because you were my brother and I loved you, perhaps more than a sister should love her brother. But then you grabbed my chest, and I was not okay with that. I told you to stop, but you just squeezed tighter. I tried to push you off, but you overpowered me. You pulled off my clothes, Danny, and you raped me. You fucking raped me. I loved you, and you fucked it all up. Remember the next day, when Mom came home from work, how she found me in the bathtub naked, buried in pain pills and covered in the vodka I stole from the cupboard? Remember how they asked you what happened, and you said the music I listened to probably influenced me to kill myself? Remember a week later, when you met that girl at the roller rink? Do you remember what happened to her? She overdosed on pain pills and vodka. I overdosed on pain pills and vodka. Guess what I got you for Christmas, Danny.

They awoke to find that the tape had been taken. They ran downstairs following the hauntingly familiar memory. It stirred anger and shame into their collective hearts. Anger that someone would steal something so necessary to their very being and shame that they let it happen. They found the tape playing in Ray and Lisa’s old tape deck, worn and covered in a thick layer of dust. Amber spoke before Todd, “You stupid meth-head FUCKS!!!”

Lisa kept staring at the wall and Ray barely flinched, at Amber’s sudden outburst, the hatred of the words seeming to cover every filthy, discarded, fast food wrapper and bloody piece of clothing, cling to every molecule. They seemed hypnotized by the notes that seeped from the garbage speakers. And they stayed that way while Todd, silent rage building, pulled out a large bowie knife from a sheath strapped to his belt and dived the blade straight into the two dustheads’ ribs, blood and gristle splashing onto his still emotionless face. The garbage speakers oozed out the words, “The night has risen but the sunshine feels heavy like lead…” and into Todd and Amber’s hearts.

The trees cast shadows that seemed to swirl into grotesque figures, figures that seemed to reach and grab for her. She shivered and wrapped her coat tighter around herself. She religiously stayed on the path, walking on a wide cement tightrope. Even though she felt soul-killing terror a perverse side of her wanted to throw herself into the gaping maws of the shadowy daemons, slowly sapping her of the life she decided that was not hers any longer.

She wanted to throw her soul to the wayside, let it float gently down the River Styx. She no longer wanted to have to deal with the tedium and the embarrassment of her life.

As she left the park and crossed the street, the opposing shadow of the ancient apartments she lived in hung like a cloak around her shoulders. The sound of traffic and sirens roared and squealed but they never reached her ears, all sound muffled, shielded by her nightmares. To her it was silent and she waited for the crescendo, the upswing, the spike of sound that would bring hell down all around her. And she waited to welcome it with open arms.

And she waited, she waited as she unlocked the door, she waited as she walked up the ten flights of stairs, the elevator didn’t work, never had. And she waited as she unlocked the door to her apartment and walked in.

He woke up with the sun pouring through the large window, almost filling the room with sunlight. He moaned and pulled down the blinds. It didn’t help, the sun still streamed through. He grabbed a dark blue comforter and stuck it into the blinds, creating makeshift curtains. It stopped the sunlight and he looked a lot less tense.

It wasn’t that the sunlight actually burned, but it sure felt like it. He sat down at the small breakfast table, in near darkness and lit a cigarette. He tried to remember why the comforter wasn’t there in the first place. He always put it up before he fell asleep. The sunlight, strong and fierce, still burned in his mind.

He threw on some clothes, maybe clean, maybe not, and left his building. He stuck close to the large brick building, slowly creeping in the shadow. He had to watch a couple of places but was pretty sure which one he was going to do. It was a small apartment, but the owner was a trust fund kid and kept regular hours. If he was lucky there would be a plasma TV and he could eat well for a couple of more weeks. Human flesh wasn’t cheap.

He slowly walked through the apartment with a large suitcase, the kind with rollers, and carefully looked through each of the rooms. It was what he regularly did, checked every room for valuables and then rushed through grabbing what he had already marked worthy. The gun tucked into his jeans kept scratching his back. He adjusted it and headed back towards the living room.

She unlocked the door and walked in. A man was standing there unhooking her Tivo. He turned and she waited, he pulled the gun and she still waited. And then the crescendo arrived, the cacophony of sound blasted through the small apartment, the stab of strings as the horror monster attacks and she waited no longer.

And he could feed.

He felt like he was in pieces, and then he realized he was.

He was put back together by soft, gentle, loving hands and wrapped in plastic wrap. He was set carefully at the bottom, juice box settling on his chest. A small bag of Cheetos and it was dark again.

Light, his casket was opened. The Cheetos were clawed away, along with the juice box. He was spared, no one wanted him.

Rustling, a high pitched whine. The sneering, tinny voices, daring, double daring. Small, grubby fingers grabbed for him, his plastic covering. Ripping, tearing. He could see. A blender. His death.

The blades cut him. Sheared bits of him off, but he did not bleed.

The spit always burned. Like acid. And he knew what acid felt like; China started using it to exterminate dissidents in the mid-21st century. But he always hated when he was a pedophile. There was only shame in the execution.

The electric chair. He laughed. The two guards flanking him looked surprised, bewildered. He glared at them and returned to his thoughts. Well, at least it wasn’t a flaming stake.

Thinking back to all the times he made the same somber walk to oblivion, he wished it was the guillotine. He loved the guillotine; it was a clean, glorious death, and he got to be royalty.

Their black beady eyes always scared me, dear. I’ve wanted to catch one for a long time, crush its furry head beneath my shoe. Pressure, pressure until its eyes popped out and its brain was nothing but jelly. Could you catch one for me, dearie?

Oh, you got one! Thank you, dear. You always were such a nice boy. Take this dollar and go back home now, nice boys don’t need to see things like this.

Oh, ho, ho, it’s just me and you now, you twitchy piece of shit. Time for you to die.

Bright light, blinding almost. A deep voice, soothing, warning that it may hurt a bit.

Rolled sleeves. White scars on pale skin, like a new constellation. Explanations, Grandpa’s cigarettes taught him about pain.

Scratching. Constant scratching. Inside the walls. Scratching that was keeping Alexander up till all hours. Finally he’d had enough. He made a mental note to phone the exterminator the very next day. This had been going on too long to be able to tolerate any longer.

However, the very next morning…

If Alexander hadn’t seen it for himself, he would never have believed it. The old, wooden chair was moving slowly but surely across the floor, seemingly by itself. On closer inspection he noticed that hundreds of tiny ropes had been securely tied around each of the four legs.

Alexander took a tentative step closer and followed the line of ropes with his eyes until they came to rest upon the dozens of tiny creatures working together to pull the chair across the room. He closed his eyes tightly then opened them again and sure enough they had not been playing tricks on him. The creatures were no taller than a pin, humanoid in appearance with large pointed ears and mouths crammed full with jagged, crooked teeth. It also appeared that they were much stronger than their wiry frames would have him believe.

In silence they strained to bring the chair closer to a small hole in the skirting board, completely unaware that they were being observed. With unwavering attention Alexander watched them toiling for as long as he could until he was forced to leave for work.

It was a long day, a busy day, yet Alexander could not stop thinking about his unbelievable discovery. Where had the tiny creatures come from and what did they want with his old and battered kitchen chair? The parade of questions was unending and it was a relief when five o’clock struck. He could go home and search for answers.

Alexander saw the small pile of wood the minute he stepped into the kitchen. It was all that remained of his old chair. Getting down on all fours so as not to startle the creatures, Alexander watched as they broke off matchbox-sized pieces of wood with tiny tools and hauled them back through the hole. They worked as a team, cutting then passing the pieces, grunting and snarling, to each other until the wood disappeared through the hole.

That night Alexander ordered take-away since he didn’t want to disturb the creatures by cooking anything, and he did not go to bed until the chair had completely disappeared.

The moon was full. Bright beams slid in through the window to illuminate Alexander as he slept, unaware that a large contingent of the creatures were shimmying up the bedspread and onto the bed. With all their dwellings built, securely within the wall that separated Alexander’s kitchen and living room, the creatures were ravenous. Removing the long blades from the carry cases they had strapped around their naked, hairless bodies, the creatures began to cut, hacking off pieces of Alexander while he slept until there was nothing left of Alexander except a meaty skeleton.

Charles sighed at the tinkling of Mrs. Allen’s summoning bell. He rose from his seat at the computer, Mrs. Allen’s dead husband’s bulky leather chair crinkling beneath his movements.

He would’ve quit as her butler years ago, but he was enjoying himself far too much, lately, to even consider departing now.

On his way to the widow’s bedroom, he retrieved a serving tray from the kitchen, ignoring the stench of burned flesh and the splashes of blood on the countertop.

Mrs. Allen snacked on finger sandwiches on Mondays. On Wednesdays, she craved sweetbread. Fridays were reserved for devilled eyeballs. Today was Monday.

After caring for the widow, Charles settled back into his seat, returning his gaze to the live video feed of the fingerless man trapped in the cellar.

Eugenia swiped a dish towel in circles absentmindedly drying a plate, her face growing hot as her jealousy bloomed over her elderly neighbor’s garden. She stared out her kitchen window at the purple, pink, and yellow flowers trembling in the spring breeze. Flowers she’ll probably never grow.

The front door slammed, snagging Eugenia from her thoughts. “Harv,” she whispered, realizing her son had been gone from the kitchen for too long. She scolded herself for bitching so much in front of Harvey, especially when it came to Mrs. Percival and the old bag’s garden. But ever since Harvey was a toddler the wench gave her and her son hell about staying away from her precious garden. And to make things worst, every attempt Eugenia made to grow her own garden had failed.

Harvey’s footsteps stopped at the kitchen doorway.

Eugenia swung around to yell at her slow son, but paused. Harvey’s smile caused the twenty-year-old man to appear even more childlike. Eugenia’s eyes focused on the red stains on his shirt. “It wasn’t time to go finger paintin’, Harv.” She sighed. She loved her son, but sometimes she grew so tired. “And what’re you hidin’ behind your back? Let’s see it.”

Harvey shifted his feet. He glanced down and back up at his mother. “Happy Mudder’s Day,” he beamed, pulling his arms forward.

Eugenia froze at the sight of her son’s gift. “What’ve you done?”

Seconds later, her lips curved into a smile as she took the two wrinkled thumbs Harvey offered her with his bloodied hands.

Eugenia stashed the thumbs in the freezer, and sneaked over to the old woman’s place, entering through the back door so no one saw her. With no family, it might take months before the crone was discovered missing. After Eugenia and Harvey cleaned up the blood, mother and son hauled away Mrs. Perceval and the butcher’s knife used to sever her thumbs.

Two weeks afterward, Eugenia finally had a garden of her own. In her back yard, along the tall, wooden fence, purple, pink, and yellow flowers grew, fertilized by the corpse beneath the soil.