MicroHorror

Roger stared at the wall. Some of the tacked newspaper clippings were yellowed, curled at their edges, and as old as five years. Others were whiter and dated as recent as two weeks ago.

Muffled words regained Roger’s attention.

He ripped the gag from the other man’s mouth. “Where’s the stuff you took from the women?”

The bound man laughed from the chair that held him captive.

Roger raised his Glock. He squeezed the trigger. A bullet shot through the silencer aimed between the killer’s eyes.

Roger had been just as much an expert in tracking down his copycat as he was in picking his victims.

At first Dave thought that the lights floating about outside the window were just a fallen string of Christmas lights. He got up and went to the window to see. Outside the sky was filled with hovering multicolored lights, chasing each other in beautiful patterns over the snow covered yard below.

Dave woke his wife and children, and they gathered in the front yard. All around their neighbors stood in snow watching the aerial light show. Lights of every color swirled and danced in the lightly falling snow, entrancing the neighborhood. The lights move lower, the ethereal display now at their fingertips. Dave watched as his children leapt around, playfully trying to catch the shining specks. No one realized anything was wrong until a cloud of lights descended on the children. First one then another fell, bejeweled in glowing lights. People panicked, but none made it inside before the lights caught them.

The glowing insects, attracted by the Christmas lights, had finished their mating flight and needed a place to lay their eggs. The denizens of the neighborhood, paralyzed by the insects’ venom, were slowly covered by the lightly falling snow. They made perfect places for the eggs to incubate.

The insects rose into the night sky, their swarm of lights a perfect reflection of the light displays on the houses below. As the insects rose to the clouds, another neighborhood strung with multicolored lights called to them.

Who are you?, she asks, as he walks through the front door and sits himself down. He is well-dressed, a black suit and tie, and he gazes at her with a strange look in his eye. He sits there in the living room, in the big armchair that is her favorite, and watches her intently.

Who are you?, she asks, but he does not answer, only watches, looking deeper into her eyes. He sees her pain, her hurt, her life that has been scarred by the evils of her past. He is familiar to her, but she doesn’t want to show it, because now they are strangers, unlike they once were.

Who are you?, she asks, pouring him a cup of coffee, setting it on the nice table in front of him. He still watches her, taking a sip with his meaty hand, fingers curling around the warm handle of the ceramic mug. He smirks, a coy smile, a smile that makes her smile as well. She remembers him well now.

Who are you?, she asks, both of them standing from their chairs. He is now deep inside her mind, toying with her memories, making him remember the things she had forgotten. She thinks clearly now, realizing that he is no stranger, he has always been there, hiding in her mind, living with her every day.

Who are you?, she asks, pulling him into a ravenous kiss, wrapping her arms around him in lust, now reminded of the sex he once brought her. After all this time, having him erased from her mind, she remembers him clearly, his hands a welcoming reminder of the wonders of sex.

Who are you?, she asks, asking if he’s changed, asking if he’s different now, but knowing that he’ll always be the same. She begins to talk about how she is now, and how she is living with someone else now, and how she is married, and how she no longer has feelings for him. This angers him, and he grabs her by the neck.

Who are you?, she asks, watching him transform as he had once a long time ago, his smile turning into a bleeding slit, his skin drooping to the floor and his body fattening like a Jabba the Hut. Pustules form on his skin, oozing pus that slithers down his fingers and down her arms, scarring her and gashing her.

Who are you?, she screams, as he leans forward, a decaying alien of obesity, and opens his mouth, licking her shoulder with a pus-filled tongue. His acidic saliva burns into her, and she screams again, remembering how this happened before, how this love gone wrong killed her before, many years before, and how this will never happen again.

“Vanessa, what are you doing?”

Quickly covering my book with another, I began writing so I didn’t have to lie. Mother always said liars went to Hell. I called through the closed door. “Nothing, just writing in my journal like Dr. Bloom asked me to.”

My mother’s footsteps tippy-tapped their way to my room. What did she put on her shoes that made that infernal racket? Castanets? At least I always knew when she stalked me. Poising my pen over the page, I struck a concentrated pose as she entered my room without knocking.

“Vanessa, is it hard for you to write about the things you’re dreaming?”

I offered a blank expression to her dwindling brain. “Well, Dr. Bloom told me it would help to write about the nightmares. Maybe then he can tell me why I’m having them.”

She rushed to my side and gave me a hug while she gushed. “Sweetie, I can’t stand thinking of you having those nightmares every night. There couldn’t be anything worse than that.”

My mind swam in imaginings far worse than she could envision. “I’m okay. Writing about the dreams helps me focus so one day I’ll understand them.”

She planted a kiss on my forehead, as she patted my head as if I were the family pet. “Alright, I’ll leave you alone for a while. I don’t want you to stay up here all night though. Come downstairs in a little while and watch television with daddy and me.”

Right. Like that was ever going to happen. I rewarded her concern with a wan smile. “Okay. I want to write while I can remember the dreams.”

She tippy-tapped her way out, closing the door with a decisive click. Journal, schmernal. I’d write some juicy bit of fiction later so the good doctor could psychoanalyze my demented thoughts and attach a diagnosis. Dr. Bloom’s voice permeated my brain, “She wrote in her journal that…” Let him have the dreary pages. Perhaps he’d prescribe new drug therapy—surely what lay in my real diary warranted better medication.

I tossed the journal aside and resumed putting new ideas in my diary. There were numerous writings, but mainly pictures and diagrams. I loved pictures. If only Dr. Bloom knew the key to solving what they assumed were nightmares was just a peek inside this diary then he’d be quite satisfied with himself.

I didn’t have nightmares. I had visions, and those visions became the active force behind my pictures.

Discovery came to me early. If I put my designs on paper, I could control what happened. Not to me, but to others. All it took was a quick line sketch and more mayhem would be caused than if I’d cast an actual hex.

I’d used this gift successfully on those that thought me crazy. James had lost a couple of fingers in shop class after sketching his hand caught in a band saw. Chelsea had lost an eye when I’d drawn an arrow hitting her while she was in P.E. Animals? Well, let’s just say too many had found their way between the covers of my diary.

I thought about my latest work of art, adding the remaining touches to the invisible rope stretching across the stairs. I heard my mother scream. The clatter of her heels banging an eerie tattoo as they danced their way down the steps, her body thuds a dull echo as she absorbed the tippy-tapping sound of her shoes. Damn those shoes anyway… they would always be her downfall.

Oh, well, another nightmare for the diary.

Suzy peered through the ever-thickening wall of fog outside her car as she drove down the winding roads. She was new in town and still adjusting to her surroundings, although right now she was hopelessly lost. She was sure she’d driven past her street in the foggy darkness and had no idea how to find her way back.

The car’s interior suddenly felt very, very cold. Her teeth chattered as she reached out to turn up the heat. The silhouette of a man appeared in the middle of the road and she slammed on the brakes.

“He’s crazy,” she whispered. The man approached, waving. She took her chances and unrolled the window.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but I seem to be lost. Can you give me directions?”

He nodded and walked around the car, opening the passenger side door (hadn’t she locked it?). He climbed in and took a seat, then turned his eyes on her. She shivered, as they were a creepy shade of silvery blue. He spoke in an unnatural voice:

“You’ll always be lost, Suzy.”

She paled. “How do you know my name?”

His eyes narrowed. “I’ve been watching you, Suzy, ever since you moved here.”

“Get out of my car, you freak!”

“No, Suzy. Who, if not me, will ever love you forever and ever and ever?”

She grabbed her cell phone. “I’m calling 911.”

He shook his head. “Do you really think you’ll find reception, Suzy?”

He was right, of course. Nothing could penetrate the thick wall of fog that pressed against the car. Suzy hugged her shoulders and started crying.

“Do you know what I find most interesting about you, Suzy?”

Suzy rocked back and forth.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” said the man. “It’s your silly obsession of making and collecting teddy bears.”

He reached out a claw-like finger and stroked her cheek. A thin line of blood trickled from the fresh cut he’d made and mingled with her tears.

“Why so blue, Suzy?”

“I want to go home.” She sobbed, reaching into her purse and removing a teddy bear.

“Those bears are meant to satisfy some unfulfilled need of yours, aren’t they?”

She rubbed her cheek against the bear’s soft fur and closed her eyes.

“It’s too bad, Suzy, because your needs are as deep and insatiable as…”

“STOP!” she yelled, then closed her eyes again, as they felt very heavy.

She was hardly aware of falling into a deep and soundless sleep as the man exited the car and opened the trunk. Inside were many teddy bears in varying stages of completion. The bags and bags of stuffing that had never been enough to satisfy Suzy’s needs were perfect for his purposes.

He sat across from her on the sofa and sipped his cognac. Her skin glowed against the orange flames of the flickering fire. He sighed and raised his glass: “Here’s to our future together, Suzy Bear.”

Suzy fell from the sofa and thudded softly to the floor. He picked her up and placed her firmly back on the cushions. Tufts of stuffing protruded from her ears. He poked them back in with his clawed fingers, then sat back and swiveled his cognac. After a few minutes, he motioned to her bear collection on the mantelpiece. Suzy’s expression remained vacant. His eyes narrowed and he threw his Cognac snifter against the wall, where it shattered. Amber liquid ran in rivulets to the floor.

“You are so unappreciative of all I’ve done for you, Suzy. Sometimes I just want to rip the stuffing right out of your head. Who, if not me, would love you forever? Can you answer me that? I didn’t think so. I gave you a new lease on love, and yet you sit there like death itself. Well frankly, it doesn’t matter. Because dead or alive, Suzy, love is forever, and ever, and ever, and ever…”

First were the seagulls. They knew before we did, and they left the village. A few days later it was the pigeons that left. Only the crows remain. They’re not afraid of a sea creature. When I walk down the street, all I can hear is their caws, laughing and mocking me. The village elders mutter and remark, “This happened before, eighty years ago, during the Great War.” But those were different times, and we knew what we had to do and when. Now, most of us have passed away, and others left after they lost a loved one. There isn’t anyone who can do it now. It’s just me, and I can’t do it alone because of this bloody rheumatism.

“Hello, John? It’s Cosme, the librarian. Would you like to come fishing with me tomorrow morning? You’ve been in the village for weeks now, and we haven’t had the chance to chat.”

I know when it’s about to rain. My hands always start to hurt, and I can feel it now. It’s like my knuckles open up when I grip something harder than usual. I’m getting old, and someday I’ll have to retire. I don’t have anybody to replace me. The young folks don’t like manual labor; they prefer their offices and their computers. It’s time to find an apprentice. Tonight, after the storm, I’m going to kidnap a child and teach him everything I know. The village will have a new hangman.

“They brought him here a year ago, and since then he’s hardly said a word and when he does, it’s always the same crazy story about a man who steals the hearts of anyone who sees themselves reflected with him in the mirror. He says that he doesn’t have a heart, just a small wasp’s nest that sometimes tickles him, and other times the stings make him writhe in pain.”

“And what do you think?”

“Me? Nothing! I just clean the hospital. But just in case, I don’t get too close to the mirrors. The doctors told me they can’t find a pulse on him.”

In the door’s closing groans can be heard the cries of the forgotten little ones. We are still here. Waiting. He promised not to forget us when everyone else already had, but now I see my hands disappearing. Soon I will be just another noise in this dark old house.

What did you expect? We toys can only live as long as we are part of the lives of others. No longer.

God, help me. What’s a father to do?

Somehow I knew it from the moment we found out my wife was pregnant. The violent mood swings, the crazy accusations, the late-night fights all pointed to some malignant force. Friends and family told me it was my imagination… that and the fact that I married a bitch. Of course they tried to tell me so before we married but as many of you may have known the cold hard reality of an abusive relationship, it’s just not that easy to walk away sometimes. But when she told me she was… “late”… my heart froze.

Months later we stood before a Justice of the Peace, me in an ill fitting, hand-me-down suit and she in of all things a white dress. Even the county clerk smirked at her standing there like a scowling snow angel with swollen belly and fake daisies in her hair. My friend Dan stood beside me with the rings and whispered “Dude, are you really, really, REALLY sure about this?” Being the only person she hadn’t alienated, he was my only friend left. I wanted to tell him “NO NO NO NO NO, I’m not sure! Get me the hell out of this!” But alas, the “I do” was said and the papers signed.

Over the next few weeks we fought nonstop. We never even got a honeymoon. I was pulling double shifts in a copy center and a liquor store to make ends meet while she sat on her grouchy ass ordering God-knows-what off of QVC. The credit cards built and she just got meaner by the day. I worked my ass off to try to keep up with the bills but we were losing ground. I tried reasoning with her and she just spat venom in my face. These were dark times indeed. I knew this kind of negativity would influence our unborn child but what could I do? She refused therapy or counseling of any kind. I felt quite hopeless.

Just a few months further on, there we were in a cabin in the mountains, her in a tub with some cornflake in linens telling her to “let go” and “let him come out on his own.” It had been snowing for the better part of the day and it was looking like we’d be left with whatever consequences would come from doing this out in the middle of nowhere. There was no phone, no emergency techs nearby, and no real heat to speak of aside from a little bit of wood, which was quickly running out. At this point I had lost any control over our situation and she wouldn’t listen to reason.

When it finally came out, I thought it was just awash in blood it was so red. But when it latched onto our midwife and she began to scream, it all hit me at once. My wife had passed out and was sinking into the tub while the woman with my child attached to her face flung about madly, shrieking and spraying blood all over the cabin. I grabbed a piece of wood and tried to knock the child from her face but missed, hitting the woman on the top of the skull. She landed by the fireplace and her hair began smoldering. The red child thing looked up at me with orange cat eyes and actually smiled at me. I looked about the room and took stock of the situation. My wife was unconscious and laying on the bottom of a tub, probably dead. Our midwife lay by the fireplace, her whole head engulfed in flames now. And for all intents and purposes my child, the Anti-Christ, was now leering at me from the floor where it… stood. I collapsed onto the floor and lost consciousness.

The police claim I murdered my wife and the midwife and must have burned the infant even though there was no evidence.