MicroHorror

It did not take a while for Neil to make out the ghost, the one who would soon replace him, in the corner of his living room.

The ghost had all the makings of him, down to the mannerisms and the mole at the side of the neck. It ate with him, went to work with him, and rode beside him on the bus. He could not do anything about it. Neil grew weaker as the thing grew stronger.

Once, he tried to stab it with a kitchen knife. It was half-man, half-ghost then, so there was very little bleeding. It did not die. It disappeared for two days and came back unscarred and undaunted as ever. Now, the ghost was almost human and could no longer materialize at will. Soon, Neil would disappear forever when the ghost was completely human.

Burning a ghost was impossible. Exorcism was only for multiple-personality disorder cases. There was nothing else to do.

Neil’s office manager, the policeman who lived next door, Mr. Grundy at the drug store, the milkman, and his older brother Ted in Nebraska–they had all been completely replaced. Neil could see it in their changelings’ eyes: the gloating, the taunting before the still unclaimed men with a ghost’s inevitable immortality and immunity from any injury or sickness.

These days, nobody wanted to talk about the hateful, hateful ghosts. Every one fought his own battle to keep his body from being replaced.

Next time he saw the ghost who was trying to get close to him so that it could simulate all the right configurations and steal what was left of his symmetry, Neil would try to tackle it and wring the bastard’s neck provided it could not disappear as quickly as before.

Besides, it was already almost human. There was still a chance he could kill it before it was too late.

With so many rivers at hand, drowning now ceased to amaze him. So he learned how to use the rope. It did not give him much pleasure, but he took what he could and moved on.

Red-faced and squatting before the remains of his last victim, he was caught a century ago. His captors cut off his bloody hands which were smeared with the torn flesh of the newborn he had devoured. Then they cauterized his eyes with a welding torch.

Torture was inflicted one day at a time, but nobody dared kill him lest he would be reborn in another time and place where no one could recognize the mark of the beast on his wrist where his pulse was.

They called him Jack, and he was never left alone since.

People from around the world flocked to the small town of Bardenstan, where Jack’s prison cell was located. He could be viewed through a wide porthole after paying twenty dollars to the Ticketmaster at the gate.

Three physicians worked round the clock to nurture him with an IV feed, to check his vital signs, and to administer the torture which was televised twice a week during primetime. He was flogged, sodomized, castrated, scalded, etc. All in the name of peace.

His screams of pain comforted the world. It was recorded and played on the radio. Children were lulled to sleep by it. Parables were written about him.

Everybody felt safe.

Back in the black room they stared at the walls. There was disease crawling faster than the cool draft from outside. From the corner of his eye he spotted Eva. She dropped to all fours and howled but he couldn’t really hear it. The blood was rushing so fast he felt tired; he broke glass to relieve it. In the hot, pumping fountain painting him he saw himself reflected, panting. And the blood was still rushing. And Eva was still howling. And the whole damn wall was covered in crawling disease. Why was this room so goddamned black? Out of the corner of her eye, Eva watched Job fall to all fours and howl. And her blood began to boil.

When this all started I thought about ending my life but I didn’t quite have the nerve. If you really think about it it takes a lot of courage to kill yourself, more, I’m afraid, than I have.

I know what happened wasn’t really my fault. I reason with myself constantly that what happened to Jim and Theresa was an accident, a horrible accident that I was only a bystander to. I’ll tell you the whole story but I have to make it fast; I fear my time is limited. I know the basement won’t hold them much longer, there are simply too many of them.

It really began when I was just a kid. My cousin Eddie was like a best friend to me. I remember how I cried at his funeral. He was only sixteen. His mother, my Aunt Paula, blamed me for his death. She never did like me though.

My Uncle Leo was worse than my aunt. I heard when he found her dead from a heart attack he didn’t so much as shed a tear. Then he cashed in her life insurance, which put him high on the list of suspects.

I know I’m getting carried away again. The sounds are getting louder and I can smell them now. The stench is filling the house like a disease.

Detective Mollar was a nice guy. He was always very understanding and courteous with me, probably because he knew I was an orphan… twice. God, how I miss Mom and Dad; car accidents are so frightening, aren’t they?

Detective Mollar admitted to me that he suspected my Uncle Leo but was unable to prove it. He vowed that he would find the truth and not rest until he did.

I liked him. He was honest and hard working. I haven’t visited his grave yet but I’ve meant to, I really have.

The door going to the basement is holding for now but shows signs of breaking. I can hear the wood begin to splinter from the pressure on it.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I killed them. Well, believe me, I did not kill anybody. I’ve never killed anything in my life.

Those things in the basement are the ones responsible. Hell, I don’t even know how many of them are down there. Don’t care to find out, either.

They got my girlfriend Sarah, they got my boss Mr. Sholt, I think they even got my dog Mickey. They seem to be able to transcend our material plane somehow and phase themselves in and out of our dimension. Why they can’t break the seal of my basement I don’t know, nor do I care as long as they can’t get out. But even that security is in jeopardy now.

I knew the door wouldn’t last! My time has finally come!

Mickey! Come here, boy. What’s that in your mouth, fella? Oh, it’s your tongue. Looks kinda strange all shriveled up like that.

Eddie! How’d you get here? I thought you were up in Kensal Cemetery. I hardly recognized you, being more bones than skin.

Detective Mollar! It’s good to see you again, even though you’re missing most of your skull.

Mom? Is it really you? God, how I missed you, and you too, Dad.

Sarah! It’s really you! You look… uh… great, even without most of your face. So that’s what brains really look like.

I can’t believe it, this is great! You’re all back, even Jim and Theresa.

Hey… wait a minute. Why are all of you looking at me like that? Hey, slow down, will ya? Why are you guys coming at me like that? What’s the matter?

Mom? Dad?

I can feel the frustration build inside of me as I search for the loaf of bread. I know that we have some left because I made myself a sandwich just yesterday.

The breadbox yields only half a loaf of rye, which clearly won’t do. Serena developed a mild rash the last time she had rye bread.

I finally locate the proper bread and deposit four slices into the toaster. That done, I whirl around to face the stove. Two stainless steel fry pans are perched upon the burners. I bought them just a month ago.

In one of the pans the bacon that covers the bottom sizzles and pops while the other pan yearns for the delivery of gooey yellow eggs. Scrambled is the best way to go.

I gingerly toss in a dash of salt and pepper and carefully grate four slices of American cheese and one slice of Mozzarella. I toss the shavings into the bowl of egg and add one-quarter cup of whole milk. Serena has always loved how light and fluffy my eggs are.

The toast pops up and in thirty seconds I have them slathered with warm butter, sprinkled with parsley flakes and deposited next to the bacon. Wooden spatula in hand (I’ve found that wood doesn’t leave a metallic taste like the metal spatulas do) I flip the eggs several times over, being extra careful to do so evenly. When I am completely satisfied with them I scoop them out of the pan and arrange them on the plate. Grinning with pride I am now ready to present my wife with breakfast in bed.

Our bedroom door looms in front of me at the end of the hallway. Behind it is the woman I love more than life itself. Serena completes me in every way possible and I don’t know what I would do if we were ever apart.

I push the door open and call my wife’s mane. I sing to her that I have breakfast in bed ready for her and proceed to enter the room.

She lies in our bed on the far side of the room. Soft sunlight filters through the blinds and cascades down to the floor. The pale blue comforter that she loves so much is draped over her up to her neck.

Is she asleep? Perhaps.

I set the tray down over her midsection and lightly nudge her, being ever so careful not to startle her as I whisper her name. I nearly jump out of my skin when she abruptly sits up and smiles at me.

“Good morning dear,” she coos. “Is this for me?” She glances down at the food. I grin and nod my head.

“Eat up, honey,” I reply and wait for her to dig in.

Her delicate hand lifts the stainless steel fork and buries it in the mound of eggs in front of her. She smiles at me as she begins to partake of the meal I have so painstakingly prepared.

It takes only a few minutes for the poison to do its work. Her eyes grow wide and her skin turns pale. The realization that she is dying reflects on her face; the fact that I am the one killing her reflects in her eyes.

The horror of my actions pains me deeply but I reassure myself that it is for the best. I wipe the small trickle of blood that is streaming down the back of my neck. When I dropped dead from a heart attack a few hours ago I must have hit the side of the counter. Fortunately Serena did not notice it. I sit down at the foot of the bed and gaze into her eyes… and wait.

“Either I’m an Idiot or I’m a Genius.” The two extremes muddled in my head like ants until I dropped my cutting knife into the floorboards, with an echoing thump. It stood straight up, flimsy and threatening.

I stood still and stared at it for a moment, thinking, then looked back at the raw meat I was cutting on the marble counter. I swayed with the bending blade, Zen-like. A commode flushed down the hallway; a rushed patter of feet creaked the wooden floor. I reached down to rip the knife from the boards in one giant, manly sweep–it was stuck. I pulled again, like Arthur but without the magic old man–wouldn’t budge. I decided this was not the answer. I took a deep, calming breath, closing my eyes; I gradually opened them, revealing the old foe that had mocked me all these years. I took one large step back and roundhouse kicked the blade as hard I could–freed! The knife clanged and spun across the spotless kitchen floor, stopping next to a Playmobil thing. I held my prize high above my head, grinning at my audience. A sunbeam from the window hit the metal.

“I hope you’re happy,” she said with disgust, staggering comically into the kitchen, dropping two oversized suitcases loudly on the hollow floor. “I’m cutting meat,” I said, looking down, muffling my voice. “Don’t play your games. I’m done. This,” she said, gesturing loudly at the walls around her, “is not real. And you…You!” she yelled with her usual high-pitched scream, pointing threateningly at my face like a cartoon, “are an Idiot!” The mascara running down her cheeks made her look like a charcoal sketch that had been half erased.

The screen door yawned shut, a car started and spun off down the drive, onto the two-lane, up the interstate ramp onto 81 North, and off the ramp in D.C., into her parents’ boring two-bedroom apartment. “An Idiot?” The cruel words stuck in my head like a knife, stuck between the floorboards. “It cannot be.”

I slammed the knife with my hulking, masculine arm, splitting the raw meat into halves. I felt powerful and disgusting at the same time. Blood dripped out of the fissure, pooling onto the floor around my feet like a melted cherry popsicle.

Feeling light headed, I looked around me where her dramatic arms had pointed.

The sun was shinning brilliantly between the satin curtains, illuminating the pieces.

Gross, disfigured limbs hung from hooks on oak paneling. “Pure Genius,” I concluded. But, I did need to sharpen my knife.

He reached the door of his apartment, put his hand into his pocket and grasped the key, and then paused. He turned and looked behind him. The hallway was empty, but halfway down it split off into another hallway, and the entranceway to that was dark and, seemingly, full of menace.

He turned around and saw before him the door and the two feet of empty air between him and it.

From that patch of empty air came a voice: “I am always just before your face.”

It’s all over the news; two boys walked into their high school and gunned down ten people. Students. Teachers. No care for social status. The two boys wore trench coats and listened to heavy metal, perhaps even worshiped the devil.

The next day the jocks apologize to the goths. The popular girls flirt with band nerds. Everyone’s nervous, being overly friendly to avoid something like that from happening at their school. No one’s going to be picked on this year.

The two boys shake hands with the president, their mission accomplished. Phase one of Utopia is complete.

She had been accused of being a false god. Someone, somewhere, had found proof that she had been born. Ishtar sighed. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. She was tied to a stake, about to be burned alive for her crimes. Ishtar looked around, reddish eyes taking note of the people surrounding her. Men held torches, their wives huddled together whispering blasphemies. Her faithful virgins wept at her feet, next in line to be executed. Ishtar adored her followers. She adored this world. But as with all things, it must eventually come to an end. The men came forward, lighting the pine straw and wood at her feet. She glared at them through a curtain of black hair.

“Back to the drawing board,” Ishtar said to them with a smile… then she destroyed the world.

The furor in the playroom couldn’t be ignored. Mother took the stairs two at a time.

“Okay, what is it about this time?”

“It’s Gilly,” protested Marta, letting go of her sibling’s throat.

Gilly coughed suitably hoarsely to indicate that she alone was the injured party.

“She keeps biting the heads off the Smiths at 41.”

Gilly coughed again and then smiled–a picture-book smile surrounded by blond curls and innocence.

“The Smiths at 41” was the name Marta had given to the family that lived in the rather splendid Victorian doll’s house she’d received for her birthday. It had windows you could look through and a front that opened right up. The rooms had authentic wallpaper designs, tiny candelabra, convincing fires and the most darling furniture–real porcelain washbowls and jugs. Best of all there was a family, a maid, a cook and a butler–“Butler,” Marta called him. Marta didn’t have a great imagination for names but the things that went on in that house were a constant source of amusement to her.

“That’s the third,” wailed a traumatized Marta. She blinked back the tears.

Daddy had stuck two of the heads back on but they didn’t look the same. Gilly had defiantly swallowed this one so that wasn’t going to happen.

Mother comforted her and promised to get replacement dolls, though she didn’t know how since they came with the house. “You, young lady, can go to bed now, and no supper.”

“No supper?” repeated Gilly.

“Well you can’t be hungry,” said Mother. “You’ve eaten.”

Gilly stomped out in a huff. Stupid doll’s house. Silly Marta treated them like real people. Don’t want to play this… don’t want to play that… I want to play with my doll’s house… nah, nah, nah!

Mother mentioned it to Daddy as they took their own supper later on.

“It’s just a spat, love. Sibling rivalry. All sisters fight, he said.”

“But biting their heads off, dear, I mean it’s horrible!”

He patted her knee. “If you ask me she’s only doing it because it got a great reaction the first time.”

She sighed, “I suppose you’re right.”

“You’ll see I am. It’ll work itself out. Children go through these ghoulish notions.”

Marta’s face beamed as she opened the doll’s house the next morning. They were all there–the Smiths! Mummy and Daddy Smith were there and Martina and baby Ronald. Butler was in his room below stairs and cook was in the kitchen and there was Grace the scullery maid and all with heads. And there was a new doll too–an older girl with blond curls.

“Thank you, Mummy!” she effused, coming out onto the landing to meet her.

“What for, darling?”

Marta dragged her in to look at the dolls.

“But I didn’t have a chance to…” Oh, clever man, she thought. He must have purchased a second set at the same time as the first.

Gilly came in. “Got more stupid dolls, I see,” she teased.

“And if you… do anything to them, I’ll not speak for the consequences. Do you understand?” said Mother.

“I wouldn’t touch her old dolls,” said Gilly, and she didn’t all that day.

“I think that’s done the trick,” said Mother at supper. “It was clever of you to replace the dolls so quickly.”

“I? The dolls?”

“Yes, dear. The new dolls in the doll’s house.”

“But I didn’t…”

His rebuttal was interrupted by a loud thud from upstairs. Both parents rushed from the table. The nursery door was ajar and inside stood Marta trembling, covered in blood. Strewn on the floor at her feet all the dolls lay headless and beside them was the torso of her sister Gilly. Her head had rolled across the floor towards the doll’s house. Her hand clutched fast the doll with the blond curls, still intact.