MicroHorror

The office was well appointed with matching plush, oversized leather chairs for patient and doctor, burled mahogany desk and matching bookcases, and an enormous impressionist painting of a girl in a field of flowers–an original by the looks of it. Heavy shades were drawn and precise lighting made the room look as though it were glowing rather than illuminated.

“Now tell me, Mr. Allen, why are you afraid of the dark?”

Mr. Allen grinned, revealing the tips of white teeth. “I think you’ve misunderstood, doc. I’m only frightened if I’m not alone.”

Dr. McConville jotted a note but still managed an air of detachment, as if he were bored with the patient and the problem already–five minutes into their first session. He sighed and said, “And why is that important?”

“Because the other person is unaware of what might be lurking in the darkness.”

Dr. McConville’s gaze remained fixed on Mr. Allen, as if expecting further explanation. When no more words were spoken he replied, “Being afraid of the dark is an irrational fear for a 30-year-old man, Mr. Allen.”

“Everyone starts out afraid of the dark, doc. Just like we all start out afraid of heights. Now why do you suppose that is?”

“It’s generally assumed that fear of heights is based on a primitive survival instinct inherited from our ancestors who lived in trees. Fall out and get eaten.”

“Exactly.”

“What, exactly?”

“That’s why people are afraid of the dark.”

“I’m not following your logic.”

“Being afraid of the dark is also a survival instinct inherited from our ancestors against the cunning predator cloaked in darkness.”

“I see.”

“No you don’t. If you did you would be terrified of the dark, doc.”

“I’m not afraid of the dark, Mr. Allen.”

“You should be.”

Dr. McConville sighed again. “I’m going to turn off the lights and show you there is nothing to fear.” Dr. McConville rose from his chair and reached for the switch.

“Don’t do it, doc. Please.”

Dr. McConville’s fingers touched the switch and paused. “It’s all right, Mr. Allen. Nothing will happen to you.”

“I know,” Mr. Allen said, his grin flashing into a broad, sinister smile, revealing the full length of vicious fangs. “But something will happen to you, doc.”

On his fingertips he can feel the breeze. On his arms, in his hair, he can feel the warm breeze that brings flowers into this place, this dark place. They are far away. He cannot reach far enough from here to find the walls. He has stepped out into the center. He has taken the leap, he has walked away from boundary, and only to feel, smell, this rose effused air. He is open, and with his arms outspread he cannot remember from which direction he came and his heart is beating in his chest a frenetic code and his breath whistles out of his mouth agape with sudden fear because his boundary is gone. His arms and legs are buzzing with adrenaline; he must fly. He is still a moment longer, trying to find again that place in him that felt the breeze, the place inside that opened briefly, fluttered like wings, yawned and filled itself with the feeling of the scented air, the memory of the exhilaration of feeling nothing but flowers. He finds it; he holds it; he flies. He runs knowing that he will hit a wall, knowing that this expanse does not last forever, and there is grotesque comfort in that certainty, a certainty never present when he can feel the air. He runs with feet that slap the ground, the metal ground, each plane held together by bolts that rip into his exposed skin when the two find each other. The echo runs ahead of him and hits the wall a moment before he does, but he does not bounce back, he is glued, he is spread against the wall, his cheek against the cool metal, his heavy breath condensing on its surface, his palms flat and trembling. The wall is all that he can feel, smell, all that there is. His knees are buckling, his body is sliding down, his cheek is creating friction against the wall, the scars on his cheek creating friction, the scars that furrow deep into his skin, from both cheeks to both eyelids, over both eyebrows and into his forehead, and crossed the other way; two x’s over two empty eye sockets, in the puckered lines of scars. His upper body is coming away from the wall, is doubling over his folded knees; his trembling hands are rising to trace the lines again, his hands that he will never see; love will always be blind.

They hang; some in bunches, others alone. Umbilical cords connect them to maternal branches. The babies sway gently in the breeze. Sun bakes forest floor.

The infants gurgle happily.

Footsteps approach, in soft grass. The man salivates, eyes glazed. Animalistic.

Pauses; sniffs the air; reveals discoloured teeth; snarls. Bloodshot eyes swivel toward a dangling foetus cluster.

Unsheathes his knife.

The infants sense danger. Scream. Agonizingly.

He falls to his knees, knife dropped. Covers his ears, which bleed through his fingers.

Foetal leeches jump, cords elastic. Countless needled jaws affix themselves.

His death is slow torture.

They drain him, withdraw. Bloated.

His alabaster corpse lies stinking in the calescent sun.

They hang, swaying gently in the breeze.

Until the next feed.

Laverne lay on a bed of coals, waiting. A charred picture of her ex-husband hung on the brimstone wall. She’d waited 50 years for his soul to join hers in hell, and she was growing impatient. She wanted him to feel the endless, crushing pain she felt. She closed her eyes and concentrated on ripping his soul through space and time into the fiery depths. Dark energy ripped through her being. She found herself in a familiar bedroom. A frail man in bed stirred.

“Who are you?” the old man asked.

“Don’t you remember me, dear? I’ve come to take you home.”

The corpse lay on the floor, bloodied from smashing its way through the window. They watched the news, hoping to find out if there were more. Van, a pizza delivery boy, sat next to her. Stabbing a walking corpse with an electric knife had squelched Beth’s appetite, so she let him have the pizza. She kept the knife close, though, just in case.

“…caused by a virus,” the reporter said, “from an infected tomato crop.” When the reporter listed PizzaRama among the affected restaurants, Van froze mid-bite. Beth stood over him, blade whirring. She couldn’t take any chances.

I hold the knife, dripping blood of the insane,
I slew it, the creature haunting my thoughts…
It lies dead on the floor, smiling at me,
and shocked as I am… for I realize the creature…
is me.

The stairs lead up to a holier place
and as you slowly walk up them
you see the images of your life
passing by on the sides.
your father beating you
your mother laughing at you
you were only 10 years old…
but you showed them…
you showed them how sharp you made that knife.

When your mommy and daddy tell you those stories
about the monster under your bed and how he is ever so gory,
you might imagine a creature with red eyes, long fangs,
hair covering its face, containing its saliva flowing like it’s winning a race,
just waiting for you to turn out the light…
You’d never guess that that creature…
is me.

So, you caught me.
The source of all the slaughter.
In the house made of the flesh and blood,
of the many victims I claimed.
But you’d never expect…
that the bones are used…
To keep at peace
the creature
that lives
inside of
me.

In the empty room stood a pine coffin, open.

Iggy had invited no guests. His grandmother wouldn’t have wanted it, he told people. And anyway, what a ridiculous expense for a dead person.

He had no intention of staying sober himself, however. “Dear old Granny,” he said each time he took a drink of fine whiskey. “Dear old Granny.” He let out a laugh. He admired his youthful face in the mirror.

His rich youthful face.

Dear old Granny had done well. A shrewd lady. For two decades a cosmetics conglomerate had paid large annual fees for her potions. And for a photo of her in old age, looking like a woman of thirty.

Ma Sullivan’s Anti-Ageing Cream. It Works Like Magic.

“It sure does,” said Iggy, and he laughed again. He raised his glass. “What a clever old witch you were.”

And what a strong old witch, he’d thought, when he held the pillow onto her face. Who would imagine a person could take so long to die?

“Some party this is,” said a voice.

Iggy stared at the coffin.

“I said, some God-forsaken party this is.”

“Granny?” he said.

“I’ve seen Presbyterians have more fun.”

He dropped the whiskey bottle.

“Not only a murderer,” said the voice, “but cheap.”

He looked into the coffin. On his grandmother’s face there was no movement. Only a silent, wide-eyed scream.

“You user, you sponger. You cheap little prick,” said the voice.

Iggy plugged fingers into his ears, to no avail.

“Hey, pretty boy! Go look in the mirror.”

What Iggy saw there made his heart stop mid-beat. As he watched, his face fattened rapidly. Then it sagged. Then it wrinkled and shrank. It became the face of a bitter, sad man.

A man in his nineties.

“Call it inheritance tax,” said the voice.