MicroHorror

I was making tea on the kitchen counter. I had boiled the water, prepared the bag and was reaching for the kettle when I saw a rat. As I jumped back my palm pressed the edge of the washing machine then skidded down the gap by the wall. Not pain, not alarm, but the thought that one rat might mean a dozen caused me to jerk my hand away from that dark crevice and look down. When I looked up again the rat was gone. My knuckles stung where they had been chafed by the rough plaster, but I took up the broom and instantly made a search of the room. I banged on cupboard doors, thrust the broomhead between the sides of the cooker and the refrigerator, always keeping my ears attuned to the telltale scuttle of claws on wood. Nothing. I then thought about making a thorough search of the house, for the kitchen door had been open at the time. Somehow, I knew it would be fruitless. Rats are skittish creatures at the best of times, fleeing at the first sign of discovery. Yet this particular rat had eyed me from but a few feet away (I could have reached out and touched it had I wished); it had eyed me with nothing more than a coldly resolute stare. It would eye me as such from any dark corner it chose. My thumping-gallumping attempts to unearth it had served to do nothing more than upset the neighbors, whom I now heard moving in the room below.

That night I had a dream: The kitchen floor had fallen in. Plaster filled the air, and the cupboards, cooker, and boiler were covered in white. I clung to the edge of the doorway, surveying all this in a sort of vertiginous horror. The floorboards and joists had sagged toward the darkness beneath, which the light still revealed in shifting shadows as it swung from the ceiling above. As I looked down, I noticed that one of the boards had not snapped, but extended willow-like to the bottom, where my eye was drawn to the pall of filthy black water that entirely flooded this basement chamber. The light had settled somewhat and I could now make out wriggling things in the water which I knew instinctively were rats. My first fear was that they would use the lone floorboard as a bridge, and so make their way to the room above; my second, that the kitchen would henceforth become like the room below, irredeemably filthy and polluted. Yet there was nothing I could do, for the board extended from the other side of the room, and I could not, nor would not, set a single foot into that room. Instead I watched the water intently, almost willing the rats away from it and praying that whatever forces keeping the wood from snapping would relinquish. But as is always the case with dreams (or nightmares rather) the very act of wishing for something is turned on its head. The board did not snap, one of the rats tugged itself horribly out of the water, and in that telepathic way they have, a hundred of his fellows joined him, a surging black mass of bodies. I slammed the door and awoke.

Since my dream (or dreams) I can no longer tolerate the sight of rats, as I can no longer tolerate anything that coexists with us in the darkness and filth of our most brightly lit places.

A long-abandoned cinema; half a bottle of vodka; for an old tramp called Ken, this was as good as it got. A few other hobos wandered around, getting a warm off the fire (a rusty oil drum that had been cut in half, and then fashioned into a crude brazier), but there was no sense of community; this was a warm place on a cold night, and that was it.

The entire building stank of death, for it had now become a tramps’ graveyard. In a far corner, several large rats were feeding on a corpse, but few took any notice; as soon as they had gorged themselves, the body would be dragged across the room and thrown into the basement, there to rot among the bones of its predecessors; after all, these people were the lost and forgotten of the community; a decent burial meant nothing to them.

Ken drank his vodka, and didn’t give the corpse a second glance.

What does it matter? he thought; We’re no good to anyone.

Torch in hand, the fat man crept into the basement, wrinkling his nose at the stench of death.

Damn place, he thought: but if he could find just one fresh corpse.

A scan with the torch did not bode well; none of these cadavers were less than a week old. He put the torch in his pocket and lit a cigarette.

Things were getting desperate. Business had been slow before, but that outbreak of bovine cholera had been a killer. The papers reckoned the crisis would be over in a week, a fortnight at the most.

Much too late; he needed to keep his customers sweet, and if he couldn’t meet their demands…

“Then I won’t have any damned customers!”

Suddenly a door opened and a body came tumbling down the stairs. The fat man nearly swallowed his cigarette in fright, but if this was a fresh kill, he’d be in business.

Taking deep drags on his Woodbine, he waited a moment before taking out his torch and shining it across the room.

“Ah, a recently deceased.”

A closer inspection revealed that the rats had had a field day; but that was fine, there was still plenty of fat on him.

Pulling on a pair of gloves, the fat man grabbed an arm and dragged the corpse across the room. Out into the alley, and the body was thrown into the back of an old Morris Minor van.

A moment to calm his nerves, and then the fat man got into the van and drove off. He had a long night ahead of him.

Driving a hook into the corpse’s spine, the fat man hauled the hobo off the ground and slid a length of canvas under him. In less than an hour he had fully dismembered the body and carefully lowered the pieces into a vat of acid; it was, he felt, a most effective way of getting rid of a cadaver.

But it wasn’t perfect; for a person’s body fat doesn’t dissolve quite so easily.

This, however, was not going to be a problem.

Midday, and the man was back in business.

“Cheeseburger and a side order of fries, please,” said his first customer of the day.

“Coming up,” said the fat man, pouring another bag of potatoes into a pan of hissing, boiling fat.

They say, at night, damned voices call out from the centre of Pevril Woodland. But it’s daylight, and Jake, running along dappled paths, laughs while his friend Sam counts up to one hundred. As Jake runs, his feet sink into decades of mulch and small dead things while all around him there is a deafening silence, but he’s unaware of that and his mute, half-human watchers.

On reaching the count of one hundred, Sam sets off, following the same paths until he reaches an oak tree where ten centuries have gouged a large hollow deep into gnarled wood. Peering inside, looking into musty depths, he sees his friend tumbling, tumbling downwards, chorused by ten thousand screaming voices.

“Pick up the hammer!” the voices demanded.

“No,” Phil replied.

“You must pick up the hammer!” the voices repeated.

“I WILL NOT!”

Six months ago the voices began speaking to him, demanding he pick up the hammer inside his desk. He knew what they wanted, but he didn’t want to do it. In the beginning he heard them once a week, whispering softly inside his head. Phil did his best to ignore them but it was becoming harder and harder. Now they shouted instead of whispered.

He kept quiet about his problem. No one would have believed him anyway. People would assume he was crazy and lock him away. He wasn’t crazy, though. Phil didn’t simply imagine them. He knew they were there and he knew who they were. They were a vast collection of demons sent forth to torment him. Why they chose him, he didn’t know.

“Pick up the hammer!” the voices insisted.

“NEVER!” he shouted, grateful no one was around to hear him.

“Oh, we think that you will,” they laughed, “because if you do not we will torment you for eternity. You shall never escape us, not even in death. We will haunt you forever! Now pick up the hammer.”

A thousand voices then shrieked inside his head. The noise pierced Phil’s soul like a dagger. Over and over they screamed, bringing him to his knees. He rolled around on the ground and beat his head onto the wooden floor. He wanted to die from the unbearable pain. The screaming voices ceased after a time but the pain stayed with him for a long time.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Phil wailed.

“Because we can!” they replied, laughing.

“I can’t!”

“Do it and we will go away.”

“Do you promise?” Phil asked, daring to hope.

“Yes. Now do it!” they ordered.

Phil rose shakily and reluctantly walked to his desk. He slowly opened his drawer. It scratched against the wood with a hiss. The hammer lay exactly where he had left it many months ago. The metal winked at him as if it was greeting an old friend. He reached down and clasped the handle. It was a simple wooden hammer with a metal claw top, but it held power within it. Phil could feel it.

“Good!” The voices purred.

Phil could hear their glee.

“Now go,” they said.

Phil left his apartment and headed to a house several blocks away. The silence within told him it was empty. Walking slowly but deliberately, Phil went to the back door. Surprisingly, he found it unlocked. He crept inside and waited inside the hallway bathroom for the opportune time. Thankfully, the voices were silent.

After an hour he heard the front door open. Footsteps shuffled down the hall. Phil’s body tensed as he raised the hammer high above his head. A man entered into the hallway on his way to the bathroom. Without hesitation Phil plunged the face of the hammer into the man’s skull. His victim reeled backward against the opposite wall, squealing in pain.

Phil yanked the hammer up and struck again. The man fell to the ground, blood gurgling from his lips. At the third strike, the hammer face became stuck in the man’s skull. Phil had to wiggle it back and forth to free it. He brought the hammer to the side and smashed the man’s nose, crumpling the cartilage. He knew the man was long dead, but Phil wouldn’t stop. He kept smashing until nothing remained but bloody pulp. Panting, Phil finally stopped and caught his reflection in the mirror. There were bits of bone, flesh and blood splattered across his face.

“Excellent!” the voices chimed. “Now, we have more for you to do.”
“NO!” Phil whined. “You said you would go away.”

Throaty chuckles filled his head.

“We lied! We will never leave you! Now kill the woman!” they commanded

Phil raised his hammer and struck his mother.

Oddly enough, I only really ever feel safe when something is in my hand… But, sometimes, I have to put it down or put it away… That’s when they co7098olyi,gjhn

We spread out the blanket at a grassy spot near the lake.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” she said. She opened the basket and brought out a charred human head. She smiled. “And there’s ribs too!”

We were playing the old kid’s game.

“I see a cat,” she said, pointing at the clouds.

“And there’s a train,” I said, pointing.

The shifting clouds formed a kaleidoscope of changing objects for us.

“Is that a face?” she asked me. I looked closer. “Sure seems like one.”

Then the face grinned at us. A giant hand reached down.

It was a big day for me. I wanted to look my best. I showered, shaved, and combed my hair. I put on the new suit and the black polished shoes. As I tied the knot around my neck, I felt great.

Then I kicked the chair out from underneath me.

I’d passed the shop several times before. What made me stop now, peering through the grime-streaked glass at the grinning, wide-eyed faces beyond, I do not know, but presently the bell tinkled, the street sounds dimmed, and the door closed softly behind me.

The shop was larger than I expected. Puppets had been crowded near the front, hung up or propped in little groups where they jostled for attention from the strangers outside. Beyond them, rows of shelves stretched into the gloom.

Down one of these rows I walked, looking about me with a sort of inane glee. On every side slumped lifeless little figures, their legs dangling, their heads cocked coyly to one side.

I picked one up: a particolored Punchinello with brass buttons and tassels. I squeezed his body, I waved his arms and legs, made him pirouette and kick the air. Finally, I made him take a bow, and sat him back on the shelf.

I saw the longing in the eyes of the others and smiled. “Pick me! Pick me!” they seemed to say, dead hands struggling to rise. Each was given its chance at life.

This had been going on for some time when something brushed my nose. It was dark here, and I stood still and waited. Again it brushed my nose. Soft little shoes. I looked up and saw one of the puppets seated before me. Its feet swung back and forth, like a hideous child’s; its head nodded softly, its chest heaved in minute, jerking breaths beneath the fabric.

I looked at my hands, which rested by my sides…

I never passed the shop again. I no longer know if it exists. Though sometimes, when I look about me, I come upon figures, slumped in curbs, hanging from windowsills and propped in doorways, writhing with a movement that is not mine. Horror seizes me then, as it did in the shop, and I flee through endless streets where it seems that the eyes of a thousand thousand dead things regard me. But then I recall that dead things attract rats, and I recall also the black sleek shape that darted away as I screamed, leaving the puppet lifeless once more.

Mary woke up with a raging headache. She lay quietly in bed with her eyes closed, desperately hoping it would disappear. The light streaming through the curtains only increased her pain. She covered her head with a pillow and waited for the wave of agony to subside. She tried to remember what had happened the previous day, but her memory was blank.

She slowly left her bed and almost vomited from the sharp pain piercing her skull. Mary hoped the cool water of a shower would soothe her throbbing head. As she stood under the spray, she again tried to remember what she had done last night. The mere attempt to think only brought more agony.

Instead of relief, the shower added more pain to her throbbing head. Each individual drop of water felt like a blade impaling her brain. Disheartened, Mary hoped a large cup of coffee might keep the snarling demons inside her head at bay. She dressed slowly, pausing many times to close her eyes and rest against the bed. After what seemed like hours she finally made her way downstairs, each step bringing tears to her eyes. Over and over she wondered why she couldn’t remember what had happened.

Mary opened the door to the kitchen and stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes flew open and her mouth trembled, stuck in a silent scream. There on the kitchen table lay her mother-in-law, a huge blade still sticking in her chest. Her torso had been cut open and strips of meat had been sliced away. Human flesh had been strewn all over the kitchen. Thick congealed blood coated the blue-green tiles crimson.

Her mother-in-law’s throat had been slashed as if to bleed her like a deer. Her skull had been cracked open and her hair barely clung to the tatters of ruined skin. The exposed brain was ripped apart by greedy hands. The tongue which had given Mary so many snide remarks was cut from her mouth and lay against the refrigerator as if casually tossed away. Her eyes had been punctured by long, wooden spoons and leaked viscous fluid onto her fatty cheeks. The intestines had been pulled from a gaping hole in her stomach, curling onto the floor like long bloody snakes.

Flies buzzed within the room and began laying their eggs into the corpse upon her table. The palpable stench of blood was overwhelming, making Mary’s stomach pitch and roll.
Suddenly Mary heard familiar footsteps behind her and spun around to face her husband. Shaking with rage, she slapped him across the face and screamed.

“YOU BASTARD! HOW COULD YOU! YOU LEFT THE MEAT OUT AND NOW IT’S SPOILED!”