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.

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.

How long have we been on this goddamned plane!? I can’t even remember when the Captain said we left the terminal! I swear if this kid behind me doesn’t stop screaming I’m going to… UGH! He’s kicking my seat again! I should say something to his parents. They obviously don’t give a crap. Maybe his father would care if I slammed my foot in his face! And I can’t tell who’s worse, sitting here stuffed between a yeti and a yuppie. Mister smelly, hairy wrestler keeps shoving his elbow in my gut trying to get his big melon low enough to look out the window. Then I have Biff the day trader yammering on his Motorola about his new Porsche even though the hostess asked us to turn off all cell phones and electronics. OH GREAT! Now the brat behind me is watching another freakin’ Barney DVD at full volume and Biff has just kicked it up a notch to show who’s got the bigger brass balls. My arms have fallen asleep because both of these jerk-offs are hogging the armrests in their assault on my sanity. I’d completely freak out but that guy in front of me has been giving me the evil eye since I sat down. He’s projecting the “don’t worry, I’m not an Air Marshal, make your move” vibe and imagining all the ways he’d like to punish me for bumping his seat even though it’s because Biff and the yeti keep knocking into it and I’m just trying to sit here and not lose my cool. I’ve had to use the bathroom since I got on this damned thing and I’m trapped. MAN! What is this fucking Sasquatch looking at out there!? There’s nothing to see! Wait… seriously, there’s nothing out there. Is that fog? It’s just perfectly white out the window. I don’t even see the wing. And now Porsche boy is talking even louder! How does a human voice get that loud!? It’s starting to hurt my ears and my headache is getting worse. Now Captain Howdy is telling us it’ll be another hour before we can taxi out to the runway and wait some more! GOD when will this end!? We still have a… actually I have no idea how long this flight is supposed to be. I think I have a connecting flight out of Boston or something I’ll most likely miss. I can’t even remember where the hell I’m going. Am I going to my parents’ in Florida or am I on a business trip? Will Biff please shut the fuck up!? I’m going to shove that cell phone up his ass in a minute. My iPod is dead, I lost my book, and I’ve read this stupid Airline magazine ten times already. I wish they would at least bring us some water. OOOFFF! “Hey, watch it!” Stupid Sasquatch guy just leers at me and keeps looking out the window at the nothing which is freaking me out pretty badly right now. Now that brat is KICKING MY SEAT AGAIN! And those sing song rhymes are driving me crazy! And Mister Air Marshal is glaring at me again because Biff kicked his seat while crossing his legs and kicked me in the knee to boot! My back is killing me, I just need to stretch or something. Where the hell are we!? How long have we been on this goddamned plane!?

He longed for a good night’s sleep. Not even a night, really. Four hours. Four unbroken hours where he could close his eyes, rest his tired body and let his brain shut down for a bit. He didn’t think it was a lot to ask. He also knew it was impossible.

He started to think back to when he would rest all night and wake up refreshed… When was that? Three years ago? Jeez, it was almost four! Could it be? The days and nights all ran into one another now, one endless blur of working all day, finding food, preparing it… And the cleaning. The endless cleaning. It seemed to him at times that there were bodily fluids everywhere. It seemed to him that no sooner did he clean up after one “accident,” there were more. Always more. And then, inevitably, he would fall asleep. Sometimes in the middle of things, sometimes when there was still work to do. Rarely did he ever plan on going to bed anymore; he just fell asleep wherever he was.

And then there were the noises at night that would wake him. Footsteps. Screaming and wailing. The moans. There were nights he thought he would go mad.

Two years after it all started he went to see his priest.

He told them the twins would settle down in a few years.