MicroHorror

Drizzle plopped down onto Karen’s umbrella, as she hurried along the dimly lit dead end street, dodging potholes and puddles on her way to meet the environmental lawyer turned whistleblower.

Philip Dunbar stopped pacing when the Deputy District Attorney reached him. “What kept you?” he snapped.

“Well, I had to make sure I wasn’t followed,” Karen shot back. “Per your instructions.”

“You sure you weren’t? They can shape shift. I’ve seen them. They’re trying to kill me.” Philip’s words tumbled off his tongue in a single breath. He craned his neck, searching the shadows beyond where he and Karen stood.

“What?” Karen’s voice was sharp with impatience.

Philip narrowed his eyes at her. “Nothing. Let’s get this done.”

“Fine.” Karen stepped forward. “Why don’t you join me under my umbrella?”

“No!” Philip drew back. “The rain will protect me. It douses their fire.” He began to pace, again. “They almost had me, earlier tonight. Before I ran into the rain.”

Karen stood silent, for a moment, her eyes trailing Philip as he walked back and forth before her. “You’re losing your mind, Dunbar. Bad enough, you refused to meet anywhere but here. Now, you’re spouting off about some weird nonsense–” She paused. “I’ve jumped through too many hoops for you, already, over the past couple of days. Just give me the evidence so I can get it back to the office, safe and dry.”

Philip forced his feet to shuffle to his car and his palm to grip the driver’s side door handle. He kept his eyes focused on the better lit end of the deserted street as he reached into his sedan, his movement awkward and robotic. “It’s like the devil is the firm’s biggest client, now,” he commented, his fingers closing around the evidence Karen sought.

His hand trembled as he offered her the small stack of CD jewel cases he retrieved from his car. Incriminating evidence he’d risked his life to collect over the past two weeks.

Karen reached for the treasured CDs, tipping her umbrella forward to keep the stack from getting wet. Philip didn’t notice the onyx gleam that streaked across her corneas after the compact discs were in her possession.

“Nice to see you finally do the right thing, at last, by turning in your partners after all your years of helping them cover up water pollution by several chemical plants. Still not interested in telling me what spawned your sudden change of heart?”

“People just change, sometimes.”

“So is this all I need?” Karen asked of the CDs. Philip nodded. “And you’re still willing to testify?”

“As long as I’ve got immunity from the District Attorney’s office.” His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed hard. “And as long as you get me the kind of protection I need.”

Karen stood, staring.

The air grew thick, wrapping around Philip like a fist. His stomach tightened in fear as a low growl filled his ears. His knees wobbled when he realized the sound was flowing from Karen.

Thunder drummed across the sky. Lightning ripped in thin, crooked, white lines. Karen released her grip on her umbrella, and gusting wind snatched the umbrella away.

Her skin contorted and melted.

Philip staggered backward, swung around, and tried to slip inside his car. The beast masquerading as Karen burst from its deceitful cocoon, towering above him.

Rain bounced off of black, leathery skin. Fetid coils of white smoke rose from steaming flesh. The beast’s thick, forked tongue lunged from its gaping mouth, snaking itself around Philip’s torso. Bones cracked and snapped as the beast crushed him.

Philip’s corpse crumpled to the ground. The thunder softened. The lightning dissipated. The wind calmed.

The compact discs lay scattered in pieces in a nearby puddle, ruined.

“You were right about the rain, Dunbar. It protected you from my fire, earlier tonight,” Karen mumbled, after shifting back into the flesh and bones of her human costume. “But I always have a Plan B.”

The garden party was in full swing when Gertrude waddled in, fussing with her red, feathered hat the whole way. She made her way over to the table where her two oldest friends, Winifred and Mildred, were waiting for her.

“You are twenty-five minutes late, Gertrude,” said the thin, severe-looking Winifred. “What kept you?”

“You probably just fell in the toilet again, didn’t ya, Gertie?” Mildred joked, letting out a dry wheezing gasp of a laugh. She was a cheerful, hunched old lady with coke-bottle glasses.

“Oh, it’s not that interesting, I wouldn’t want to bore you,” Gertrude replied.

“Bore us? Unless you happen to be late because you stopped to watch your lawn grow, any story would be a marked improvement over this party,” Winfred said dryly.

“Yeah, all the excitement’s gone out of these things since Hattie stopped mixin’ her meds,” Mildred added with another wheezing gale of laughter.

“Oh, very well then, I’ll tell you,” Gertrude said with mock exasperation. “This morning the boy who mows my yard showed up asking for money. Of course, I paid him last week, he’s only supposed to mow every other week, but he was trying to save up money for one of those game thingies, and he figures I’m too senile to remember when I paid him last.”

“That’s terrible,” Winifred said, gathering herself to start her “youth-of-today” speech.

“What’d ya do?” Mildred asked, before Winifred could start.

“I took my kitchen knife and sliced his throat right open. You never saw such a surprised look on someone’s face.” Gertrude chuckled.

“Gertrude dear, you should not be making such statements!” Winifred said disapprovingly.

“Oh dear, you’re right,” Gertrude replied evenly, drawing a bloody kitchen knife from her handbag. “I’m going to have to eliminate witnesses now, aren’t I?”

There was a muffled bang, and Gertrude slumped forward onto the table, upsetting the flower vase.

“Millie, you realize you’ve ruined the purse I lent you?” Winfred said irritably, pointing to the smoking hole the in the purse’s side where the gun had fired through the material.

“Sorry, Winnie. It couldn’t be helped,” Mildred replied. Then she chuckled.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell her that you don’t bring a knife to a garden party?”

The beautiful young woman sat up in her bed. Startled awake by the dream she had just experienced. Her heart was beating a tattoo inside her chest.

She thought back on the dream:

There she was high on a cliff, waves crashing below her; the light of the full moon shone in her long red hair. Her white negligee flowed in the cool breeze coming off the ocean.

She turned and walked slowly, in bare feet, across moss-covered rocks. When she reached the edge of the grove of trees, he was waiting for her.

“Hello, my love,” said the man, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Her gaze started at the tips of his highly polished boots and traveled up the brown leather breeches, to the white lace shirt. His broad muscular shoulders were covered in a dark blue velvet frock coat. His long blond hair glowed in the sallow moonlight.

Their eyes met. Hers deep green and innocent, his slate blue, with the wisdom of the ages burned into them.

“Donald,” she said, not breaking the gaze. “It’s been such a long time.”

“Soon,” he said through a soft smile, “we won’t have to do this. Soon we will be together forever.”

“But, I’m afraid,” she said, turning away from him.

He touched her shoulder; she felt a tingle run through her like an electrical current. “Do you not trust me?” he murmured into her ear.

She inhaled his musky scent. “Of course I do,” she said almost too quietly for him to hear.

He turned her to face him. He stroked her hair and gently moved it away to expose her milk-white throat.

She leaned in as he placed his warm lips on her neck and trailed kisses to behind her ear.

He smiled broadly, exposing his long sharp fangs. “Now we can be together forever,” he said as he plunged his fangs into her neck.

At that moment she awakened.

As she sat there, she absently felt along her neck. She felt the warm sticky blood oozing across her fingers. She drew back her hand and lay back on the bed. “Now we can be together forever,” were the last words she ever uttered.

The sight that night came along,
unbeknownst fear with a pattern of death.
He would just stroll by casually, carelessly,
until he got what he wanted.
He was a soul-feaster, who marked out the best blood he could find
and drained it through the tongue from their skull.
And? … You’re wondering what people did about him.
They simply hoped their blood wouldn’t become his.

“So, I was making the rounds, asking my neighbors for charitable donations for starving kids in Africa. I remember saying to him, you’ve got something stuck between your teeth. How ironic is that? Since that’s when I noticed what he had a taste for. I’ve never spoken to this guy before, ever, even though he lives right next door,” Nan said, gnawing on her index finger; she swallowed a fleck of black nail polish. “It was green though, not flesh colored, probably spinach or broccoli.” She shuddered.

Detective Dante Alvarez grimaced, then nodded, his face flat, his eyes sharp, as he scratched notes onto a yellow pad of paper. He pressed down real hard, Nan noticed. Hard enough to etch her witness’ statement into the dining room table? She wondered. Her fifteen minutes of fame should be transcribed somewhere in case she missed taping it–on Channel WCSH at six, the reporter had reassured her three times.

“Dante, that’s a nice name, like the author of “The Divine Comedy”, the nine circles of Hell story,” Nan said, pointing at his badge with the chipped nail. “So Dante, what level of Hell do you think Saul Rankin will get? Being a cannibal and all, I’m thinking the refrigerator section circle,” she added with the snort-chuckle noise she made when flirting, hoping the handsome, stoic detective would surrender a smile to her.

“In Hell?” he replied with down turned lips.

She flushed under her white foundation. “Yeah, well, okay, maybe not.” She chose another finger to sample and fought the impulse to twirl a lock of her inky hair.

“So, that was your only exchange with Mr. Rankin?”

“Yes, detective.” The lie puckered Nan’s mouth a bit, tasting tart as it crossed her lips. She had hit on Saul Rankin most days, especially when she knew. After all the strung out strangers, odd containers, and curious smells had peaked her appetite. But the nerd had never taken her bait, showing no interest in her piece of ass. She had hoped to become his lackey Igor apprentice, an occasional dinner companion, or whatever. During their last exchange at his apartment door, Saul had finally managed a shy smile with a garnish adorning his bicuspid. But still, no invite. Fed up, Nan had called the cops.

Detective Dante Alvarez stood up to leave and gave Nan’s hand a gentle handshake. “Thank you for calling us. You’ve spared lives and saved this community. I’m sorry. This has been very traumatic, I’m sure. But Social Services can arrange counseling for you. I highly recommend it.”

She grinned sheepish, held his hand too long. “Will you be there?”

“Ah, no.”

“So long, and to hell with you, Dante,” Nan thought. She slid her tongue over her teeth, starving for something, craving everything, wishing she had fangs.

4:20 am

That’s when my alarm screams out, it wakes me up from my sleep long before I’ve had enough. I wake up in the dark, long before the sun touches the industry-scape of my city, and stumble towards the kitchen where I will drink a coffee and eat a slice of toast or two, one of the few pleasures in life.

Not long ago I used to wake up at 5:20 instead of 4:20, that was before the plastics factory changed shifts at 6:00 am instead of 5:00 am. I hate waking up at 4:20 in the morning, it feels like the middle of the night, it doesn’t seem natural. I remind myself that it’s better than the night-shift which is now between 9:00 pm and 5:00 am.

Today is Tuesday, all day long I think about what day it is, I know that I shouldn’t because it makes the day seem longer than it already is, but I can’t help it. I prefer Tuesday to Monday but it’s not until Thursday that I become a little happier and I look forward to the weekend even though I know that the weekend is wasted because Friday night and most of Saturday morning I’m too tired to do anything at all and then when Sunday comes around the prospect of another week in hell looms over the horizon.

Not another week. I ask myself how much longer I can bear this shitty existence. Eight-hours a day scraping hot plastic off glove-boxes and other objects that will go into luxury cars so that rich bastards can drive around like maniacs, smiling arrogantly and taking pleasure from the fact that poor morons stare drooling at their vehicles as they speed past.

Even at home, even after showering, the toxic smell of hot plastic remains on my skin. I’m sure that it isn’t good to be breathing in hot plastic fumes all day long. When I first started working in the factory it stung my eyes and made my nose run. Now it doesn’t bother me so much but I’m sure that my lungs are coated with toxic plastic. My hands are permanently sore. I have blisters on my right hand from using a little scalpel and my thumb doesn’t bend the way it used to anymore. My left hand seems to be permanently burnt, even with a glove the hot plastic takes its toll, it’s always slighter redder than my blistered right hand, even when I haven’t worked for many hours, even when I wake up at 4:20 am.

My supervisor doesn’t seem to appreciate how hard I try, he doesn’t care that I work eight hours straight. I should have a lunch-break, it’s not right to work eight hours without stopping, but the machines don’t stop so I can’t stop either and he makes me feel guilty if I go to the toilet so I don’t drink much water, that way I don’t have to go to the toilet.

My supervisor tells me now and then that the quality of my work isn’t high enough, so I spend more time on each piece, but then he remarks that I’m not keeping up with the machine’s rate. How can I do both at the same time?! Sometimes I want to stick my little scalpel into his throat and twist my wrist, if only I could!

I continue scraping the hot plastic off the objects thrust onto the bench before me. I ignore the pain in my hands and the faintness of my head.

Today is Tuesday, today is Tuesday, today is Tuesday.

A quiet night on the street where I live
No one outside to see, is it safe to go dig?
Dragging and carrying her out to the car
I know I will not have to travel very far
With her in the trunk, no cops I’m in luck.
Latch of the back and behind the wheel I am,
Blood covers every inch of my hand.
Wiping the sweat off my lips, my brow and my neck
I need to stop I’m smearing it.
Drive, drive, and drive, down the road,
I will get caught. I know I just know.
Looking for those bright lights,
The sirens blaring against the silent night,
I made it, I made it, but this cannot be true,
All that’s left is to bury her deep in the ground
It’s so quiet there isn’t a sound.
Deeper and deeper I go, shoveling mud out now,
It had to be winter. I hate the snow.
I laughed and I did cry when I watched her die,
Slamming her head inward and her guts
She thought she could get away with all those fucks.
Stupid woman, this was coming, you deserved it
But I still feel unsatisfied.
I cover her face with the dirt. Yes I cover her up.
She buried now, she’ll never hurt me again.
Maybe I should go and finish off all of her men.
Yes, It’ll make me feel better and then I’ll be okay
But I’ll do it tomorrow, save it for another day.
Too tired now, I think I’ll rest.
It’s so cold out here. My hands are ice.
I lay on top of where she sleeps. I am warm now,
It feels nice.
I think how much I loved her and the past is in my head,
Now I wish that my wife wasn’t dead.
I cry some more, the last time in my life
My sleep carries me off into the cold, dark and miserable night.