MicroHorror

This was the part she really enjoyed. The bathroom. When Mrs. White cleaned the bath and basin she imagined all the spiders that were clinging to the insides of the S-bends, screaming as she blasted the plugholes with bleach. They needed killing and she relished in their mass murder.

As The Archers began on the radio downstairs, Mrs. White picked up the cleaning fluid, semi-whistled the jaunty theme tune and, with a flourish, squirted the liquid through the gleaming stainless steel holes of the bath’s waste, let the hot tap run for a bit and then stood very still. Listening. One day she would hear them. But all she could hear was the whining voice of Ruth Archer as she moved on to the bedroom.

The cloying liquid spurted through the circular holes, followed by a hot rush of water. The drain creatures fought over the juice, and the frenzy that always followed finally burst the dark, heaving mass of arthropods onto the bright white, slippery slopes of the bath.

Mrs. White’s gleaming surfaces darkened, the mass overflowing onto the bathroom floor, slinking towards the open door, spreading along the carpeted corridor and heading for the bedroom door at the end. It was still hungry.

The lake’s smooth surface had been disturbed. At first the dark object looked small, an innocent piece of flotsam with bands of ripples emanating from its edges as it bobbed in the still water, tiny water-creatures surfing the little waves. As the shape grew, the color lightened until it was obvious that this was not rubbish or a piece of deadwood.

A young boy watched it emerge from the water as he slowly cast out his homemade flies. He reeled in his line and with sweeping movements cast off again with the aim of snagging it. But all he managed to catch were a few twigs and the object floated away, towards a manmade island that housed a colony of busy ducks.

Intrigued by the growing size of the object, the boy ran over to a small wooden rowing boat pulled up close by, pushed it into the cool water and, using the only oar left by the owner, paddled towards the island. The boat’s movement disturbed the silvery sheen of the still water and the ducks suddenly took off in a flapping rabble, their quacks echoing around the tree-lined shore, a cacophony of sound.

The boy had never been very far out on the water–his mother warned him against it, so he always stayed close to the edge. He couldn’t swim very well and when he looked back at his fishing gear he realized that he had paddled too far; the water was now a dark brown and he could see no movement below its surface. It was difficult to turn his craft around with one paddle, the boat began to spin and the curiosity that had spurred the boy to risk his mother’s wrath was forgotten as he concentrated on getting back to shore.

But the object no longer floated towards the island. It was headed directly for the boy’s boat, creating a large wash behind it, and he did not notice until it was too late.

An idyllic scene greeted the group of fishermen as they strolled down to the shore. Silence echoed around them as a collection of ripples slowly dissipated on the water’s surface near an empty boat swaying gently in the breeze.

“I just don’t know what you want me to do,” Keith said as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

A warm breeze was coming in through the kitchen window. It was going to be hot. A fly was walking along the edge of the sugar bowl and he swished his hand casually over the rim, causing it to move off.

“I said I was sorry. I wish I could change things but I can’t.”

He glanced back over his shoulder before scooping a spoonful of sugar into his cup. Maggie was sitting at the table, back to him, her shoulders hunched forward. She had been like this for days. First the anger, then the crying and now the unending silence. He knew she blamed him for them being trapped out here.

“I never thought things would get this far out of hand,” he continued. “I was sure things would be all right. I mean who would have thought that things would have got this crazy?”

The refrigerator hummed along but there was no other reply.

“Come on, Maggie,” he said. “You can’t stay mad at me forever. Things will get better. There haven’t even been any news reports for days. That must be a good sign. The authorities are probably already getting things under control. Maybe later today we can take a drive to Webber and see for ourselves.”

Keith walked by the table and gave a short smile as he headed to the seat across from Maggie.

The side of her face was covered by long strands of auburn-colored hair, hanging down as she seemed to focus on a spot on the table top just in front of her.

“You know you are the most important thing in the world to me,” Keith said as he pulled the chair out from the table and sat down. Three flies lifted off the table top as it shifted with his movement. “Whatever happens, I’ll always be doing my best for you.”

Keith took a sip of coffee and looked at Maggie. Her mouth was open as if to speak.

He smiled, waiting.

A fly crawled across her milky white, unblinking eye.

The refrigerator hummed its unbroken diatribe.

Keith’s brow furrowed and then he took another slow sip of his coffee. Maybe tomorrow. She just needed a little more time. She couldn’t stay angry forever.

When Laurie dumped Jonathon, he was crushed, and he kept it no secret. Soon his friends tired of hearing about it.

Jonathon’s desire to vent continued, however, and woke him up at night. He would sit there sometimes, like a child, his arms around his knees, and stare into the dark corners of his room.

The isolation was almost unbearable.

Jonathon began to slip at work. He was barely present elsewhere. Sometimes, during the day, he’d sneak off to try her on the phone. Or he’d go to the florist, have them send a bouquet.

Despite such efforts, Laurie was evasive about getting back together, and eventually, she stopped taking his calls altogether.

She had always been passive-aggressive.

Jonathon’s saving grace during those long nights was an image. He saw a rope. The rope led to a hole in the ground. The hole went some meters down, opened up into a small, earthy room. At the end of the rope was a small cage. Inside the cage was Laurie, squished, like a yogi in a box.

She swung lightly, back and forth, in the darkness.

She looked around, but could not see.

Screamed though no one could hear.

And, she could not, for the life of her, figure out how she got there.

She, after all, didn’t give him much of an explanation about it ending. So it served her right that she should be in the dark about this.

Sometimes Jonathon would see this picture of his, and sometimes even a laugh would escape his lips, piercing the silence in his room. Yes, this pain will go away, he’d think, even if this is the best closure I can get now.

Then he’d put his head back down on the pillow–and try to get some sleep.

Once, six months after it was over, Jonathon searched for her on the Internet. But this was the last time he did this.

Soon, during one spring cleaning, he threw out all of her old letters.

Then he joined a gym.

He became productive again.

Got a raise at work, a promotion or two.

Saved some money.

Got back out there.

Met a kind woman, married her.

They bought a house.

Had a kid.

He purchased some land up north, built a cabin, got a submersible pump for his new well.

One day, Jonathon sat in front of his computer at work, and thought of her, of Laurie. He nearly looked her up again, but, at the last second, he took his finger off the mouse.

Erased her name.

Be strong, he scolded himself. Remember how long you had to wait the last time you did that.

Jonathon then asked his secretary to bring him the phonebook. She knew, because Jonathon had told her, that he sometimes just liked the feel of paper in his hand. In fact, he preferred the computer, but this task required anonymity. He then flipped to the spot in the phonebook and, once again, verified the latest information.

On the way home, Jonathon detoured through a neighboring town. There, he stopped off at Kmart, bought the heavy rope using cash. Not credit–they can trace that, he thought…

Screaming, bleeding at my feet, begging to be released, to be saved, but I’m not your savior. I’m not God. I’m not even the Devil, but I will lead you down the path of destruction.

The whip lashing over unprotected skin sends white, searing pain through you. This is what Paradise feels like.

Blood seeping out from between your lips. A sharp, metallic flavor. This is what Paradise tastes like.

Jesus died for our sins, and you will be dying for mine.

Your name was Beauty and you were born to Madness and Chaos.

Abuse twisted your beautiful mind and you were no longer a pretty thing. An eyesore to the common eye.

You found friends in Darkness and Sadism, in Pain and Insanity.

Tied up, spread out, chained down. Pale flesh turned a lovely shade of red after the beatings you so desperately begged for.

The whip loved your white skin, the chains loved your scarred limbs, the twisted minds loved your pain and suffering, but also your mad pleasure.

You were a toy for the insane, a plaything for the dark, the Devil’s whore, but you were just as twisted as the rest of us. Enjoying every moment of your torture, until you couldn’t breathe anymore.

Dying with a broken smile in your broken face because never before were you as loved as this.

John was in front of the stove, stirring the sauce. Slowly he poured spices, coloring it. The meat was ready, the salad was already made, and the rice was already done. John opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of table wine to add to the sauce. It was almost ready. The only thing left was to cut and sauté the meat.

“Billy! Can you help me?”

A boy of thirteen years came in the kitchen. “What you want me to do, Dad?”

“Take that drop cloth and put it under the table. Let’s cut the meat.”

The boy did as he was asked and John approached the table, holding a knife. The body lying there shivered and tears began to fall from its eyes. John sharpened the knife and stabbed it in the body’s right leg. The body released a muffled cry.

“Don’t move! I don’t want the rice to be ruined!”

The boy entered through the door and the bell rang. He wiped his feet on the carpet and addressed the counter.

“Good afternoon. May I help you?” asked the old man.

“I wanted the one in the showcase.”

The old man came out from behind the counter and opened the door that gave access to the showcase. He approached the counter and put the suit on top. “It’s of very good quality, resistant to heat. Feel it.”

The boy touched it, savoring the texture with his fingers. “Yes, this is it. How old is the skin?”

“Ten years. It’s still new.”

“Yes, there aren’t many scratches. Just out of curiosity, what was the name of the owner?” asked the boy.

“Peter. Why?”

“Curiosity. I’ll take it,” he said with a smile.

He looked at the screen, his eyes wide open and his jaw gaping. He had been reading his e-mail when he opened the message. The subject was “Hello.”

“I want you to look at the photos, and send the information I need. That is what I hope you do, Mr. Ryan.”

He read the contents and his eyes froze. The boy took a deep breath and opened the attachment. He could see two photos. In one of them he saw a little girl totally ripped open, her guts on the floor, and a dog eating them. In the other photo he could see a woman with a rope around her neck, hanging from the ceiling.

He closed the e-mail and smiled. “Thank God I’m not Ryan,” he said, rising from the chair.

The next night, I wrote Dali a poem expressing how desperately I wanted to see her, and drown in her mysterious sea. She loved me, touched me, and excited me like no man ever did before. I sketched her as mystical, erogenous, enchanting, and cunning. She was a perfect femme for a Salvador Dali painting. That was the perfect name. Therefore, I named my mystery lover Dali.

No one would have believed me if I told them that she was only but a fine mist upon my skin. Dali was an erotic zephyr, with an ominous ancient fragrance. Bizarre scents which I became familiar with from reading, from researching, and from first-hand experience. Creatures of myth and folklore were my preferred genre when reading as a child. Creatures (if they ever were) I thought to be extinct, not extant. Frightened by my speculations, I dismissed the thoughts that Dali was indeed a vampire.

Upon arrival, her noctilucent haze glimmered like Sirius. She approached me, and I could feel her damp cheek brush ever so softly against mine, whilst whispering my name Sascha in my ear. She was sobbing as she told me to close my eyes. With the barest touch, she caressed me, nibbled my nape, my breasts, and slowly moved on to tease my ready lips. I was all hers, with arched back and eyes closed. Her tongue, wet and warm, left indelible trails of tender kisses inside my thighs. She gently lifted me closer. All I could see were Heaven’s most brilliant stars, and hear Heaven’s most harmonious symphony.

Under her spell, I did not care about anything else, and my pleasure resounded in orgasmic echoes. When I opened my eyes, she was gone, and only a linger of what smelled like decay remained. I was left feeling sad, violated, and oh so satisfied. I embraced myself, pretending my arms were hers.

Moments later, sharp pains inside my thighs abruptly replaced my ethereal reminiscing of her being there. Dribbling blood accompanied the stinging pain. I rushed to wash my inconceivable night away. My world shattered as I sat in a crimson bath. Vampires do indeed exist, and so did Dali.