MicroHorror

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.

Tim liked fooling around with knives. He would turn them over in the light, marveling at how they gleamed. Sometimes he would stab the air like a swashbuckler, imagining he was in a duel.

One day when he was particularly bored he took his knife and spun it around in blood. Over and over he swirled it until the blade was completely red.

A harsh voice startled him, causing him drop the knife onto the floor.

“TIMMY!” his mother screeched. “Stop playing with your steak and EAT IT!”

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.

Crashing waves to the right of me, thunder to the left, in front of me lie only earthquakes but behind me only… death.

Throughout all this turmoil and pain, I seem to find only one thing that keeps me sane: the one thing that’s keeping me sane is the pestilence and turmoil and pain. So I turn around and await my fate which is my only salvation.

I fought to return, one step at a time, from the ancient vaults that coil around London‘s dark heart. Sword and flame have taken dozens of my tentacled adversaries, creatures whose masters howl in the darkness between Space and Time.

The mill-owning Satanist and Member of Parliament, Joseph Slater, retained me to procure a volume of arcane writing buried with the court magician John Dee.

Through converse with the Rat People, I located the internment in the deepest vault.
It was the work of seconds to tumble the fungus-crusted coffin from its webbed alcove, to shatter on the flagstones. My head reeled; the Elizabethan was not in the repository.

Sense prevailed; I was cheered to find the volume among the splinters. Black and heavy, with a strangely smooth leather binding. I traced the knife-carved title, N-E-C-R-O-N-O-M-I-C-O-N, and shivered. I wrapped it in silk lining torn from the coffin. Only the thought of Slater’s fee kept me from bolting.

The corpse-pale monstrosities lay ambush, attempting to seize me in their ichorous tentacles. Hours of blood later and here I am, at the exit. Blocking it is the tall form of bearded John Dee. His eyes shine like red coals.

My hand refuses to grip the sword and the torch flame is growing smaller, as if starved of air. I have one hope. I will set fire to the book, let it drop into the vaults. He will need speed to save it.

David hated cows. His loathing was unfortunate since he was a cowboy. It was his job to ferry them from one place to another and he despised every moment of it. The way they regurgitated and chewed their cud every few minutes disgusted him. He couldn’t stand how they reeked. Most of all he hated how they looked at him with their blank stare. There wasn’t one thing about cows he liked.

David wished with all his heart he could work at a slaughterhouse instead. He would have enjoyed killing them. Sometimes when he was all alone with them he would kick them. He took his sweet time rescuing them when they needed help. More then one cow died on his watch because he “accidentally” looked the other way.

Today David had the unhappy task of keeping an eye on a cow due to give birth. She waddled around slowly, her sides heaving with every step. He wanted to take his knife and ram it into her soft underbelly, impaling both her and her calf. Instead he waited, silently stewing.

Suddenly she collapsed to the ground, screaming in pain. David slowly dismounted from his horse and sauntered over to her. She looked up at him, pleading for help with her eyes.

“Aw, shit,” David complained.

He reached inside her and felt the breeched calf. He managed to turn it around, cursing at the bellowing cow. When it was in the correct position he pulled with all his strength. The calf slid out and landed on him, covering him with blood and mucus. He looked down at his ruined clothes and began to fill with rage. Wild with anger he raised his fist and smashed it into the newborn’s nose, crumpling the soft tissue. The little calf squealed and struggled to move. David raised his boot and violently stomped on its head, killing it instantly.

“Why did you do that?” a nearby cowboy asked him.

“It was deformed,” he lied. “It would have died anyway.”

Quite pleased with himself, David washed up for the night and headed for his tent. He crawled inside, falling asleep almost immediately. Hours later something wet and sticky woke him. He blinked his eyes and saw a big cow nose above him. He was about to swap her when she bit off his nose. He screamed in pain and rolled to the side. As he attempted to stand the cow rose into the air and brought both feet down upon his skull, smashing his brains to pulp.

“Why did you do that, Bluebell?” a nearby cow asked her.

“It was deformed,” she said. “It would have died anyway.”

She walked away quite pleased with herself.

Halloween was the busiest time of the year.

“Three… two… one… We have lift-off!”

Victor watched behind the two-inch-thick glass as the shuttle roared into space, trailing a river of white smoke. He sipped his coffee. This was the third launch of the day. Two hundred passengers per trip, excluding the pilots.

Busy, busy, busy.

Someone cleared his throat, and Victor turned around. It was Andy.

“Any news?”

“Our guys from Houston called. They need a full shuttle ASAP.”

“Any problems?”

“None. Everyone’s itching to get off the port.”

“Get to it, then.”

Andy nodded and left, and Victor returned to his coffee.

Only a select group of people could see ghosts, usually ghost hunters, sensitives, and mediums; the vast majority didn’t even believe in their existence.

If only they knew where ghosts really came from.

Victor looked on as more specters boarded the next shuttle.

Busy, busy, busy.

I arrive too late to save the idiot in the suit, who, cowering underneath a cement bench, is attacked by the throng and ripped to shreds. I however yank his screaming girlfriend out of harm’s way with one hand and, with the other, start blasting at the ones coming after us. We turn a corner. Another corner. Jump over a decaying, legless zombie, unable to get at us, but still gnawing at the air. I kick open a door, close it behind us, and we’re momentarily safe.

We sit down across from each other and I notice she’s a pretty blonde and, by the looks of her fancy suit, likely well educated. Though she’s also probably pretty dumb, if you know what I mean. She tries to catch her breath as I rip into her. “You executive types,” I say, her breasts heaving up and down, up and down. “All smart with numbers and investments, but not much brains when it comes to zombies. In case you haven’t heard, Wall Street is on lockdown.”

“I know,” she says.

“Those days are over, honey.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

I then take pity on her, tell her it’ll be fine. But I speak too soon as, behind her, from the other room, one with half a face looms over her. I reach out, grab her hand, pull her toward me. Simultaneously, I cock the shotgun, let the sick ghoul have it. The other half of its face flies off in a shower of gore.

She’s on top of me now, trembling, her fingers digging tightly into my arm. I try to push her off, but she clings tighter. “All right, all right,” I relent. Through a small crack in the wall, I can see that night is dawning on New York. “We’ll stay here tonight.”

“Thank you so much, she says, over and over. Her bosom nestles closer.

Wah-wah-wah-wah-wah. The sound of a siren, or worse, goes off. I wake up, disoriented.

“You idiot,” I hear. “You fell asleep on the couch again.” I look up, see her, my stinking wife, and her big ass, shuffling around the kitchen. The blonde is gone. Shit. “So, do you think you might try to get to work on time today?”

I look down in my hand. The shotgun’s also no longer there, replaced by the game controller. Damn, I think, if only. “Yeah, yeah,” I respond begrudgingly.

I get up, go into the bathroom and start the shower thinking of all those repulsive men in suits I work for, the ones without a clue; and of being locked in that cold, dank computer room all day. “The horror, the horror,” I mumble to myself as I pick up the soap…

After setting my partner straight about the money, I drove a few states over, holed up in a cheap motel.

Saturday, I ventured out with a bottle to sit by the pool, where she was sunning herself.

Got another one, she asked–and I threw her a cigarette.

She said her name was Gilda.

Johnny, I said.

She said she was 20. She said she was from Tennessee. She said she was a singer but for now worked at a steakhouse. She said she was bored.

I gave her a sip and she said she liked my eyes.

I said there was a brochure in the lobby for an alligator farm; that I’d like to see that; that she could come.

Sure, she said.

At the farm, I told her how these things’ve been around for millions of years; how they’re killing machines. I pointed to a long, mean-looking one and said if there was no gate there, and it was hungry, it would eat her right now–and no amount of conversation would change that.

Wow that’s scary, she said, as we walked back on the path through some woods.

They don’t care if you’re human; if you have brothers or sisters; kids to take care of; nothing.

Oh, Johnny, she said. She said lots of things.

You know, I said, I’m just like that alligator there.

She looked at me, giggled, and said, oh–no you’re not Johnny.

Are you calling me a liar?

No, Johnny.

’Cause I don’t lie.

I didn’t say…

And nobody calls me that.

It would have been better if she begged, though I guess when I grabbed her by the neck, it finally got her to shut up long enough to realize that, like I said, I’m no liar. Eventually she stopped squirming and kicking.

See, I said, as I dragged her by the arm up the path, deposited her behind a tree…

Mara was not a woman of ill repute by any standards. In fact, many people thought quite the opposite. Because of her high standards, most people were rather surprised when she elected to go out with Tom. He had just moved into town and many people didn’t like him. There was something about Tom that intrigued Mara and she didn’t care what others thought.

Tom picked up her at seven and they went to dinner. During the entrée he mentioned he had a foot fetish. Mara became interested immediately and readily agreed to a foot massage at his place after dinner.

He brought her to his place and asked her to sit in his special “foot massage chair.” As Tom began massaging her feet she closed her eyes and began to relax. Perhaps it would have been better if she had left them open. Mara might have noticed Tom’s odd collection displayed on the wall.

She screamed as he sliced off her feet.