MicroHorror

It was a frantic day in the small town of Cowpens in South Carolina. The air was chilly and the sky overcast as the residents scurried around town preparing for their big night. The few stores closed early, rusty shutters pulled down over the windows for the one night a year they were needed. The florist and grocery were already dark and empty, security grills fastened. It was 3 PM.

The school bus was tearing around the town’s small suburb, dropping off kids to nervous parents as fast as possible. Moms and dads were picking their children up in their arms at the sidewalk and running into their houses. Slams and bangs echoed down Maple Street, the sound of hammering reverberated across Greenway Drive, excited barks all around town as dogs were let out of kennels and ushered indoors by their owners.

Today was January 17th, the anniversary of the biggest day in the history of the town, the Battle of Cowpens where American loyalist forces defeated the British. Today was the day of the parade.

At 5 PM a thin mist started wisping down the silent Main Street, originating from up the road towards the battleground, curling around the streetlamps and encircling the pagoda outside the Town Hall. It reached the one set of traffic lights and started rolling both left and right, up and down Church Street, thicker and faster now, along the walls of the auto repair place and the police station, where gaudy murals were painted of soldiers in red and blue fighting each other, those in red caught in death poses, those in blue cheering victoriously and silently with permanently open mouths.

Every building in Cowpens was dark; no lights glowed warmly inside windows or behind doors. No birds sang, no insects hummed. The streets were desolate. Then, a sound clipped the evening, slight at first but growing louder. A knocking, a clanking and a shuffling.

In the whole town only one person was actually outside. Teenager Sam Webb had sneaked out of his house, taking advantage of his father’s inebriation, passed out as he was every year on parade day. Sam had climbed a lamppost next to the mechanics and managed to get himself up onto the flat roof. Now he lay, shivering and wide-eyed, peering over the edge of the roof at the thick fog. Potters Antiques was already obscured by fog, and those strange sounds were getting louder. Sam’s whole body felt numb, and then he spotted them.

Their skeletal forms were luminous, shining in the falling darkness. Tattered red coats, white britches and black hats seemed to hold them together. Half shuffling, half marching, they lurched into town gripping filthy muskets. Their skull heads twisted left then right, searching. Some, Sam noticed, were missing hand and arm bones, and one, legless, was dragging itself along, thigh bones scraping the ground.

There were dozens of them, and behind them came green coated cavalry. Horrible and terrifying, these helmeted ghouls clutched rusty sabers and rode astride skeletal horses, clip-clopping down the road on too thin legs, their saddles and reins slapping. The Hellish Dragoons veered away from the Redcoats and started banging on doors with their sabers, rattling windows.

Sam held his breath, pressing himself against the roof as tightly as he could. The marching dead had reached the crossroads below his vantage point, and Sam shivered.

He started to slide himself back out of view, but there was a sudden bellow and the noise below him stopped dead. He looked down and, horrified, saw that a Dragoon had ridden up behind the mass of Redcoats and, pointing his saber straight at Sam, his eyeless sockets seemed locked on Sam’s face. Every single skull rose in unison and faced Sam up on the roof. It looked as if they smiled.

The next morning, they found Sam’s mutilated body slumped against the war mural, his body hacked and gouged, wrapped in a tattered, bloody, mold-covered Union Jack.

Liz kicked her shoes off as soon as she walked in the door. The boss had her running all over downtown L.A. She hadn’t thought about Donald all day.

That ended as soon as she stepped up to her answering machine, on a small table by the front door. It took a few seconds for the realization that she had stubbed her toe on the steel ax by the table to reach her brain and then inform her that she was in extreme pain.

“Dammit!”

She jumped up and down on the foot that was not throbbing, rubbing the afflicted one with her hands. The damn ax. Donald’s idea of joking about something serious. Someone had broken in last summer while she was at work. Instead of offering to move in, Donald bought her an ax and told her to keep it by the door. Idiot.

Before Liz could lock the front door the phone rang.

“Good grief,” she said as she picked it up. “Yes?”

“You sound pissed.”

“Hey,” she cradled the phone between her shoulder and chin and unwrapped the chord to carry it into the kitchen. “Rough day.”

“Donald?”

“Are you kidding?”

Her friend Kara laughed.

“Work and then I stubbed my damn toe on this stupid ax…”

“The one he got you last summer?”

“Right.”

“For your protection?”

“Right.”

Both women laughed.

“How’s he taking the breakup?”

Liz opened the refrigerator. There were two half-empty barrels of yogurt and a rotting hunk of cheese. She broke off a piece and munched on it while she spoke. “Who cares?”

“Come on.”

“Come on, what? You should have heard him yelling at the TV just because they stopped showing Star Trek on Saturday nights.”

“Guys are like that.”

“Not like this.” She ate the rest of the cheese in her hand. “There was something in his eyes. Scared the hell out of me.”

“All right, then. Need to talk any?”

“I’m good for now.”

“You know how to reach me.”

“Thanks, really.”

Liz returned the phone to the table by the door. Both feet went back to protesting the day at work.

“I hear you,” she said to them.

She walked to the bathroom and flipped the water on. The urge to listen to Billie Holiday washed over her. She went to her bedroom. The disc was already in the player.

“You don’t know what love is…” Lady Day set the record straight. Her voice felt like tiny, strong hands, holding Liz up.

She slid into the bath, the music playing from the other room at full blast. Liz thought about the breakup. It had been rough, to say the least. At Marino’s, on Melrose. In a crowded place. That was by design. She had seen exactly how crazy Donald could get. No need to risk being alone with him when she dropped the bombshell that their first anniversary would never arrive.

Donald spent the rest of dinner in absolute silence. Said nothing on the ride home. Refused to engage in conversation of any sort.

“Oh, well,” Liz spoke underneath the booming, if silk-surfaced, anger of Billie Holiday, “My man don’t treat me no good…”

Suddenly the CD player hit a scratch in the disc and began skipping. Liz jumped out of the bath and ran, naked, to her room to shut it off before the annoying sound drove her insane. She looked down the hall and saw that she had never locked the door.

“Dummy,” she quietly said to herself.

She walked to the door, made sure it was shut, and locked it. She was careful not to run her toe into the ax a second time on her way back to the bath tub.

It wasn’t until she was in the water again that she made the horrific realization that she could never have stubbed her toe a second time as the ax was no longer there.

Sanchez el Diablo stood in the shadows off Avenida Revolución disguised as a beggar boy peddling chewing gum to the tourists. The border town’s heavy traffic afforded him the luxury of reaping ripened souls, rather than lurking in hospital corridors harvesting the weakened souls of the dying.

He targeted those arriving by cab, knowing they’d come to Tijuana to satisfy their own lust. Sanchez approached a balding, pale-skinned American who’d stepped from the El Diablo strip bar, and tugged on the man’s shirt.

“Señor, señor! You buy gum?”

The man knocked Sanchez’s hand away. “Beat it, kid.”

“Please, señor, buy some gum for my sick mother.”

“No, I said scram!”

The man weaved his way through the crowd, attempting to elude the pesky beggar boy.

“But, señor, I will find you a girl,” he said, following close behind.

The man stopped. “You’ll what?”

“Find you a girl,” Sanchez whispered. “Follow me.”

“The man smiled. “How much, little amigo?”

“For me, señor, five dollars American. For the girl, maybe twenty dollars.”

“Well then, lead on,” the American snickered. “But if you’re scamming me, I’ll cut your little heart out. Comprende?”

“Yes, señor,” Sanchez replied. “I will take you to the woman of your dreams.”

He led the American down a dirt alley. Women, old and young, fat and skinny beckoned him from darkened doorways, but the boy shooed them away. The American inhaled the stench of something rotting, and hesitated.

“Hold on there. Where are you taking me?”

The boy replied, “Do not worry, señor; it’s just a little farther. It will be better then, I promise.”

They reached a yard surrounded by a high stone wall. The boy unlatched the gate, and they stepped inside to a meticulously trimmed courtyard of deep green vegetation and flowers. The heavy scent of gardenias and jasmine relaxed the American.

“Wait here,” the boy said, disappearing into the tan stucco hacienda.

A short time later, a beautiful, dark-haired señorita, wearing a multihued skirt and a blouse gathered at her coffee-colored shoulders, stepped through the doorway.

The American stood dumbstruck as she parted her scarlet lips, and blew him a kiss.

“You have come for me, señor?” she asked in a sultry, lilting voice.

The American nodded.

“Am I what you have desired?”

“You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen,” he said, taking her hand.

He pulled her close and nuzzled her neck, inhaling the intoxicating sweetness of her perfume. Her breasts pressed against him and he trembled. She laughed, and pulled away.

“In due time, señor. First, we must discuss terms.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, reaching for his wallet.

She pushed his hand back. “Not now, señor. I will give you all you desire, but when we are finished, I will take what I think I am worth.”

“Agreed,” he said, wondering if she really that stupid or just a naïve maiden who was new to the trade. He certainly wouldn’t pay her more than he’d paid the others.

She led him down a dark hall to a comfortable and cool candlelit bedroom. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. She turned and stroked his hair.

“Are you ready, señor?”

He could barely contain his excitement, as he said, “Take me, my Mexican goddess. I am yours.”

She pressed her lips against his. She dug her long fingernails into his back, ripping at his skin, and his passion turned to fear. He opened his eyes, horrified as she morphed from señorita to beggar boy and then Sanchez el Diablo.

Sanchez sucked the life from the American, whose lifeless body slumped to the floor. Feeling satiated, he dumped the American onto the rotting corpses replacing the gardenias and jasmine in the courtyard.

The American’s soul would keep Sanchez alive a while longer. After locking the gate, Sanchez transformed himself into a Federale, and strolled up the alley. After all, he had to keep the tourists safe from banditos.

I was on a hilltop, resting peacefully beneath the stars when my brother Ronnie rode up hard from the direction of the home place. Four midnight-black stallions trailed behind the one Ronnie sat astride. Realizing I was meant to fill one of the saddles, I stretched and stood.

“Violet’s been abducted by outlaws,” my brother announced.

“Outlaws?” I repeated stupidly. My head swam.

“A gang—bandits.”

Ronnie sounded impatient. “Shake off the cobwebs, Luke. Tonight we ride.”

“Who’s we?” I asked as I swung a leg over the closest horse.

“Pa and Uncle Garret.” Ronnie paused. “And Ma.”

“Ma’s coming?” I asked incredulously.

“You think she’s just going to lay around waiting for us to go rescue Violet? She’ll likely send more outlaws to the vultures than any of us.”

My brother and I followed the floating moon to where our father and mother were waiting together. The moonlight made obvious their righteous anger.

“Boys,” Pa said, nodding at each of us. We were no longer boys but old habits die hard.

“I ’spect you know what we gotta do when we catch up with them,” Pa spoke calmly as he climbed into the saddle of his chosen mount.

“No survivors,” Ma rasped. She’d had a battle with throat cancer; the more obstinate party had won. “We mow them down like wheat.”

“It’ll be all right, Ma,” Ronnie reassured her. “We know what needs to be done.”

“We’ll need to ride swiftly to save her,” Pa said, ending further discussion.

We raced through the night, our horses chewing up the distance with ease.

Twelve miles later we crested a hill and paused to survey our surroundings. The hilly country began to taper off and beyond us, to the west, stood the Badlands.

A lone figure waited at the bottom of the hill. Uncle Garret. He’d faced off against rustlers near here and I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d picked this spot to meet us.

“You can see the smoke from their campfire not more than two miles from here,” Uncle Garret said without preamble.

We rode silently toward the smoke. The moon lit the stage from high above as we surrounded the outlaws’ camp.

Since no one had been at the home place when they had snatched Violet, the outlaws didn’t see fit to set up a watch. It wouldn’t have helped them anyway. We galloped down on the encampment from all sides.

Half their number were dead by our hand before they realized they were under attack. Men scurried and staggered, shooting blindly into the night. Some of our enemies cursed in anger, others screamed in fear. I bore down on a giant of a man as he stumbled through the brush. I leaped from the saddle and knocked him sprawling into the dust. He howled in terror and died with his right hand clutching not his six-shooter, but his heart.

By the time the echoes of their cries had faded into the night, we had done Ma proud. The outlaws were all dead.

Our eyes turned to Violet, who stood speechless and trembling in the center of the carnage. As we watched, she doggedly gathered food and supplies from throughout the camp. Then she selected the two best horses, loading one with supplies and saddling the other. She set the rest free. Violet surveyed the scene one final time and then silently rode away.

We all watched her go, thankful that she would be returning to the home place without us. I wanted to call out to her, but I knew it would be futile. She’d be by to see me soon enough, probably with some flowers. And what a story she’d have to tell.

As for the rest of us, we went our separate ways. I glanced at the sky. Still an hour or two before dawn. Soon I’d be back in my hilltop grave, once again resting peacefully beneath the stars.

Megan had bathed both the twins, fed them and laid them down. They were actually sleeping, and Megan, exhausted, was slumped in her favorite chair, bare feet up on the coffee table, letting her body relax and stretch out.

There was a sharp rapping on the front door. Megan ignored it, moving being the very last thing she wanted to do, but when the knocking sounded a second time she jumped up angrily, worried it would wake her babies.

She jerked the front door open with a scowl on her face ready to scold whoever had disturbed her, but the figure on the front porch startled her and no words came out.

“Buy some seeds, dear?” said the tiny old woman who stood before Megan. She wore what amounted to rags, her hands filthy with black nails and soiled skin, her face blotched and speckled with the signs of old age and disease. She was holding a wicker basket in her bony hands, and in it was a pile of little rolled-up paper packets, twisted at the top.

“No thanks,” said Megan, trying not to look into the old woman’s face, “I don’t garden.”

“Only a quarter a packet, dear.” The old woman pulled a paper roll from her basket and shook it towards Megan’s face. “Just a quarter, for all this beautiful life!” She shook the packet again.

“Really, no thank you, I have no need of seeds.” Megan took a step back, smiled coldly and closed the door a couple of inches. “I have to go back inside, I’m quite busy at the moment, you have a good evening.”

The old woman’s face clouded over in an instant, she turned her head and spat on the wooden deck.

“Just a little kindness dear,” she growled, her tone hostile now, “just a handful of change, a little jingle for my pocket, that’s all I ask. This is a lovely home you have here, very lovely.” The old woman looked around her, taking in Megan’s house.

Megan was shocked that this old crone had spat on her porch, and the last words she had spoken had sounded to Megan like a threat. She was angry now and just wanted to get back inside and relax.

“Listen, you old hag, how dare you spit on my property? I’m giving you nothing, get out of here right now and take your crap with you, if I see you hanging around here again I’ll call the police, you hear ? I don’t want you anywhere near my home.”

The old lady looked Megan right in the eyes and slowly, ever so slowly, let a big gob of spit fall from her cracked, grey lips and fall slowly to the deck, finally hitting the wood with a slight ‘glop.’

Megan was furious and shouted now.

“Get out of here, you nasty witch, get the hell out of here right now!”

In the background Megan heard one of the twins crying. She stamped her foot in anguish, her entire body groaning at the lost chance of relaxation, and made a shooing motion at the old lady. The old lady stepped back, then pointed at Megan’s face.

“I curse you, dear; I curse you with one word.”

Megan scowled. The crying baby had become two crying babies and she shook her head at how quickly peace had turned to disturbance.

“Go ahead, curse me, say what you want, but then please, JUST LEAVE!”

Megan slammed the door shut, rested her forehead against it and sighed. The crying was louder now; the twins had obviously heard the disturbance the wrinkly old bitch had caused. She listened for the old lady leaving, walking down the steps of the porch, but there was nothing. Megan knelt down and carefully pushed open her letterbox to look outside.

The old lady was staring right back at her.

“Childless!” she hissed, and Megan let the letterbox snap closed and fell back in shock.

The crying had stopped.

I’m showering at the Bates Motel.

Through the shower curtain, I can see a form moving toward me.

“Who’s there?” I scream.

“Mother Bates,” a cackling woman’s voice says.

“Do you have a big nasty knife?”

“Yep.”

“Is it real sharp?”

“Incredibly.”

“Let’s see,” I say, pulling open the shower curtain.

She hands me a nasty-looking butcher knife.

She’s right. The blade couldn’t be sharper.

“Wanna change places?” I ask.

“Sure,” she says, stepping into the shower.

I slash her, Norman her loony son, the entire cast, crew, and Alfred Hitchcock.

I never saw so much blood. Too bad I’m not a vampire.

While you’ve been reading this, I’ve been hacking your computer. Now I know who you are, where you live.

I just took your picture with a camera hidden inside the period at the end this sentence.

Make my day. Leave all your doors open whenever you shower.

It was a humid summer night, the moon full and the world still. A slight breeze brought the smell of jasmine through the southern air, one of the many grand features of nature sent to delight the senses. A delight rivaled by many, yet surpassed by few, or at least that was Samuel J. Monroe’s opinion. Delights much like that of homemade apple pie, or sensual kisses on the porch swing. Like God’s great canvas, the colors with which he paints the sky. Delights like your wedding night, or delights like the sweetest melody slowing through your ears and down into your soul. Delights like yard work, yes, yard work at night. The kind that requires heavy lifting and a great deal of digging, though once you’ve planted what you’ve brought then that delight surpasses them all.

Out by the vegetable patch where Samuel did the gardening, not but a few feet away grow his Rose’s roses. Beautifully planted and elegantly grown are they, though Rose’s roses are guilty of gaining more attention than he. Rose even planned on expanding her garden, which explains the extensive digging and potentially the heavy lifting. Not that their rural home would require the shade of night, but it just made it feel right. The beauty all around could only bring out the beauty in that which he planted, oh, and he can already imagine the glorious roses that would grow from this sacred soil.

“Well, honey, I hope this is how you wanted this to be done. I mean, when you love something so much, well, it just obviously needs to be planted properly. A proper job in the first place saves time in the long run, potentially even makes it easier to weed out the unwanted roses.” Samuel said.

Though alone in the yard he waited a moment for a response, but then got back to work when no words were to be heard.

“No need to be bashful, my dear, especially when it comes to your beloved garden,” Samuel added. “But no worries, I know just how you want this to be done.”

Sweat beads poured and his muscles flexed with every mount of dirt he shoveled out. “Hard work pays off” was the mantra echoing in his mind and continuously motivating him to press on and finish the job. Samuel just knows how much she loves her roses, which is why Rose’s roses gain special attention. Rose’s roses must be perfect, always and forever. The hole is getting deeper and the dirt mound higher, a physical manifestation of his hard work that he would only ever put into Rose’s roses. Samuel lifted his large sack above the hole, emptying it into the soil with great hopes of its beauty and how it would please Rose to see it.

“Oh, there you are, my dear.” Samuel smiled. “Hiding from me as I do all the work, now are we?”

Samuel stabbed his shovel into the dirt and lifted a mound over the hole, Rose and soon to be Rose’s roses. He stared for a moment at all that he ever loved, which had become all that he will ever lose. Though the ending isn’t a sad one, oh no, not when Rose’s roses are finally in bloom.

“Goodbye, my dear. I’m sure you meant well, but then again we all start out that way.” Samuel said, tearfully bidding her farewell.

Samuel began to fill in the hole as tears flowed from his eyes and trickled down upon his toothy smile. Tonight was a time of rejoicing, a moment when love can reunite in the utmost beautiful way. She will be missed in every aspect of Samuel’s life. He even wonders how he will go on without her, but then it is only for a short while. Before long Rose’s roses will be in bloom, full, radiant and reliable as tomorrow. Forevermore shall Rose’s roses grow for Samuel, enticing his senses and tantalizing his utmost delights.

“This came for you today.” Paul reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a yellowing letter addressed to his father. “It must have got lost in the post or something.”

Edward leaned over, careful not to snag the saline drip that terminated in the back of his right hand, and took the aging envelope from his son.

“The postmark is 1938,” said Paul, knowing the old man’s eyes would not see the fading print. “It’s a miracle it’s ever reached you after all these years.”

Edward stared at the scrawled handwriting amid the various redirection notices, a grim look developing on his face.

Noticing his father’s unexpected reaction, Paul looked quickly around the hospital ward, making sure no one was within earshot, then, with concern in his voice, asked, “What is it, Dad?”

“There was a boy at my school,” began Edward, his eyes focusing on nothing in particular. “Odd he was. Never saw him smile. He had ice cold eyes that looked into your soul. And the blackest hair you’ve ever seen. Didn’t speak much, never made any friends.”

“Dad?” Paul had no idea where this was going, but for reasons he couldn’t explain he felt worried now.

“It was said he was the Seventh Son of a Seventh Son, had magical powers or something,” the old man continued, ignoring the interruption, “but that didn’t bother me and my two mates, Charlie and Bill. We hated his aloofness and bullied him mercilessly. I am ashamed of what I did but they say children can be cruel, and we were. I was. We bullied him to death.”

“What?” Paul could not believe what the kind, gentle man whom he adored had said.

“The day he hung himself he posted three letters, one to each of his tormentors. Charlie’s arrived on the Saturday and it contained just one word: Pain. Three days later he got caught in a house fire. He was horribly burnt, but lived another two weeks in pain I can’t begin to imagine before he died. Bill’s letter arrived on the day of the fire and his word was Solitude. By the end of the month an infection had taken both his hearing and his sight. I think he lived fifty years like that before dying an old man. That lad did have powers. And now my letter has arrived. I thought I’d been let off the hook when it never came. How stupid was I to think that? He cursed us all.”

Paul shifted in his chair uncomfortably, but wanted to put his father’s mind at rest.

“Look Dad, if there was a curse, and I’m not saying there ever was…”

“You know there was!” Anger, mixed with fear, in the old man’s voice.

Paul ignored the interruption. “If there ever was, you’ve escaped it. What can he do to you now? You’re eighty-five, have lung cancer and are high on morphine most of the time. He can’t hurt you.”

Edward held the unopened letter tightly. “He was evil, that one; he won’t have let me, his chief tormentor, off the hook.” Moisture in his eyes now. “Son, I’m scared.”

“Throw the damn thing away then. Lord, I wish I hadn’t brought it now….”

“I can’t, I must know.” Arthritic fingers began to tear at the flap as Edward fumbled to open the envelope with an energy his son had not seen for weeks in the dying man. He read the note he’d extracted and paused for a second before letting out a wail, an animal wail the likes of which his son had never heard. Nurses came running to the bed, but Paul ignored them, his eyes now searching for the paper his beloved Dad had dropped. He could not imagine what had caused such a reaction but needed to know.

The paper lay at his feet and as he saw what was written, he knew his father had every reason to be terrified. The letter simply said “Rot in Hell.”

“To the baker’s,” said Senior Kunze.

Milton lifted the cart and walked. It’s only a matter of time, he thought, before my posture illustrates the burden of this lazy system.

The baker, who ran the great farm responsible for the bread in the village, cried to the Senior: “I belted an ox with a large wooden cane. The beast charged a field worker. The boy was trampled.”

“Only repent that you became angry.”

“Must I go to the camp?” the baker asked.

Senior Kunze shook his head, “The death was no direct fault of yours.” Then the Senior absolved the baker. “Perhaps twelve loaves of bread will see this tragedy through.”

As they returned to the Senior’s house, they passed Camp Motivation, a mammoth brick-made cylinder. Milton had never been told by those sent there what exactly it entailed. “You learn your lessons well,” was all he whittled from the reluctant workers.

And so Milton pulled the Senior back home. As he entered the heart of the village, he felt his spine scream in agony. His position in society prevented him from asking the Senior to trade places for the rest of the ride.

“I am a slave,” he mumbled.

“Did you say ‘slave?’”

Milton bowed his head slightly. “Yes.”

The Senior scowled. “Move along,” he said, waving his hand as he might at a dog.

At the house, Milton and his sister continued work on a shelter for the cart. The trade had been drawn like this:

“In winter, work is required to clear the wheels and seat of ice and snow,” the Senior bargained. “Too often I’m in a hurry and demand you pull the cart while the handles are frozen. The summer makes the fine material on my seat unbearably hot, and the metal pieces in the grips no doubt burn your skin.”

Minor irritations did not concern Milton. Neither, by then, did the Senior’s comfort. “So?” he had said.

“A shelter would protect the wagon at all times. Thus, you and I would always travel in comfort.”

It was another task to benefit the Senior more than Milton. He wanted to tell him no. His sister, as always, talked him out of it.

“If you disrupt the system,” she pleaded, “you’ll be sent to camp.”

And so they hammered nails into wood. Milton did not mention the incident on the road. There was no such thing as slavery. Suggesting otherwise was intolerable.

A Motivator came to watch them work. Motivators wore black tunics and said nothing.

“What have you done?” his sister whispered.

Milton saw the thin man standing on the road. The anemic figure rested his hands behind his back.

“You haven’t been complaining by the fountain again, have you?”

“No,” he lied.

Milton put his hammer down and walked over to the Motivator. “Can I help you?” he asked, with a smirk on his face.

His sister passed out in disbelief.

Milton was taken to Camp Motivation that evening. “This is the third time I have heard you speak in such a manner,” the Senior scolded, as his servant was dragged from bed. “It’s for your own good.”

He was rushed through the empty, silent village to the outskirts, to the camp. Once there he was pushed into the court room. There was no one else there but a judge and the Motivator Milton had confronted earlier.

The judge spoke: “A year in the gravity chamber should help you.”

Milton was led through a dark tunnel that opened to the huge courtyard in the center of the construction. There, in the middle of everything, was a stone cube the size of four great buildings merged. The slab rotated with unnerving quickness, due to the prisoners supporting it with their bare hands.

It wasn’t more than five rotations after Milton had been assigned a position beneath the rock that he realized how simple carrying the cart had been, in contrast to the twenty-ton block coming down on his back.

I love working with kids because of their ability to surprise me. For many years I’ve been living inside their closets, and every time they see me or feel me the situation is different: some cry, some have nightmares, some wet the bed. That’s when my favorite part begins: Some kids smile maliciously and ask their fathers to read them stories over and over, while the grownups battle a mixture of fatigue and guilt. Still others ask their mothers to sleep with them, contemplating their darkest fantasies—they hate their fathers, who get to smell their mothers’ hair every evening. But on my last job, I was living inside a boy’s closet when he walked up to me with a question.

“Hi. Do you want to be my friend?”

“Why do you want to be friends with the monster in your closet?” I didn’t emerge from the shadows.

“Because I don’t have any friends. Nobody wants to play with the son of the hangman.”

From that moment on, we went together to the other kids’ closets. We had such wonderful times. It’s a pity he grew up so fast.