MicroHorror

Dearest Sara,

It’s been ten years since we communicated last. I’ll never forget that day you screamed you never wanted to speak to your father or me again, and then raced out the door. I know you didn’t mean it. You were so pretty that day. Do you still wear your hair in a ponytail? I tried writing you many times, but your father found my letters and ran them through the shredder. He said you’d disgraced the family by running away. Not that it mattered since I didn’t know your address. If it hadn’t been for the news item on the television, I wouldn’t have known where to write now.

My fingers stopped mid-purl when I saw you standing next to that District Attorney and heard him tell everyone about the case you’d won. You’re skinny like your father, you know, and when did you dye your hair blond? I agree with you. It’s too bad Florida suspended its death penalty law.

I know you think I’m weak for allowing your father to abuse me the way he did. I hope you realize I did it for you. The beatings were bearable as long as I was saving you from his horrible ways. My God, you were only seventeen.

He might not have been the best father, but he was a good man until he was passed over a third time for the promotion he wanted. After that he was always so angry. I’ve thought about leaving him many times, but he’s extra nice to me when he’s sober. My one prayer all these years was that you’d call and ask me to live with you once you got settled. Maybe you will when you hear my news.

The doctors give your father three months to live. It’s pancreatic cancer. I learned how to administer his medications so the nurse doesn’t have to come here all the time. It’s not that difficult.

I sleep in your room with Cuddly. You remember your teddy bear, don’t you? You father’s in quite a bit of pain, and the walls muffle his moans. I kept your clothes, too. I tried on one of your dresses last week. It was a little tight, but for that moment, I was seventeen again. I even put ribbons in my hair. Your father would feel better if I’d stop withholding his pain medicine, but it only seems right that he suffer a little after all I went through.

I guess that’s all I have to say for this letter. It would please me to hear back from you if you have the time.

With all my love, your mother,

Brenda

I could see the lights from a house in the distance and I thanked God. In the hour since I wrecked the car, little baby Joseph had fallen back asleep and I had traveled at least three miles through the dark woods. Thanks for giving me the scenic directions to your new house, sis. It almost got your kid and me killed.

Carefully, I held Joe in my hands as I stepped through one last large bush and into someone’s backyard. But nothing could prepare me for what I saw as I gazed through the large glass sliding door and into that house.

Three… inhabitants sat on a couch, completely motionless. They hardly looked human. It was as if someone had taken pale yellow skin and stretched it over the dry bones of a skeleton. You could just imagine that when they moved you’d hear a horrible creaking sound. Their hair was long, messy, and stringy. Deep, dark, probably dank holes held bloodshot eyes that stared straight forward at who knows what. I was just thankful it wasn’t at me and little Joe. They were clothed in old, but fancy dress. Like something you would have worn to church… in 1920. All three of them had their arms folded upon their laps. But the worst thing about them was the smile. Wide as fuck, making sure that each and every one of their yellow teeth was on display.

Every hair on my body stood up, and my spine was most certainly chilled. “You know what, Joe?” I said to the sleeping infant my sister had entrusted to my care. “I think we’ll go to the next house.”

It was another hour walking alongside the road before we came to another house. The lights at this one were off, and I felt bad ringing the bell, but not more than a minute later the door slowly slid open with a squeak to reveal the woman from the skeletal trio. I managed to keep little Joe safe through a car accident and traveling a dense, dark forest, but that shock nearly caused me to drop the poor kid to the ground.

“Hello?” She spoke, never losing that wide smile. I look around, from side to side. I didn’t remember the road turning at all. How did I end up back here?

“I’m sorry, miss,” I finally answered, avoiding eye contact. “We’ve been in a car accident… Can I use your phone?” She nodded yes, and mumbled something I couldn’t hear. I followed her into the house where she led me to the living room. The other two of this terrible trio turned their heads (which did indeed cause terrible creaking) to look upon me and Joe.

“Hi. Just here to use the phone,” I told them. They remained silent. The lady, if you could call that thing a lady, pointed to a phone on a nearby desk. An old rotary phone. Retro. I moved toward it, but stopped dead in my tracks as she cleared her throat.

“Let me hold the baby, dear. Just while you use the phone.” The eyes of this trio burned into me. I looked down at sweet little Joe, fast asleep and unaware of the horrors right before him. I looked to the door, contemplating running.

“You don’t want to do that, dear.” She spoke again. “Now hand me the child.” She walked toward me, arms stretched out. I was shocked to find my arms meeting hers, and dropping Joe into her bony hands. She started to rock Joe in her arms; something barely resembling a lullaby escaped her pale lips.

I woke up the next morning tied to a bed, complete with a gag in my mouth. Joe was nowhere to be seen, but one of the trio stood above me, bloody knife in hand. He was shaking, laughing I think. But it sounded more like bones rattling. Sorry, sis. I told you I was a horrible babysitter.

He sat in his cell. He was meditating. Should he do it or not? Today was the last day he had before he died in the chair. He did not know whether to do it or not. It was not assured that his cellmate was still going to be sleeping when he did it. He hadn’t done it since he was incarcerated. In fact doing what he was about to do was the reason he was incarcerated. He decided to do it. He did not consciously make the decision. It was made subconsciously just as a predator decides to kill prey.

He climbed onto his roommate’s bunk. He straddled him in a six-point position. He was so ready to do it. He needed to do this. He had to quench the urge. He leaned forward and tore off his cellmate’s face. He savored the taste of blood in his mouth. He loved the texture of the flesh. He swallowed and took another bite. By this time, his cellmate had woken up and was screaming. The guard on duty heard the scream and briskly walked to the cell, gun cocked and finger on the trigger. He saw the man on top of his roommate. Blood was everywhere. The white sheets were now a deep crimson. The orange jumpsuit was covered in blood all over the front. The cellmate was drowned in his own blood already and his scream was now no more than a gurgle and eventually stopped, along with his life. All the while the bewildered guard stood at the bars and watched the cannibal eat. When he shook himself out of the trance, he aimed at the cannibal through the bars with trembling hands and put the cannibal to death a day early. He looked at his watch. He would have to report the time of death.

I watch. I see. I listen.

My vehicle is safe, miles away; I’ve traversed backwoods and obscure paths. My eyes, adjusted to dark, my ears, listening for telling stimuli both near and far. I wait.

I take nothing, I leave nothing. There is no need to trespass; you silly creatures are exhibitionists with your antics, secrets and actions. Far from your own sanctuaries you smoke, shoot drugs, have sex, skinny-dip, drink by bonfires, lie, cheat, steal, sleep, fantasize, converse, dance, play, sing.

You never saw me come, you never see me go.

You do not turn me on though, don’t be confused. I am not attracted to any of you. I do not linger on your presence past your curtain call. I do not want to touch you, hurt you. Your actions are but my fuel. Recharging my need to know, that desire for knowledge. Knowledge, as we know, is power.

I have assimilated your existences into a collective concept of humanity. I learn from you what no book could tell.

Do not fret. You have nothing to be ashamed of.

You should see what the other people do…

It seems to be working faster tonight. We only took the dose half an hour ago, and even now I can begin to feel the rush. My heart beats faster, my skin feels warmer, the lights shine brighter. Their electric glow is almost too bright. I look at Amy and can tell she feels it too. I look out of the window. The snow has stopped and it’s now a bright, clear winter’s night, the stars glinting and the moon gleaming low over the apartment blocks. The night looks so wonderful I want to be out in it, to feel the light on my skin, a cool clear light from above, not the tawdry imitation made by man. The cold holds no fears. My skin is warm and fresh. Nothing can chill it.

“Let’s go out onto the roof,” I say to Amy. She nods, smiling. She must sense the same urge, something in the trip drawing us up and out into the night. To see it, to breathe it in, to become it.

We hurriedly climb the stairs, and head out, through the fire escape, onto the roof. It feels wonderful. The dark, the glow of the moonlight, the stars, the dusting of snow reflecting it all back. I can nearly feel the starlight on my skin. I have to feel it on my skin. I start to remove my shirt, then my pants and underclothes. Amy is doing the same. We’re both excited now. The drug seems to be taking us somewhere different tonight. Not just the euphoria and energy we had before, but outwards, into something bright and new, into space perhaps.

I look down, and realise there is snow beneath my naked feet, but it’s not cold. It’s fluffy, inviting, comfortable. I lie back into its woolly embrace, staring up at the stars, the stars that seem so nearly right in some way. They talk to me. Are talking to us both, but the sound won’t come in. We need to let it in.

“What can we do to let it in?” asks Amy. “I want to hear the stars sing to me.”

I remember something. I’d forgotten. I’d bought something for this, I realize. Something had told me this would happen. I reach down to my discarded pants, and there I find the two survival knives I bought just the other day.

I pick one up, and give it to Amy. She stares raptly at the blade, so sharp, so clean, so fresh, and then lovingly, tenderly, she makes a precisely shaped cut in my chest. I feel nothing except elation and pleasure as the stars start to reach in to me. I smile, hold Amy close, and we begin to open ourselves up to the shining bright freedom that the sky, the stars and the powder offer us.

I’m connecting to a world beyond our own, and sense something uncoil, stirring in its eternal slumber in the walls between the worlds, tentacular tendrils seeking a way through. And I have a strange realization that the old man on the Innsmouth boardwalk might sell something more than just drugs.

But there is no turning back. We’re committed. The ritual has taken us. Slowly, red mixes with the white fresh snow on the roof. And as we let in the light of the stars, we become darker ourselves. Until nothing is left but the stars and the sky, and some small fragment brought through to make the world a little darker.

Sandra hugged her black coat tightly shut to ward off the bitter cold as she approached the funeral parlor. She was attending Henry’s service out of obligation. In fact, she barely knew him, even though they had worked side-by-side for years. The truth was that Sandra never socialized.

Oh, there’d been a time when she and George had shared bottles of wine over dinners with friends. But then George had left her, and their “friends” had abandoned her, and the bitterness had taken root within her heart. She had learned of George’s death a few years ago, but felt only resentment for the ill he had caused her.

She climbed the steps to the parlor, her teeth chattering. How selfish of Henry to die in the frigid cold of winter when he could just as soon have waited for spring. She cleared the last step, gasping. She was out of shape and aging. She pushed open the heavy oak door and made her way down red-carpeted hallway.

“Henry Little’s Service,” read the sign before the heavy double doors.

Odd–she’d never known Henry’s last name before. The doors opened and she entered the room, which instantly dimmed. The only light, she noticed, came from softly glowing candles, the flames of which flickered wildly as the double doors slammed shut. She jumped and looked around, seeing no one. She stared into the shadowed corners. It was then she saw him, and her jaw dropped. He sat in a velvet chair, his legs neatly crossed.

“Hello, Sandra, it’s been a long time, no?”

“George!” she gasped. “How? Why?”

“It was you who summoned me, Sandra, with all the endless years of blame that you refused to let go of.”

She stared at his pale features, accentuated by the glowing candles. “Who are you to criticize me,” she spat, “when it was you who robbed me of my life?”

“I pity what will happen to you if you don’t let go.” George stared into the distance.

“I came here for Henry, not you.” Sandra turned. “I’m leaving.”

“Do you know what Hell is, Sandra?”

“Hell has been my life.” She faced him one last time. “You should know that.”

“If you don’t break away from the endless links in your chain of blame, Sandra, you will learn what Hell really is.”

“I refuse to listen to you,” barked Sandra.

The double doors swung open and she stumbled into the brightly lit hallway. Back home, she flung herself into bed and cried, then fell asleep. She awoke the next day positive that it had all been a dream. She went to work, and was surprised to find a vase of flowers sitting on her desk, against which was propped a note.

“We are sorry to hear of Sandra’s death. Please join us tomorrow for her service.”

Sandra rushed to the reception area, her feet surprisingly lithe.

“Is this a joke?” She showed the note to the receptionist, who stared right through her, blinking her mascara-laden lashes.

Sandra ran from the office and back to the funeral home, her feet squishing down the red-carpeted hallway. Had she not been so preoccupied, she might have noticed it was oozing blood. She banged open the double doors and stomped into the room, leaving bloody prints in her wake.

“George, I demand a word with you.”

A cool breeze caused the candles to flicker. The double doors slammed shut.

“George, I know you’re here.”

The velvet chair in the corner burst into flames and George appeared before her, a burning ball of fire.

“I warned you, Sandra. You have only yourself to blame.”

“How dare you?” She lunged at him, her black coat becoming engulfed in flames as she rolled with him on the floor.

She was fully prepared to battle him for all eternity. After all, he was the one responsible for all the wasted years of her empty life. And for that she would blame him forever and ever and ever.

Whenever I come into her room and she’s not asleep, my baby squeals, sits up in her crib and reaches out with her little arms, fingers grasping, in the hope that I’ll pick her up and play with her. And of course, I do. What I can I say? She’s Daddy’s girl. And all I have left of her mother.

It seems like only yesterday that I met Ezter. I was sitting at my usual table at the coffee house, when this stunning brunette asks if she can sit with me. I stammered out my consent.

Ezter’s lovely brown eyes sparkled like fine amber. Her dark hair flowed down in waves and caressed her bare shoulders. She spoke with an accent, but her English was perfect. She told me she was Hungarian. I knew it–she had that Slavic beauty. Ezter was born in Visegrad, a village on the Danube that was the capital of Hungary in medieval times. As a little girl, she and her family moved up into the nearby Pilis Mountains, where she and her brothers and sisters loved to roam.

I told Ezter about myself: IS guy turned aspiring poet and writer publishes a few pieces and thinks he’s one of the literati, so he spends his empty nights in a coffee house listening to other wannabes read their works, hoping that one day, he’ll be on top of the New York Times bestseller list. I tried to be funny and charming, but not at the expense of honesty. I hate guys who lie to women. Of course, they get the girls and I don’t.

But Ezter seemed to like me. After the readings were over, she said she wanted to see me again. We exchanged phone numbers. One date turned into another and another. Then we became lovers. Ezter was the first woman to really make love to me. And she taught me how to make love to her.

I had found the perfect girl, and I wasn’t about to lose her. So I asked her to marry me. Tears welled in her eyes. “You are the only man who ever truly loved me,” she said. Her other boyfriends always found fault with her and ended up dumping her. I couldn’t imagine why.

We were married for a couple years when I brought up the subject of children. Ezter confessed tearfully that she couldn’t get pregnant. I didn’t feel betrayed. I felt sorry for her. I did some research on adoption, but before I could approach Ezter about the subject, she threw her arms around me and told me we were going to have a baby. It was like a miracle.

Ezter’s pregnancy and childbirth couldn’t have been more normal. Anna was born perfectly healthy. She looked so much like her mommy. Who could have imagined that Ezter would be dead barely a year after bringing Anna into the world? She had been enjoying one of her nightly runs when a hunter’s bullet ended her life. The redneck was so drunk that he’d accidentally loaded his rifle with the silver bullet he’d won in a marksmanship contest.

If it weren’t for Anna, I don’t know how I’d have gotten through the funeral. I don’t know how I’d have been able to get up every morning. I need her as much as she needs me. That reminds me, it’s getting dark, and the moon will be full tonight. It’s time to put Anna to bed and keep her safe. Since she’s starting to eat finger foods, I usually give her some little bits of raw hamburger after she’s gone through the change. She loves it. She gobbles it up, licks her paws, and squeals with delight.

Kids grow up so fast. Soon, she’ll be able to control the change as easily as she can use the toilet.

But no matter how old she is, she’ll always be Daddy’s girl.

My poor Emily. You’re the last person I’d expect to see here on my stainless steel table. I can’t say I’m glad you’re here, but I was touched that your mother and sister came to me to make arrangements. They knew I loved you. You were the best friend I ever had.

Did I scare you? I have to wear this mask, respirator, and protective suit because the chemicals I work with are highly toxic. Working with formaldehyde-preserved specimens in our high school biology class is one thing; this is another. Don’t worry, Emily. I’ll talk you through it all so you’ll know what to expect.

There. Your sponge bath is done. Your skin is clean and disinfected. Now, I’ll give you a massage. I’m just going to flex your arms and legs and massage the muscles. That makes it easier to pose you later. Okay. We’ve finished the prep work. Now comes the most important part.

I’ve made two incisions in your neck: one in the carotid artery, one in the jugular vein. I’m going to insert a tube into each incision. One is connected to my fluid pump; the other is the drain tube. When I turn on the pump, embalming fluid will move through your veins and push the blood out through the drain tube and down the drain of my special sink.

I can legally dispose of blood this way. It’s perfectly safe. When embalming fluid mixes with blood, it destroys any viruses and contaminants present. Let’s turn on the pump. We’ll talk while it does its job.

Emily, I still can’t believe you’re here. How did things go so wrong with Frank? I was at your wedding–I could tell how much you loved him, and he sure seemed to love you. Your sister Linda told me a different story. How a man could ever hit a woman he claims to love is beyond me. Why did you stay with him? How did you become a victim?

When we were children, you always defended me. The other kids called me Creepy Charlie. They hit me, kicked me, pushed me down, even rubbed my face in dog shit. You were my only friend. I loved you so much. I wanted to tell you, but I knew you could never love me that way. You needed someone tall, dark, and handsome–not a geek like me.

The pumping’s done. Let’s move on to the cavity embalming. I’m going to make an incision right here–just above your bellybutton. There. Now, I’m going to insert this long needle called a trocar into your abdomen and thoracic cavities. It’s connected to a suction pump that removes air and leftover blood. When that’s done, I’ll inject a concentrated embalming fluid. It provides a more thorough means of disinfection and preservation.

All done. I’ve sewn up the incisions. You get another sponge bath, then I’ll wash your hair. I see you’ve got some color back in your cheeks. That’s the dye in the embalming fluid. After I wash your hair, I’ll rub your hands and face with a special moisturizer. Then I’ll dress you and do your makeup.

Emily, I promise you’ll look beautiful. I’ll fix the dent in your skull and add extra hair. I can’t believe the police bought Frank’s story. You just fell and hit your head. Yeah, right.

Let’s get you into the makeup room. I’ve got everything I need in here–cosmetics, wigs, latex, prosthetics of all sorts. You wouldn’t believe the condition that some people arrive in. We morticians are real artists. We have to be.

There, you’re all fixed. Let’s get you dressed and made up. Your calling hours are tomorrow, your funeral the day after that, but I’ll be done with you in time for dinner.

After I eat, I’ll come back for Frank.

I’ve got him locked inside one of my caskets.

It’s not airtight, so he’ll live.

Until I embalm him.

They were extreme athletes from six continents, twenty-one of them, in an obscure corner of Hungary at dusk, listening to a white-haired man calling himself Baron.

From a terrace he looked down on his guests.

“Welcome to my challenge race. This will be the run of your lives, I promise you.” He motioned to three brawny men at his side. “My sons enjoy testing themselves against skillful opponents.”

“And the course?” an ultramarathoner shouted.

The baron pointed to the surrounding forest. “Thirty kilometers of trails in my woods. Follow them—or not. Run among the trees! Return at sunrise and win.”

“Thirty kilometers? That’s hardly a race.”

The moon crested the mountain behind the castle.

“There’s more challenge than that,” the baron said. Beside him, his sons trembled and groaned.

The sun vanished.

“Time to run,” the baron said.

Three wolf-like things leaped from the terrace—and the athletes ran.

A buzz filled the gray room as Clarissa folded a blouse, tucking it into a cloth suitcase. “Mother, I’m about done. Aren’t you at least going to say goodbye?”

Clarissa knew the stubborn old woman wouldn’t answer. She glanced at Mother’s silhouette in the wheelchair, facing the window where Mother loved to watch birds at the feeders.

The buzz reminded Clarissa of hummingbird wings, Mother’s favorite.

Another blouse folded. “After all these years—in this house—with you—” Clarissa trembled and bit her lip. “Well. I think I deserve a trip, don’t you?”

The buzz swirled.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. I made arrangements.” Clarissa giggled. The suitcase snapped shut.

“Goodbye, Mother. I’ll send postcards.”

The storm door banged shut behind her.

Flies circled Mother’s head, landing on her face, her empty eyes, the slash in her throat where white things crawled.

The buzz filled the room.