MicroHorror

The market was alive with all the fresh scents of turmeric and cardamom pods, which fell from the high-piled spice bins and cracked underfoot. She made her way along, her hips bending back and forth to the feel of the night air, the whisper of cobblestone underfoot. The night lowered itself over the stalls like a cold-breathed lover or a recently dead child. The eyes of the sky were bright, but Elana did not think that they burned for her.

She settled herself down in her traditional stall, pulling the wisps of cloth across her face. Her breath stole across the veils with the promise of mystery. The cards were soft and worn in her hand. It was her own deck, repainted in honor of the truth which she had read so many times written across the face of the heavens: death. Not only the sinister Hangman, but also the rose-faced Queen of Cups, and all her entourage, wore that same face: the skeletal eyes gaping, filled with cold stars.

A customer came, sat down, his eyes shifting back and forth. He was fat, with a golden chain that clung inside the folds of his sweating neck. Some matter of no importance was weighing like a millstone on the unbalanced spindle of his mind. A business deal, a marriage, the fate of a voyage. She dealt out the hand which predicted his death, watched his eyes widen, the fear rolling in large drops down his brow. The question that he had come to ask sunk into the Lethe of his fears. He stood, wandered off into the darkness of the night market, already more a ghost than a man.

She heard, a few moments later, the sound of screams, men and women rushing around, and she knew that the sentence which she had read him had been carried out. She picked up the cards and shuffled them again.

The battlefield had turned itself inside out, and now everything was spattered with green, the soldiers clutching their stomachs and trying to hold in bright, grass-colored worms that must have been intestines. Their faces were as dark as pine trees, and the sky overhead a sinister orange. The orderly lay on his back, looking up at the blindingly black sun in the face of the pumpkin sky and began to laugh, with the high-pitched assurance of a man who knows that he is dead.

Whirring. Cheap fish-stained airflow and the rattle of ivory-tusk teeth. Your teeth. The gibbering, dewlapped-nosed face of a man with distended, drum-tight belly and balloon dog legs. He pushes in so close he distorts like a spoon-image, smiles bloodily. He has a chipped front tooth you recognize, and you run cottonwool tongue over wet, gummy mouth. He chucks a two-dollar coin beneath your pillowcase, where it clinks and jangles like metallic timpani against a small pile of scuttling brothers and sisters.

Grow up big and strong, he says as he packs away his spittle-blood pliers. Ready for next year’s harvest.

The boy’s face was a thick, fluid rendering of blowflies. They crusted his eyes like false lashes, and crawled around his chapped, broken lips, their shimmering wings vibrating against their fat black bodies. The boy’s stomach was distended; he looked like a spoon, with the bulging, swooping curve of his gut leading into his rail-thin upper body. His ribs protruded; it was as though he had swallowed a birdcage that was pushing out from within.

Father Terence dusted the flies away with a hand soft from hemp balm and decorated with a series of gold rings engraved with brief notes to the Lord. His own arms were husky, with his upper arm drifting fleshily down over his elbow, and his forearms bulging here and there.

“It will be all right, my child,” he whispered, waving reverently at the new cloud of flies that had taken up residence upon the famished boy’s face.

Father Terence’s forehead creased into sweaty folds as he thought about the tragedy that had befallen his land, his followers. The blight had affected everybody who had ever come under his church roof, and now there was very little food for anybody. Villagers were scratching underneath the bricks of their homes for millipedes and slater bugs, were digging up skinny worms, skewering them on filthy fingernails and wrapping them in dried banana leaves, were drinking from pools milky with disturbed dirt and mosquito larvae.

There was nothing to eat, and it was having an effect upon everybody, even the wealthy and the elite in their houses of white blocks of stone and crenulated rooftops. Though, of course, they had not let anybody but the Father know their difficulties. They would come to confession, describing their kidnappings of infants, the stewing, the boiling, the stripping of flesh from the bone.

“It will be all right, my child,” he whispered, lifting the boy into his arms. The boy was a dark feather, flyblown and hot from the desert sun. His tiny toes bulged at the ends, like mushrooms.

Father Terence carried the boy up the dusty path that led to the church. Inside, the cool, unmoving air of the church, air that had sat there for centuries it seemed, refreshed the boy a little, for he stirred, his vague movement like a small fish slapping against his hunter’s hand.

The blight had affected everybody who had ever come under his church roof, and now there was very little food for anybody.

And Father Terence had to make do.

The air was harsh, the world cold. Whiteness surrounded me, clouding the sky and clutching my ankles. Every step taken was tough; then again, there’s never any easy steps taken in life.

I walked and walked some more; all the while snow smacked my face. Coming to a halt, I looked up. It towered over me, round, huge, white and pulsing with light. White on white. The massive structure blended in perfectly with the snow. If not for the yellow-orange pulse, I would never have noticed the structure in the first place. To my own surprise, a smile spread across my face. It felt funny to smile, being accustomed to frowning was a constant in life.

The light reminded me of a tale my mother told me in my youth. Long ago, when she was young, a great ball of fire stood in the sky, breathing life into the world. Beautiful plants covered the ground, a vast array of colors rather than the cold, stark white of today. She said it blazed day in and day out till one fateful day there was no blaze, just a cold darkness, overwhelming. Then the snow came down and it never stopped coming.

I contemplated these things and more while watching the snow melt under the light’s rays. Perhaps a god plucked it of the sky and trapped it in the walls of this building. Is there a way to release it, give it a chance to escape and return to its former glory?

Snow continued to melt in the light, transforming into hot drops of liquid. I felt a deep longing for the light well up inside of me. My feet started to move forward, bringing me closer to my goal with each step taken. I stepped into the rays of light, bathing in its warmth. The warmth soon eased into an intense heat, baking my skin. An entire life of paleness now swapped out for a tantalizing tan. Popping, crackling all led to the delightful sizzle. Firm, tough skin began to melt, dripping my essence into the ground, replenishing it, delivering nutrients long overdue. I reach out my hand–if you may call it that–closer to the light, attempting to grasp its heat in the folds of my palm. I continued to melt away but I knew my sacrifice would not go unnoticed.

I ventured out, into the yard, to watch the children play, feeding my inner delight for days long gone. My legs are tired and weak or maybe my legs have grown tired of me. All I have left are memories, vessels into the past.

When I’m not reminiscing, I’m teaching. I love to see their bright faces light up after learning something new, that certain click in the mind. Sometimes, I sit and watch them play–giggling, laughing. But there is one boy that sits alone–not one of my students–he goes by the name of Johnny. I always wanted to talk to him but I could not bring myself to do it. Today, I will talk to him. I must.

Johnny sat with his ear to the ground, listening. Listening attentively for something. Striding over to where he sat, I cleared my throat. His small eyes glanced at me, then back to the ground.

“Johnny, may I ask what you are listening to?”

He lifted his head. “The hum.”

“The hum of what?”

“The hum of the world.”

I put my ear to the ground, listening. At first there was nothing but then a sound came to my ears, unlike any I have ever heard before. I imagined a great beast clawing dirt, groping in the darkness. Shuddering, I could not rid myself of the image.

“Johnny, what happens when the hum stops?”

“The end.”

It was nearly nine as Calvin Green slowly pulled his Ford pickup onto his girlfriend’s driveway. He fixed his red tie and grabbed the dozen red roses off of the passenger seat. Today was their one-month anniversary and he wanted to do right by her. Thrilled that they were still together, Calvin decided that they would do something special tonight to celebrate. Not uttering a word about the occasion, he planned on surprising her.

As he walked up the path to her house, he noticed a small red sports car sitting inside her garage. He knew that it wasn’t hers but figured she must have a girlfriend over. Grinning wide, he knocked on her door, holding the red roses out before him. Hearing rustling and hushed voices, he waited patiently for her to open the door. The lights in the house clicked off, causing Calvin to narrow his eyes. He knocked again.

“Melissa?” he called out. He waited a moment but received no answer. “Melissa? What’s going on?”

The latch on the door was moved, and so was the lock on the knob. Calvin took a step back as the door creaked open. There, standing in the dark, was his girlfriend. Dressed in a small black robe, she seemed deeply pale, and when he came toward her, she hissed.

“Melissa, honey? What’s wrong?” Calvin asked with fear etched across his face.

“Who are you?” Melissa inquired.

“What do you mean? It’s me, Calvin.” He smiled and offered her the roses. “Tonight’s our one-month anniversary. I thought we should go out tonight and I even managed to book a table at that fancy place you like.”

Melissa’s eyes grew wide in recognition, and then she pouted her lips. “Oh yes, Calvin. How sweet of you to offer to take me out.” She slinked over to him and wrapped her arms around his body. Kissing him tenderly, she said, “I’d rather have dinner now, if you don’t mind.”

Calvin’s throat tightened as she slid her hands across his butt. His eyes skimmed her body and he found her robe coming undone. Swallowing eagerly, he nodded and let her kiss him once more. “That’s fine with me,” he replied. Melissa’s smile flickered and she grabbed his free hand, tugging him towards her door. Turning her blond head swiftly, Calvin noticed a small bruise on her neck. “Melissa, where’d you get that from?” He pointed at it, concerned.

With a lustful glint in her eye, she whispered hungrily, “You’ll find out.” Licking her lips, Melissa led him inside her gloomy home, fastening the bolts to his freedom.

She watched the small pink clock that sat on her desk. The slow movements of the hands were mesmerizing. Alice had been doing this for exactly three hours, ever since Jacob had walked out the door, out of her life. For good, he had said.

“Well, I just don’t believe him. We don’t, do we, Mr. Gallan?” Alice asked a stuffed white cat that lay on top of her bedspread. Her bed was carefully made, each corner tucked in; no material hung off of the sides and all of Alice’s animals sat perfectly still against her many decorative pillows, except for Mr. Gallan. He was a special toy to Alice. She had had him ever since she could remember, ever since her mother had still been alive and before the beatings had taken place. But those days were far behind Alice now as she continued to stare at the still cat. His glassy blue eyes watched her carefully.

“I just don’t understand! Why would he go?” Alice screamed at the stuffed animal. She grabbed Mr. Gallan and hugged him to her chest. “He said that you were the problem. He said that I needed to get rid of you! That I was too old to keep you around… but you don’t want me to get rid of you, do you, Mr. Gallan?” Alice glanced down at the white cat cradled in her arms. For a split second, she thought she saw him shake his head.

“Jacob’s a bad man,” a voice whispered.

“No, he isn’t. He just doesn’t understand.”

“He’s bad, Alice,” the voice repeated.

Alice dropped the cat onto her bed and walked over to a large mirror that hung on the light blue wall of her bedroom. Staring at her reflection, Alice replied, “I love him, Mr. Gallan.”

“I know you do, but he’s not worth the pain, Alice.”

Alice began to tremble as she looked deep into her brown eyes; they seemed to suck her in. Jacob had always told her that she had beautiful, alluring eyes.

“He hurt you, Alice.”

“No…”

“He hurt you!” the voice yelled, sending slight chills down her back.

“He didn’t,” she insisted.

After a few moments of silence, the voice spoke again. “You know what we do to people that hurt you…”

Crying now, Alice muttered, “Please…”

“Just like your stepfather. Remember what we did to him?”

“Mr. Gallan, stop!” Alice pleaded as she placed her hands over her ears and began to hum, trying to block out what he was saying. “Not again,” she whispered strongly.

The cat’s voice grew faster and his pitch was louder as he screamed the four-letter word over and over again, sending Alice into a trance. Images of Jacob flooded through her mind, and then were all gone, erased by the word. The stuffed cat lay motionless on her bed, white fur covering the wide grin displayed on its tiny face.

Alice locked eyes with her reflection and smiled. “Kill,” she said.

At first, we had some problems… sure. Zombies are like that. But while everyone was busy fleeing in terror; we almost missed that the undead were our solution to global warming. Ever seen a zombie get tired? A little bait and the bastards walk forever. Completely renewable energy.

We have zombie carriages, zombie treadmill generators and the slow–but dependable–zombie freight trains. You just can’t beat that carbon footprint. If they get out? Well, then we lose some stupid ones and gain some extra cogs for Zombco Motors™. Everyone wins.

The spider was perfectly motionless as pangs of hunger relentlessly tapped into its mind. The strange sensations it had been experiencing also reasserted themselves, further adding to its discomfort. The beakers of liquid it had stumbled across in the back room of the house had hardly proved to be an adequate quencher of its thirst. It thought they had contained water, but it quickly discovered that that was far from the truth. Still, the fluids were intoxicating almost to the point of being addictive, and although its thirst and hunger were still raging it did feel somewhat rejuvenated.

The spider recalled others like itself in the back room as well. Some were large and hairy and others were small, but all were housed inside various sized bottles with wide labels attached to them.

Black Widow (Latrodectus mactans), Northern Funnel Web (Atrax robustus) and Brazilian Wanderer (Phoneutria nigriventer) were but a few of the specimens inside the room. The spider also noticed several small mice in glass boxes on the tables.

The spider’s stomach began to contort. The cat it had swallowed had been digested and it now had all of its eyes focused on the family dog. It was a large dog, much bigger than the cat, but the spider did not care; hunger directed its actions. It pounced on the poor creature in a flash and greedily sucked down the corpse.

The spider was surprised that its hunger still was not satisfied. It wondered in its mutating and rapidly expanding brain what exactly it had drunk in the back room in the house. The complex neurotoxin dripping from its expanding fangs occasionally dribbled onto its own legs causing necrotic lesions, but it did not care; the pain was minimal compared to its hunger.

The spider was barely able to squeeze through the doorway but finally managed to do it. It sensed food nearby and an obstacle like a wall or a door was not about to stop it.

It entered the room and quickly squatted behind a large couch, attempting to hide itself. But it was no good, it was far too big. So it instead opted for a swift, violent attack instead of a slow, calculated one.

The little girl sat in front of the television unaware that she was being watched. She was singing along to her favorite program while eating the ham sandwich her mother had made for her. She was also looking forward to that evening when her daddy had promised her he would play tea party with her. He was always so busy in his laboratory that he usually didn’t have much time for her or her mommy, but she knew the work he was doing was very important and that it would save lives one day.

The spider’s fangs drooled in anticipation. It watched the little girl closely, waiting for the opportunity to strike. The hunger it was feeling was maddening, prohibiting the spider from applying patience to its hunt. It knew it would have to attack soon… very soon.

The little girl’s mother strolled into the living room to see if her daughter wanted something else to eat. She screamed when she saw the half-eaten ham sandwich lying in front of the television…covered in blood.

The cockroach squeezed through the tiny hole in the wall. It was hungry and desperately needed to find food. The room was very strange; there were many containers with spiders in them and small mice in glass cages as well. It entered the room cautiously, being driven by its desire for food. The thirst it suffered from was also strong, and it was pleased to find some glass containers with liquid in them.

It scurried over to them and began to lap up the water.

And then it realized it was not water.