MicroHorror

The tour bus careened off the highway and into a tree. The three band members slowly climbed to their feet. The driver’s head was crushed by the oak tree that shredded through the front of the bus. The smell of gasoline and antifreeze was overpowering.

The three band members observed each other in horror. Two were missing heads and one had an arm off. The bassist and lead singer traded heads after realizing their initial error. The drummer reattached his arm. He looked at the driver and said, “I sure hope somebody comes by with a truck for the gear.”

The priest stepped into the main hall. His reserved smile reflected his sense of accomplishment. The house was completely blessed. Only a few more flicks of holy water to accompany a prayer and the job would be finished. The Andersons patiently waited outside for his welcoming smile in the doorway.

They entered upon his summons. He assured them the house was in fine order and livable. Mr. Anderson shook the priest’s hand while thanking him. Just before departing the priest was crushed under the weight of the felled chandelier. Two mischievous spirits cackled while swinging from the broken chain above.

Joe the plumber had to dive into that bar. Had to order a double Scotch then another. Had to meet her. And was never seen again. Alf the air conditioning technician, same fate. Men who pick up Mel in the Donegal Bar are like gone forever. Mel’s a harp so a natural born poet. Ask for a little music and she sounds off like a jukebox. “Mary, the Rose of Tralee.” Cobras are sentimental. Joe and Alf get the concert with the double Scotch and the walk into oblivion in Mel’s apartment just ‘round the corner.

Listen, you gotta hand it to her. Mel has her own idea of nighttime celebrations that are a far cry from beer, pretzels and sex in front of the television which is what Joe and Alf basically want. Once Mel sheds her clothes, she sheds her skin and becomes Mel the serpent that Saint Patrick forgot to charm out of Ireland. So Joe the plumber tunnels through her while in the background, the folks on American Idol booming canned happiness disappear in a hiss. It would take her months to digest Joe. No one says the snake in the Garden had to be a man; women talk better to women and maybe it was just giving Eve a recipe for apple pie.

No one really misses Joe or Alf past the mandatory display of grief set forth in Part One of Gone with the Wind, when Scarlett complains that she’s gotta wear black after Charles Hamilton’s death which is tough for a Civil War widow and outright intolerable for those living on canned happiness. Mrs. Joe and Mrs. Alf forget the dear departed and go to Wal-Mart on sale days. Life is for the living. Mel returns to her human form and her job doing nails in a 7th Avenue upscale boutique. She likes the glam.

Then William Patrick Ryan steps into the boutique and into her life. More a copper acting like a casting director even if he was a casting director acting like a copper. You can be certain of nothing nowadays. Accosts her at the Donegal in an underhanded smooth as silk Sam Spade way but she doesn’t catch on at first and drops him for Alf. Then he sees her leave with Alf and he does his gumshoe number taking pix on the fire escape while they go at it. The next day he drops by the nail boutique, leaves his card. He’s like a director of art films dealing in wrestling and guarantees instant fame on cable TV. Cobras are curious so she goes.

It really is a wrestling match with her opponent all tan and like this huge huge giant. You’d never believe it. Steroids galore. Mel is not fazed out; cobras are courageous. The cameras move in. Huge huge crowd. Ump on the PA: “In this corner Manny the Mongoose vs. Mel the Python Lady.” That really set bells a-ringing in her harp head and Mel instantly stops the fight with “I wanna see Ryan and like right now!” Ryan mutters to himself “Oh dames” and they go off.

Mel is like, “I’m not fighting as a python. I’m a cobra.” Ryan whips out the contract and points to the clause stating that the party will be known as the Python Lady. If she refuses, he goes to the police with the pix. He’s got her, he thinks. Mel spits poison into his eyes. Cobras are touchy. Then she goes off to whip Rikki Tikki Tavi into jungle jam as millions of fascinated wrestling fans watch it happen live.

She can’t wait until the last bow and then she says to Ryan “Oh Bill dear, wanna give you something you’ve been dreaming about” and Bill thinks it’s the Rose of Tralee. They step into his office and Mel makes apple pie outta him. Cobras are vengeful.

The legend was true after all. The strange gibberish the boys had heard from Grandpa Redding really wasn’t some campfire ghost story as the boys had presumed. The age-old Huron Indians really had cursed the backwoods with the Aiwass and furthermore, it still worked centuries later. Grandpa Redding had told them in his typical cryptic fashion that whenever a child cries or a mother screams, the Aiwass awakens and takes with it the source of torment. Now, even as that black pit seated deep within the orange wood, the boys could hear the strange hissing coming from within.

It has all been Timmy Gunderson’s fault and he alone would have to fight for sleep over the thought.

Timmy had run as fast as he could away from ten-year-old Jim Collins who was out to give nine-year-old Timmy Coslow the beating of his life. Timmy had made it to the woods behind Joseph Redding’s house, but had fallen amongst the brush and had been pinned beneath Jim who rattled his skull with numerous punches. Timmy cried out, not trying to summon the Aiwass, but rather some help from an adult. The Aiwass answered however, with a low rumble and the ghostly voices of the Huron Indians who had lost their blood upon the very same ground. Jim Collins never saw it coming and even if he had, there would be little hope beyond the abysmal opening of the Aiwass. Timmy remained in a fetal position with his arms raised defensively, unaware that Jim was being consumed by an unearthly curse summoned by his tears.

And now, all four boys stood, staring deep into the black of the Aiwass. Sean Kenoyer, Timmy, Richie LaVerne and Joseph Redding, the foursome whose yards had connected in that backyard woodland of the deep Adirondacks.

“Why is it still here?” Sean asked as he wiped his nose.

“Maybe it’s still hungry,” Richie offered.

“I think it’s digesting,” Joseph pondered aloud.

“It saved my life,” Timmy regarded.

“Your grandpa was right,” Sean told Joseph, who seemed to be in a trance, the black hole reflected in his deep blue eyes.

“Makes you think that some stories we’ve heard and thought were untrue, might be true after all,” Timmy suggested.

“We can’t let anyone know about this,” Joseph said, looking up at the others. “If our parents knew about this, we’d never get to come back here ever again.”

“And what about Jim Collins?” Richie asked. “They’ll come looking for him soon.” Joseph shook his head.

“They won’t come here and as far as I can tell, Jim Collins is way down there, and there is nothing left of him.”

And that was the first time it had worked. Grandpa Redding was right about the Aiwass and God only knew how many other tales of his were true. Somewhere deep beneath that perfectly circular hole, whose edge was rough with gnarled branches, Jim Collins would never be heard from again. And for four nine-year-old boys, nothing would ever torment them again.

The deteriorating bodies write with their own blood, infinite numbers of hands dipping into selves until they run dry. Upon the insides of black solid walls these stories of horror bleed through, using every drop, so the words can finally be seen and read. New sentences appear constantly on every face of all the walls and levels, a tower of a building that is unending and always being built higher.

Pores run clear of crimson fluid, eyes crack, bones convulse, flesh dissolves. So excited, one sticks his meatless fingers into his eyes, thrusting them into gray matter, ending his existence without another thought.

Bloodsoaked walls, bleeding from expression, out of blood ink; the Devil’s library waits for the new residents of Hell to come and let their tortured tales bleed through.

It was dark, and he sat in front of the computer screen, barely awake.

The lights were out. Somewhere on the street outside, headlights swept past his living room window.

He’d been sitting like this in his office since four thirty, the beginning of twilight.

It was now past six, and he had not bothered to get up and put on the lights.

Having worked on an advertising proposal for the better part of the day, he was exhausted. Stretching, thinking about the leftover pot roast still in the fridge from the night before, he stood and yawned.

A pop-up came on screen:

Sarah13705 has sent you a message.

That’s strange, he thought. Sarah should have left work by now and was most likely making the slog through traffic back to her apartment. It was rare that she ever sent him an instant message, anyway. Usually she just called or sent a text.

He clicked on the box and opened the message.

Are you home? it read.

He sat down and typed in his answer: Sure. Are you coming over tonight or what?

It took a moment for the reply.

Actually, I am sending a delivery over to you. Make sure you get it. I purchased some naughty things for you.

His mind began to race with possibilities: lingerie, toys? One never knew. Sarah always appeared to be this buttoned-down rich little Daddy’s girl, but she was full of surprises.

No hints? he typed back.

No. You have to wait and see.

You’ll just have to wait, baby.

The doorbell rang, and he signed for the package. It was fairly heavy, all wrapped up in a glossy red box. As the delivery man pulled away, he turned on the lights and closed the door behind him.

It took a few minutes for him to unravel the paper. Finally, he had a little black box in his hand, not much bigger than the size of a hat. He opened it, and there was a letter inside.

The front said “I love you,” in Sarah’s slanted handwriting. There was an arrow and the words beside it: turn over.

The back read “Too bad you don’t love me, too.”

There was a bunch of tissue in the box. He suddenly felt dread. He reached under the paper carefully and felt cloth.

In his hand he lifted a little lace bra. The smell of perfume still clung to the fabric.

His face turned red. This was not Sarah’s.

There seemed to be something else in the box, something much heavier. He reached in and felt the edge of something metallic.

Now he understood. How Sarah had been overly sweet, making him pot roast and calling him every few hours, smiling, but her eyes boring holes into his back every time he wasn’t looking. This routine had been going on for the better part of a month.

Just how long had she known he was cheating?

He heard a tick… one… two… three.

He tried to toss the box, but it bounced off the wall and landed at his feet.

The explosion rocked the whole street.

Nate Watkins knew he stood no chance against Walker Riley, the icon who represented this forgotten corner of Massachusetts for thirty years.

“We’re doing fine,” said Graham, his college kid campaign manager. Nate didn’t believe it.

Still, local newspapers reported the race was tight. Watkins appealed to young people and minorities in the former mill towns that made up the district.

After a long Saturday shaking hands, the two were at the Pizza Shack comparing notes when a man approached.

“I can help you win,” he said.

Watkins looked up to see a local vagrant named Skank.

“Umm…” Watkins began.

Skank flashed a grin and repeated his opening remark.

“I can help you win.”

Nate looked toward Graham for help.

“I gotta ask, Mr… Skank,” Graham began. “How can you help us win?”

“Make me part of the campaign,” Skank answered. “Deputy campaign manager or somethin’. They want some sort of title, is all. But say the word and I’ll get out the vote.”

Graham’s eyes narrowed.

“What’s in it for you?” he asked.

Skank returned a toothless smile.

“Let’s say I got my reasons.”

Graham thought a moment.

“If I make you deputy campaign manager,” he asked, “will you not bother us again?”

Skank laughed. “You drive a hard bargain, son, but yeah. I won’t bother you again.”

“Then let’s shake on it,” Graham answered. “You are now officially deputy campaign manager.”

Skank lingered. One glance from Graham told him he was breaking his bargain. Still chuckling, Skank walked away.

“What was that about?” Watkins asked.

“I don’t know,” Graham answered. “But I’m gonna find out.”

Days before the registration deadline passed, scandal engulfed the Riley campaign. He took money from a PAC whose website was rife with antisemitic and racist commentary.

It wasn’t much. Certainly not enough to sway the election. But it was distraction enough for his minions to take their eye off the ball. They didn’t notice a thousand new voters added to the rolls, all sharing the same address.

Election Day dawned gray and drizzly. Watkins and his growing army of youthful supporters went from poll to poll trying to persuade last-minute voters.

An hour before polls closed, they made their way toward the elementary school that was Watkins’ own polling place.

To his dismay, there were no lines. He recognized and said hello to the blue-haired seniors that made up the staff. They smiled and wished him well, whispered they were secretly pulling for him.

The rain had let up some when he left. Graham motioned toward the car, but Watkins decided to walk the two blocks to the Shack. They went only a few steps when they heard sucking sounds across the street, from Windsor Cemetery.

One by one, the earth collapsed on the graves and the… people… began to emerge. In their tattered Sunday best, they walked toward the polling station.

Most of their flesh had rotted away, though some were recent burials. Dozens and then hundreds of the dead rose from their graves, to cross the street and cast their vote.

“W-w-w-w-hat t-t-t-he…” Watkins began.

He almost chuckled to see a long-dead old man look both ways before crossing the street.

“Skank,” Graham said flatly. “He digs the graves.”

Even from this distance, they heard the blue hairs inside the school shriek with delight to see long lost husbands and loved ones. Watkins knew then that these votes would be counted no matter what.

“I did some checking,” Graham continued. “Skank’s father sold his boot factory to Riley’s dad just before the Korean war. Made a killing. Turned out Riley’s dad saw the whole thing coming and pressured the bank to foreclose. Skank’s dad died six months later.”

As they watched the last of the undead make their way toward the polling station, Graham continued.

“Let me be the first to congratulate you, Mr. Representative.”

Walking away, they could still hear the tinkle of girlish laughter, of old friends catching up.

One thousand, that was an unlucky number for me. I had a long and prosperous career as an IVF specialist, with a 100% success rate. Well, of course it would be entirely successful if they were your own children you were growing, harvesting, in a female host. I know, they were my patients and I had a duty of care to provide the best quality service I could, and in a way, I did. I mean, look at the quality of the sperm they received. I am good looking, smart and successful, what more could a mother want in a child? If the partners of these poor women were not capable of delivering the goods by themselves, then they did not deserve to be a father.

I have an address book with all of my children’s details in it: name, date of birth, sex, address and any other detail that the happy parents willingly gave me. Most of my children have received a letter from me now, some have written back and a few have even come to visit me. Boy, they are good-looking kids. My youngest is a two-month-old girl and the oldest is a twenty-one year old boy. I would have liked to attend his twenty-first birthday party, but that was last week and there was no way I could have made it, unfortunately.

I do not feel any resentment to the nurse who found me tossing off into the specimen jar. Luckily, I was able to complete the procedure and reach the thousand mark before she was able to report it and the police arrested me.

Anyway, I will be out in time to see my children and grandchildren grow up.

You recite the spell once at a party, hold your breath, and then… nothing.

Nervous laughter.

She never comes when others are around.

Years later you pass a mirror in the dark, see yourself in eclipse, and you remember. Maybe you smile. It’s then that you don’t say the name. You only think it, and that is so much worse.

She doesn’t appear right behind you in the glass, a woman in a bridal dress, eyes torn out of their sockets, nails rimmed red. That’s not how she works. That’s not how she kills you.

Instead you might stiffen. You might hear breathing in your ear. Someone’s strange thoughts in your head. But they’re easy to dismiss. Once again you forget about Mary.

And for weeks after you walk across busy streets. You drive your car. You handle knives, razors, electrical wires. You cook oil in a pan until you can smell the meat sizzle. Every time you’re careful, of course. Isn’t everyone careful?

It isn’t a ghost, or a voice, or a seizure. It’s so much simpler. A nudge. A slip. A forgetful moment. When the truck is close. When the pan is hot. A single terrible movement of the wrist, and the screams bring them right to your door.

You scream alone, but there are thousands like you. And no one ever knows.

Unalaska Island and the town of Dutch Harbor lay in the middle of the string of Aleutian Islands that dribble toward Russia off the tip of Alaska. Fran Corbran walked uphill to the cemetery one last time before flying back to the mainland. Her husband, Ace, had died the year before, mysteriously, while captaining his boat, the Dugan Royal, on a fishing trip.

It was early summer so Fran spread a plaid wool blanket on the still green grass and sat down comfortably. The water off shore appeared its usual deep blue. Fran remembered these last months. The inquest had been painful for her with rumors about a large claw found punched through Ace’s chest, a claw the size of a boomerang. Her husband had been buried at sea per his last will. The coffin had been closed because that had been her final wish for him.

“Damn you, Ace,” she said. His name tasted bitter in her mouth.

She remembered trying to run the fishing company herself. But she was just not cut out for that kind of a life. Especially with several other fishermen mysteriously disappearing at sea. Fishing was not why she’d moved to Alaska. She’d moved here because Ace was her last chance for love. She ended up selling the business to a corporation formed by a few of her former employees. In fact she had just signed the last of the papers that very morning in the old office in Dutch Harbor.

“Damn you, Ace,” she mouthed again. Saying it felt less bitter.

Fran looked at her watch. 10:00 AM. Still plenty of time to catch her flight. She snapped open her purse and pulled out her only remaining photo of Ace. It showed him drunk in the Sports Bar, his hat on upside down. He liked to sing karaoke there, she didn’t.

“Damn you, Ace.”

Slowly and carefully, Fran tore up the photo. She tore it into smaller and smaller pieces. At last, a handful of confetti, she let the photo fly free into the summer breeze.

She wanted to say goodbye, but her voice still said, “Damn you, Ace.” She lacked courage.

Finally free of Ace, all cords cut, Fran stood and looked one last time at the view. The distant hills, still snow-capped in summer. The black beaches full of stones. The eagles along the wharf standing there like big rats with feathers waiting to scavenge food. What had the newspaper said just that morning? About eagles disappearing?

Inside her purse she heard her cell phone play music.

“Hello?”

“This is Betty. Duncan’s wife.”

“Oh. Hi, Betty.”

“We just wanted to let you know how much we miss Ace, and how much we’ll miss you too.”

“Thanks Betty. That’s very kind of you.”

“When you get back to the mainland, use your computer to visit Flickr.com. We uploaded a bunch of photos of you and Ace. To help you, you know, remember.”

“That’s nice. Bye.”

Fran snapped her phone shut. She looked at it for a moment, then dropped the phone to the grass by her feet.

“Damn you, Ace.” She kicked the phone with her toe.

Fran started walking down the hill. Away from Unalaska. Away from the blanket given to her one Christmas. Away from the cell phone and the wrongful kindness of others. Away from the view, always so spectacular. Away from the mysterious deaths. Away from Ace.

“Goodbye,” she finally had the courage to say. “Goodbye, Ace.”