MicroHorror

The little girl knelt by her bed.

“Please bless Mommy and Daddy,” she prayed.

“Please bless my brother Jayden and my cat Buttons.”

The little girl jumped into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin.

A hideous screeching from behind her closet door raised goosebumps on her arms. She leapt out of bed and back to her knees.

“And please don’t let the monster in my closet get out! Amen!”

She jumped back in bed and pulled her legs up. If the monster did get out, she didn’t want it touching her feet.

• Copyright: © 2008 Robert C. Eccles

She felt the sharp points of his teeth graze her neck, jerking her back into the present. She reached for her stake, searched among the folds of her wine-red dress for the limb of hawthorn she’d spent a week sharpening.

His hand clamped around her wrist, hard as an iron vise.

“So you thought you would assassinate me, Katharine?” Malkom pressed his cold lips against her neck, his tongue tracing the edge of her jaw line. She writhed against the pleasure he incited in her; growling low in her throat, she latched onto her anger at being found.

“It’s what you deserve, monster.”

He made an approving noise as he kissed his way up the side of her face. “I like your stubbornness,” he murmured in her ear.

“Don’t change the subject,” she demanded, though his approval loosened her grip on the stake.

“Why?” he said, pulling her close enough to feel him. His other hand worked at the lacing of her dress. “Aren’t monsters allowed to have feelings? Needs?” Malkom’s lips brushed hers, a light touch of cold, and then he was kissing her, parting her lips to explore the regions of her mouth. Ice and fire roiled in her core; a small moan escaped her lips, and she clutched at his chest.

“No.” She struggled to get the words out; her lungs threatened to burst with the speed of her breathing. “They said you kill, bleed people dry like sacrificial sheep.” She clung to the facts as he threatened to drown her in seduction.

“I know what you’ve been told.” Malkom ran his hand across her back. His head dipped lower, his mouth working across her bared shoulder. “But did they tell you I kill out of hunger?” His fingers traced chilly lines down her arm. “A simple need to eat. Isn’t that worth something?”

She weakened, lost herself in the sensation though she knew she shouldn’t have. He kissed and caressed all the right places, mouth traveling expertly across her skin. Her stake clattered to the floor at her side. Hand twining around his neck, her fingers curled into his cropped hair. He murmured more approval against her flesh as she folded into him. Raising her hand, he began to kiss and lick at her wrist. Her pulse quickened, throbbed into her fingertips.

His teeth dug into her skin, and she felt him lapping at the wound. She stiffened in shock, then melted against him, comforted, as he rubbed the small of her back.

“Just a simple need to eat, that’s all,” he whispered as he drank her dry.

• Copyright: © 2008 Heather S. Ingemar

The streets of downtown Chicago were bustling with activity in spite of light snow and a chilling wind. The day before Christmas always filled the sidewalks with last-minute shoppers, battling for the best sales. Charles smiled as he walked north on Hyde Street, pausing to drop a ten-dollar bill into the outstretched hat of a grizzled panhandler.

“Bless you, sir,” he beamed at Charles. “Merry Christmas to you.”

“And Merry Christmas to you, friend,” Charles said. The stench of filth and liquor was overpowering, and his mission seemed more clear than ever before. The grocery sack in his arms was growing heavier by the second, but Charles could see his destination. Just ahead stood the massive stone arch marking the main entrance to Hyde Park. It was nearly dusk, but the carved lettering was still visible through wispy swirls of blowing snow. The park was five acres of landscaped woodlands pulled out from the surrounding urban blight. A big central fountain sprayed water skyward during the summer months, and walking paths paved with burnished brick meandered through the woods.

As Charles entered the park, he began to spot the residents. Some slept on wrought iron benches, while others milled about aimlessly. Fires glowed where the picnic grounds were being used as makeshift shelters. Originally planned as urban renewal, this had become a colony for those who’d hit rock bottom. Given the dim twilight, he was reminded of a scene from one of George Romero’s movies.

Not wanting to stay past nightfall, Charles nestled his grocery sack beneath a small group of bushes. It was slightly hidden, but would be quickly found in these woods. Opening the bag, he took one last look inside; a loaf of French bread, half a wheel of cheddar cheese, and a fully cooked ham. The large vodka jug would finish things nicely–Christmas was coming to Hyde Park in a big way this year.

Charles hailed a cab several blocks away. Once back at his hotel, he dropped his heavy wool coat. Turning on the television, he poured himself a stiff drink from the distilled water bottle next to his bed. Ironically, the local news was showing footage of the homeless being fed like feral cats at a charity function. The anchor was saying something about the grace of God.

“How fucking touching,” Charles smirked. “God bless us, everyone.”

Grabbing the water bottle, he poured another drink. This vodka was lousy, but not nearly as bad as the mix he’d left behind in Hyde Park: toxic wood alcohol and distilled water, neatly disguised in a cheap vodka bottle.

Those who drank his Christmas Cheer would get far more than drunk. The “hangover” from methanol poisoning ranged from slow, cramping death to total madness. If a person survived, they could always count on permanent blindness.

Not too many had to worry about that part, though.

• Copyright: © 2008 J.B. Daniels

“Doc, I keep having this crazy-freaky dream in which I kill this stranger.”

“Tell me the whole dream,” the shrink commands.

“It’s real vague, doc. I’m lost in this mansion, rushing from room to room in search of something or someone. And when I enter the thirteenth room, I find him. He looks familiar but I don’t recognize him.”

A vast silence separates the doctor and patient. Eventually, the patient breaks the silence and speaks.

“The stranger wants to tell me something. He mutters a few words and… before he finishes the sentence, I shoot him, blowing his brains to Kingdom Come. What does it mean, doc?”

“According to Freud, each dream represents a wish or fear.”

“Don’t think I wished to kill him. I wanted to hear what he had to say. But I was compelled…!”

“Perhaps, you were afraid to hear his insights.”

“No, doc, not afraid. Just disgusted!”

And in a flash, he shoots the shrink who resides at 1301 River Side Drive in Manhattan. Standing over the fresh corpse, he says: “Like everyone I cared about, you disappointed me. And you see, I’ve got these evil voices in my head and they compel me to kill. Sorry, doc.”

Afterwards, he jogs along River Side Drive Park, exorcising the demons in his head until the voices emerge in his psyche and speak again.

• Copyright: © 2008 Mel Waldman

Oh man… damn my head hurts… what is that… the television? Jesus… it hurts to open my eyes… even the dim light from the television hurts my eyes… my head… what is that playing? Sounds like that racist cartoon duck with a speech impediment is creating a ruckus once again… what’s his name? I can’t seem to remember… matter of fact… I can’t seem to remember how I got here on this… floor… what the fuck… why am I on the floor… the floor of a… hotel room? It’s got to be… I can tell by the hum of the air conditioner… the ugly curtain and the plain walls with framed flower prints… yes that’s it… a hotel room… it must be… but it’s missing something… that sterile feeling… that scent… smells more like a bathroom of a gas station in here… feels more like a frat house post party in here… what’s that on the bed? And what is that fucking smell? Damn my head hurts…

Oh good god…

• Copyright: © 2008 Dustin LaValley

100 dB
Mrs. Doan stood at the blackboard, her back to the class, chalk pinched between her fingertips. Her long, slender arm moved in wide arcs as she drew. When she was finished, she faced the class and pointed to the diagram. Her lips moved, explaining something, but Joe couldn’t hear her. His ears were useless now.

110 dB
The whispers of his classmates were gone, drowned out, muted. Joe could no longer hear them as they talked in hushed tones behind his back. As they pointed and snickered each time he ate a painkiller, choking it down with nothing to drink. Each time he clutched his head and groaned.

120 dB
He laid his head on the desk and closed his eyes. Blood dripped from his ear.

130 dB
Something struck Joe hard on the top of his head. He looked up and found a piece of broken chalk on his desk, Mrs. Doan standing at the board with a disapproving scowl on her face. The other kids were laughing, silent holes stretched wide. Fillings. Fangs. Forked tongues.

140 dB
KILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKI–

150 dB
He popped another pill.

160 dB
The smart kids’ hands went up, eager fingertips thrust toward the ceiling. Mrs. Doan scanned the room, her eyes navigating the forest of flesh, feigning indecision. But Joe knew where they would settle. The same place they always settled.

170 dB
Joe slipped his hand into his book bag and took out the gun. He almost wished he could hear the screams.

• Copyright: © 2008 Chris Reed

It’s bedtime, honey. Why all the crying in here? Oh, I know, I know… it’s hard to lay on your back with those tumors in the way. But the ones on your belly are even bigger. So let Daddy roll you over and pop your pacifier back in. There. That better? Probably be easier to keep it in your mouth if you didn’t have that cleft lip. But don’t you worry, darlin’, a little duct tape’ll fix everything. There, how’s that? Sucker ain’t goin’ nowhere now, is it? Yeah, I know it’s hard to breathe with only one nostril, but you’ll be alright as long as you keep your finger outta your nose. Hey… hey, why you cryin’ now, sweetie? You know I done apologized a million times for tryin’ to poison your mama. I just didn’t think we could afford another baby. But everything’s okay now. She pulled through and so did you. You might look a little different, but you’re still Daddy’s favorite girl. Aww… it’s so cute when you wave at me with your flipper like that, but we got a long day at the circus tomorrow, girl. Rent’s due and we’ll probably have to work you a few extra hours. Now close that beautiful blue eye and get some sleep.

Sweet dreams, baby.

Good night.

• Copyright: © 2008 Chris Reed

After I had chased you for two blocks, you turned around nervously. Afraid you might see me, I ducked into the nearest store. It was a bookshop. I approached the bestseller rack and took a book at random. There, on the back cover, was your photo: Elena Arias. I read the synopsis looking for a sign, anything that could link us. It was all there: “One morning, Alicia Sandoval didn’t go to her office. A man was chasing her.” I didn’t know whether I should keep pursuing you or read the story. Our story.

• Copyright: Story Copyright © 2008 Maria L. Castejon; Translation Copyright © 2008 Maria L. Castejon and Nathan Rosen

Many years ago, reading a woman’s Tarot cards, I saw how she would be murdered, as well as the face of her killer. Many years have passed since then and he still appears every time I read my cards. I’ve gone to the police, but they think me mad. Last night, the man appeared again in my cards. Soon he will come for me.

He doesn’t know that he can’t kill what’s already dead.

• Copyright: Story Copyright © 2008 Maria L. Castejon; Translation Copyright © 2008 Maria L. Castejon and Nathan Rosen

Gordon asked me how I could spend all day writing about things I’ve never done and probably will never do. How could I describe the agonies of death if I’d never witnessed them? I returned home full of questions, doubts, resentments… His interrogations distressed me and hindered my prose. I couldn’t think clearly.

When she knocked at my door, talking about God, I knew she was a sign from heaven. God had sent her to me to ease my pain. She came into my home and sat on the sofa, and while she talked about salvation, I could only think about how to do it: strangling, throat-cutting, poisoning. A whole range of possibilities opened up before me. Then I thought, horrified, of the blood and the screams. I offered her a cup of coffee which she accepted without hesitation. She was the first in my long list of creations, but it’s funny how I never write anymore.

• Copyright: Story Copyright © 2008 Maria L. Castejon; Translation Copyright © 2008 Maria L. Castejon and Nathan Rosen