MicroHorror

Sitting at a table for six, the man, dressed as a clown, waited for his guests to arrive, and a bottle of Claret glowing a sultry red seemed to invite the clown to partake in the fullness of its sumptuous body.

Reaching out a white gloved hand, the clown poured a generous measure into a goblet. “Sir.” The head waiter approached. He looked worried, glancing at his watch. “Your booking was for 7:30. It’s now well past nine.”

The clown, hurt and rejection concealed behind the colorful daubing on his face, replied, “They will come.” The waiter moved off, his expression doubtful.

Taking a long drink, dribbling red wine down his painted yellow chin, the clown wondered whether he should go ahead and order for himself but rejected the idea, having eaten too many lonely meals in the past.

“Fancy dress?” Mandy had tittered when he’d issued his birthday invitations, the week before.

“Haven’t been to a fancy dress in years,” Freddy said.

“Should be fun,” Jason replied, winking a bushy eyebrow.

And Dotty giggled, her small pink mouth squeezing out the words, “I’ve always wanted to dress up.”

“Do you think the restaurant would allow fancy dress in their establishment?” Elaine had asked.

He assured his work colleagues that he’d checked and it was all right.

Draining his drink, the clown refilled his glass, and as he drank, he thought about his colleagues, recalling their numerous past pranks at his expense but, over the years, he’d considered their behavior just high jinks without any intention of malice.

Now, watching other diners chat amongst themselves, the truth hit him and he began to laugh, his laughter growing into manic cackling and, as his cackling rose to fever pitch, people stopped eating.

But the clown, unaware of the hush, snatched up a fork and began scraping at his face. The waiter, dashing across, asked the clown to leave. The clown, ignoring the request, guffawed and kept on scraping, scraping, scraping.

A chef appeared, yelling at the clown but the clown kept laughing, his blood drip, drip, dripping down onto a white tablecloth.

When two policemen arrived, the clown stopped laughing and began sobbing. Hurrying towards the clown, they came to a sudden stop, gazing in horror at a wailing bloody face with its one empty eye socket.

His wife’s tiny legs dangle from their kitchen chair, centimeters from the floor.

He has been focusing on them the past few weeks, even more than usual.

When they met, he kind of liked their disparity. He had always hated his sticks. She had always hated her stumps.

Later that night, he cannot sleep. He is tired of punishing himself. Eight years is enough time to punish himself for rushing things. He should find someone his size.

The next day he feigns a stomachache and stays home. She gives him a look instead of her customary kiss before heading to the garage. He waits a few minutes and then begins packing, quickly, only taking essentials. She finds him in their bathroom.

He says, “Let me–”

She smacks his face with a bottle, three times, probably more. When he awakens, he is sitting in a wheelchair.

She wheels him in front of a mirror, plops his stumps into shoes, like meatballs into paper cups. He cries out of course, and he wiggles under the ropes wrapped around him. She shakes her head. “Only when you can forgive.”

A few days later, he is strong enough to stand. Were it not for the little poof in her hair, they would be exactly the same height.

When darkness falls, good men ponder evil deeds while evil men sow rotting seeds fermenting in their brains.

When darkness falls, protecting light is washed away. The wall that by the light of day is thick between the living and the dead is hardly there at all.

When darkness falls, kids take the steps by leaps and bounds, listening for the sounds of hands that wait to grab their feet.

When darkness falls, the heart of man is turned to blackened charcoal and his soul to vile stew.

When darkness falls, the wise stay home. The desperate and the stupid roam to find their awful fate.

My doctor put me on Psypil, and within weeks I was a new man. Before, I’d suffered extreme anxiety in any social situation. At the beginning of a party I’d spend half an hour in the bathroom gripping the sink and staring into the mirror, trying to stop shaking. The thought of getting up on a stage hit me with waves of nausea and powerful stomach cramps. Even understanding people–knowing when they were really happy with me, for instance, or if they were just being sarcastic–was impossible. It’s hard to describe how debilitating it was, and as a result I never had close friends. Coworkers took advantage of me, and I was often the last to be promoted.

Psypil regulates the neurotransmitters in the social centers of your brain. You don’t feel drugged at all. You’re in control of your emotions… instead of the other way around. I can actually look at someone who would normally make me mad or afraid, and I can just turn those feelings off.

And with that control comes a wonderful clarity. You can read people better than you ever thought possible. Two days after I started my treatment I watched a couple from across a crowded restaurant, and I knew she was going to break up with her boyfriend before he did! A week later I knew the best time to confront my supervisor about how he lied on my review was on his way home. That would have been out of the question before Psypil. I would be too scared of “making a scene.” But I watched his body language as he fumbled with his keys in the dark outside his apartment, and I just knew he lived alone. I knew no one would miss him.

Getting his job was the best thing I ever did. Well… the second best. But what’s really important is for the first time in my life I feel good about myself.

Little Jessica from two houses down was a righteous Catholic girl until a vampire strangled her with her own rosary beads and then changed her. When she tried to knock on my door, I staked her.

Timmy was a good boy too, until a werewolf caught him in the woods after sundown. I shot him down with silver bullets.

Old lady Johnson was the worst. Died of an aneurysm, then crawled out of her own deathbed. I lopped off her head with a machete.

You go out at night if you want to, but me? I’m staying inside with the door bolted tight.

Bad things happen out there.

The corner of my eye, the edge of my reason I guess. Ahh, gone again. I long for sleep, for peace and most of all, for quiet.

Three more months they tell me, wrapped and immobile, legs shattered, pelvis cracked, my arms held together by pins, head, bruised and chipped, my one eye milky white, a sliver of metal still embedded. They left enough of a gap in the bandages. I can still see with the other at least.

And I can see them, like shadows, the evening light slinks away through the high window, my companions on this ward in comas or close enough. The shadows move unlike a shadow should, quick dash, sparse, furtive, they pass me by. I keep my eye open and search them, guess who they are.

Nobody comes to visit me, at least not yet. I’m not sure who would anyway, or could. They keep telling me I’m lucky to be alive, I guess so. The short pretty nurse smiles at me, I like her, dark hair, peaceful eyes. The big Irish nurse says nothing, she seems unhappy. She never stays for long, fast click heels as she leaves the ward.

Nobody can tell me who I am either. It’s become quite the thing, newspapers, local TV, my anonymity, a rush, an excitement but actual anonymity scares me. Surely I was, or still am, more than just a nobody out there.

I check the time, a clock placed just for me. I asked the nurse to hang it high above the entrance. Seven o’clock. Shadows soon.

As the lights go out they really put on a show for me, dancing and whirling, they seem stronger with more form. I feel afraid and try to cower. They almost seem like children, so much energy. Morning will be a comfort

I wake up. Routine tests today. The Irish nurse comes in, looks at me and backs away, nervous eyes, bumps through the door. The doctor enters.

“How are you today, sir?”

I mumble through the bandages.

“Well, it appears we, umm, know who you are after all, sir.”

I look past his face and see the policeman.

“For your protection, sir.”

And then he leaves.

“We’ll be back to see you again later. These men will stay with you, umm, protection.”

He almost runs down the corridor.

The policeman steps forward, notebook in hand.

“I have some questions I’d like to ask you, sir.”

“You know who I am? Do you? Please tell me.” I wasn’t sure what to expect, I felt nervous, my heart pounding.

The policeman cleared his throat. “Umm, well, sir, I have some questions I need to ask you before I, umm, before we can…”

“Who am I?” I know my mumbles are becoming more difficult to understand the louder and more agitated I get. I really need to know now.

“Well, your name is Brendan Hartley, you’re from Wyoming originally, not married, no kids, no family we could find.”

He pauses. I urge him to carry on. I can see with my one good eye that he is very unhappy, this is not a job he particularly wants to do.

“It also seems that we need to arrest you, sir. We believe that you are responsible for the deaths of twenty-three people, suspected of many more all over the country…”

I stop listening, recoiling in horror. I can’t understand what he’s saying. I don’t want this, it can’t be true. There absolutely has to be a mistake. I shut my eye and think of the shadows, they will be coming soon. I try to scream, I try to make them understand what will happen. They sedate me and the policeman walks away, shaking his head.

My eye begins to shut and I can see them, dim and blurred, but faces now, faces I can see…

Night falls on everyone in this town in cold, expectant silence.

Most of them, except for the brave few, have left the city for the weekend. They wait with guns. Doors and windows are covered by plywood, protecting against intruders.

The Awakened have been known to climb in through any opening. The wiser residences close up their chimneys. Attics and basements are a source of worry.

The air is still. There are no dogs to be heard, as they have all gone away with their owners. The birds have flown to warmer territory.

Snow falls in steady draughts.

The Awakened Dead cry and stretch, letting ice penetrate their putrid flesh.

I woke up a few minutes ago, alone in the master bedroom of our mansion by the sea, sweating and trembling and cringing like a little boy, curled up in a fetal position in a corner of our king-size bed. Something horrific happened last night, but I blacked out. Can’t recall a bloody thing. My name’s Jack Hunter (a.k.a. Jacob Horowitz), the CEO of a cutting-edge consulting firm.

My wife Carole is the loveliest lady on this planet. My son Eric’s away at college, majoring in political science and pre-law at Harvard. My daughter Julia is a straight-A premed student at Yale.

Last night, Carole and I celebrated our silver wedding anniversary. But something bad happened. And now, I’m alone in our bed in our Manhattan Beach house in Brooklyn. Where’s my wife Carole?

The room is dark. Is it still the middle of the night? I stumble out of bed. My legs are wobbly and my breath reeks of Johnnie Walker Red. I trudge through the thick darkness and turn on the lights. Carole is not here. Perhaps she is in the bathroom down the hall or downstairs in the kitchen.

My frenzied eyes dart and flit across the room, stop, and gaze at the flowing white curtain covering the bay window. Then they sail around the room, landing on the family picture on the night table. I see a man and woman in their twenties and two toddlers, a boy and a girl, smiling generously at an unknown photographer. I don’t recognize the couple or the children. Who are they? Why do I have a family picture of strangers in my bedroom?

My mind drifts and I stagger to the white curtain. Looking behind the curtain, I discover black shades that cover the window. When I peek behind the shades, a fiery blast of sunlight assaults me.

I rush away and notice a six-foot mirror covered in black cloth. In my religion, when a loved one dies, the mourner sits shiva for a week. During this period, we cover the mirrors in the house. Has someone died?

Like a feeble old man, I totter to our bed and see it. There’s blood on the bed and on my hands too.

“Carole!” I cry out. “Carole, are you okay?”

I flounder and reel toward the door. But I drift back to the bed and lie down. I gaze at the family picture that looks strangely familiar. Who are they? Who am I? What year is it?

I fall asleep and dream two dreams. In the first dream, I’m driving on an old country road in Maine late at night. Carole is sitting between little Eric and Julia in the back. We’re heading to Ogunquit, Maine for our summer vacation. Suddenly, a car comes out of nowhere and crashes into us.

The first dream merges with the second one. Carole and I are in our Brooklyn home. We’re drunk and angry with each other. The anger turns to rage and we get physical. I grab a knife and… I’m back in my room and awake.

The truth lies beyond the bedroom door. I must search for Carole in every room, alcove, or hallway of our labyrinthine mansion. If someone has hurt her (us), I will hunt him down.

I will find Carole. And later, I will call Eric and Julia. But who am I? Am I guilty of a heinous crime?

Listen. Can you hear someone crying out there? Listen to the ghostly shrieks. I must go.

What happened Friday was terrible, something I always feared as a parent. My daughter was eleven, and I saw threats to her everywhere.

There was the teenaged bagger at the grocery store, who stared at her every time we shopped. I found myself tracking him as he worked throughout the market, always putting us in a different aisle, another section, or the farthest checkout line.

There was Mr. Sloan, the barber, who parked more than a block away from his shop, in a hidden spot behind a tree, where he could talk people into his car if he wanted. I started coming there every morning to make sure it was always his spot. I was never disappointed.

And then there was Steven, the school janitor, polite and deferential to everyone who knew him. But he had terrible photos on his computer at home. Photos I found on Friday, and that was when he came home earlier than I expected. But I had a hammer with me and wore gloves. A good father prepares. There are so many people who might hurt my daughter, and I have a plan for every one. You can’t be too careful.

Eubank leaned on his shovel and peered at the squat buildings that comprised his poultry farm. Though he was deep in debt, Eubank still paid his migrant workers close to a living wage. He wanted do more, but the system wouldn’t let him.

The environmental and animal cruelty groups crusaded against him. Eubank knew his operation created mountains of waste, polluted ground water and posed health hazards for his workers. If someone showed him a better way, he’d be happy to adopt it. Until then, there was nothing he could do but keep toiling.

Eubank had to worry about another growing threat. The news report called it “rural commodity theft.” Times were so tough that city folks were sneaking out to farms and ranches, stealing everything from gasoline to timber, crops to livestock. Now farmers had to protect themselves against those they worked to feed?

Eubank shook his head and spat in disgust. He shoveled dirt for another minute more and then sauntered back to the bed of his pickup. There were so many problems facing him. Eubank wished he had all the answers in these hard times.

Then, to add to his worries, last night Eubank had caught the new guy on the crew in a compromising position with his teenage daughter Sara. If word got around…

Eubank grunted as he dragged the body of the offender through the dirt toward the freshly dug hole. Here, at least, was one problem he knew how to solve.