MicroHorror

On the island of Kitanya, they tell the children the story of the Gate Keeper.

The Gate Keeper is known by other names in different places: the Sandman, the Boogeyman, the monster beneath your bed. But back home on the island, he serves a different purpose.

The Gate Keeper keeps out the bad things that lurk around corners, that hang in the shadows.

An old holy woman constructed him of bone and brass. She made his teeth from sea coral. His skull cap was shaped from metal. His eyes, two shining balls made of abalone, were said to hold the keys to the future. He was clothed in a thin green garment made of seaweed.

The holy woman breathed life into him one night, addled by nightmares and creatures that came to haunt her. Once the Gate Keeper was alive, he asked for a price, a living sacrifice.

It seemed a small thing. She gave him the neighborhood stray animals. Dogs and cats disappeared at an alarming rate. Soon livestock went missing.

This caused an uproar. Many of the islanders were farmers and cattlemen, and they decided that the slaughter must be stopped.

The Gate Keeper whispered dark things to the holy woman at sunset. He told her that the island was surrounded by many bad things, and that these sacrifices were the bounty that kept them away. Things that partook of human blood. Things that hunted men for sport.

Seeing no other recourse, she offered herself to the Gate Keeper, to quiet the angry spirits and the angry people as well.

Now, the Gate Keeper walks the beaches at night, watching the sea and the darkness for the monsters it was made to keep away. And it speaks in the darkness with the voice of an old woman and the wisdom of the ancients who came long, long before.

“I love you,” the old woman said.

Her son lifted his head. In the hospital room, he’d grown so accustomed to the bleating and beeping of machinery that the leathery voice of the old woman sounded odd, like a song sung loudly in a quiet library. He shifted in his chair.

“I’m sorry. What did you say, Ma?”

“You heard me.” Her lips moved slowly, as if the voice was coming from some other body.

The man put aside his book and leaned forward. Her brown eyes were clear. Her white hair was a bird’s nest, but not as noticeable against the pure white of her pillow.

“I love you, so I won’t leave you my secrets.”

He sighed. She was talking nonsense again.

Or at least, he hoped that she was.

“When you go home tonight, I want you to make sure you keep Dad’s gun on your bedside. Anyone comes knocking late, then you know what to do.”

“That sounds like one of your secrets,” he said condescendingly. “Isn’t it time to stop telling fortunes, Ma?”

“Hmph,” she sniffled. “Not like there’s much remaining to tell. You have always been my favorite, Carl. So you do this for Ma,” she said, reaching out to stroke his hair with her papery fingers. “And you’ll make me happy.”

She lapsed again into sleep, and after an hour more, he left the room.

The hospital parking lot was well lit but nearly empty. He couldn’t help the compulsion to look over his shoulder. He felt that he was being watched.

He showered and got into bed a little past midnight. It was windy outside, and the tree branches scratched at his window.

He heard a knocking sound.

At first, he thought that it might be the attic. But then he wasn’t sure. Convincing himself that maybe it was something else outside, he closed his eyes.

As he turned in bed, he saw a figure in the doorway of his room.

A woman. She was young. Her face was oddly familiar.

He sat up. She made a keening sound. A hiss.

The gun lay on the bedside table.

He shot her.

His hands trembled as he stood over the body. He’d have to bury it out back before dawn.

He dressed, and tucked the gun into his belt. There were four more bullets just in case more of her ilk came calling.

He got the call the next morning that Ma had passed away in the night.

She’d never been wrong about anything.

“Who are you running from? Everybody?”

The alley woman didn’t respond, just limped behind her shopping cart. Her mangled hair stretched down her back and her dirty coat stretched to the ground.

“It’s hard to pretend you don’t hear me, isn’t it? We’re the only two people in this alley.”

Debbie pulled out her cell phone, just to check. She had power and bars, but when she pushed a button the number didn’t appear on the screen. She put the phone away.

“I kept looking through these stores, trying to find who was doing it, but there was no one common to each store and the effects seemed to move. It took me a while to figure out the source was in the alley.”

The woman finally stopped. She hesitated and then abandoned her cart. Debbie trailed her at a trot.

“I can get you help for that limp.”

“Leave me alone!” a worn voice said. “No one can help me.”

The woman was near the end of the alley, when a car stopped dead on the road. Debbie watched as the driver tried to restart his car, failed and pulled out a cell phone. He then looked as if that had failed too.

The alley woman backed away from the road. “You see what you made me do?”

Ahead, the man got his car started and moved on. Debbie moved up, stood right next to the woman and looked her in the eyes. There, Debbie could see a lot.

“You haven’t been on the street for more than a year or two, and you used to live a very domestic life.”

The woman looked away. “That’s a fine trick, but you should get away from me, before it’s something inside you that stops working. I promise I’ll move on tonight, when there are no people around. It’s just that I didn’t know it was going through walls.”

Debbie gave a compassionate laugh. “Don’t worry. It won’t break the barrier around me until I let it. What happened to you?”

The woman studied her. She soon became satisfied with whatever she was assessing, nodded and looked away.

“At first, it was just inanimate stuff that stopped working wherever I went. Then it was my husband’s heart. It didn’t kill him, but I knew I had to get away.”

Debbie placed a hand on her back. “I can take it from you.”

“Then you will have it.”

“Yes, but only for a while. This kind of thing won’t leave the world, but I can control how it comes and goes in me.”

“So you’ll be okay?”

“Yup. I’ll be fine. I’ll drop it off soon enough.”

“No! Don’t curse another person with this.”

Debbie chuckled. “I know a man who specializes in child racketeering. His business associates kidnap children and sell them in foreign countries. There’s big money in it. He’s well connected and well lawyered, untouchable by the police, but not untouchable by me.”

The woman now looked angry, but not at Debbie. “Will it work?”

“Oh, yeah. I can take it out of you.”

“No. I mean will it work on him. Will the things around him stop working?”

Debbie smiled. “I guarantee it. Just give me your hand, and I’ll take it out.”

The woman hesitantly stuck her hand out and Debbie took it. She relaxed her body first and then relaxed the shield inside her. She felt the darkness flowing from the woman and into her. When the last of it had come in, she let go of the woman’s hand.

“Is it gone from me?”

“Every last bit. Go test it, though. Walk around for a while until you’re satisfied. Then, by all means, go find your family.”

The woman smiled, but she was obviously not convinced. She could not feel the darkness like Debbie could; she could only see the aftermath. She would test it.

“And you?”

Debbie laughed. “I’ll make my delivery tonight.”

“His mother died in childbirth.”

Trevor came from the reverie of his mind. The red dirt road passed beneath his car. His passenger was a black pistol in the seat beside him. Had he really just heard a man’s voice?

“He was five when Daddy got smashed,” a woman’s voice said.

He sighed, thinking this a likely time for going crazy. And the content of what the voices said made sense enough. His mother had died birthing him, and his dad had been crushed when a semi blew through a red light. The man’s voice was next.

“He was eleven when Jake got fried.”

Trevor shook. “Shut up!” How could they be so coarse when speaking of his brother’s death. “Stupid downed power line.”

“Eighteen when Sissy was murdered,” said the woman in a pestering tone.

Trevor touched the pistol. “Don’t talk about my sister! I’ll do it now!”

“Twenty-six when Wifey died,” said the man.

Trevor brought the pistol to the side of his head. “I’ll do it right here on the road, for whatever random passerby to find me.”

“Thirty-five now and thinks he has it figured out,” said the woman.

The man smirked. “Pretty easy pattern, really.”

“He thinks he can save his little girl by making sure he’s the next to die.”

“He can’t.”

“No, he can’t. Patterns cannot be broken.”

“Nope, but they can be stopped.”

“And they’re stopped when they’re figured out.”

Trevor gasped, and then he shouted, “I did figure it out! Five, six, seven, eight, nine!”

“It’s true,” said the man. “He’s got it right.”

“Let’s give him his new pattern,” said the woman.

He felt an icy hand on his shoulder. He no longer had control of his body. Something else willed the next set of movements. It made him set the gun aside, pull the car to a stop, and turn toward the back seat.

A man and a woman, hairless and transparent, sat there, smiling. The woman was holding something out. He wasn’t breathing, and his heart raced audibly, but he otherwise had control of his body again. He reached out and took what the woman had. It was a simple piece of paper, but he couldn’t feel it in his hand. The woman, the man, and the paper all disappeared.

He sat there motionlessly and nearly thoughtlessly for a time he could not sense, and then a sound brought him from this numb state.

His cell phone chimed in his pocket. He sucked in a breath and turned forward in his seat. His breath raced to compensate for the time he’d spent breathless, so he took a few seconds to get it under control. He dug out the cell phone and saw it was his sister-in-law, Carol. He answered it.

“Hello.”

“Trevor, where are you?”

“I… I… Never mind. How’s Tracy?”

“Why didn’t you come to the hospital?”

“Never mind! How’s my daughter?”

There was silence for several seconds, and then Carol said, “She’s fine. The doctor said she just passed out from the heat. He said to make sure she got rest and fluids.”

Trevor felt as if he could melt into his seat. “I’m so glad to hear that.”

“You didn’t answer your phone earlier, so I just took her to your house. I hope you don’t mind, but she played your messages on the home unit and I overheard.”

“Overheard what?”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t hear it from me.”

“Overheard what?”

Carol was silent for another few seconds. “Well, it was someone at your company about a promotion you were up for. It sounds like you got it.”

Trevor’s felt himself shrug, as if someone were there to see it. “My interview was just a technicality. I was at the bottom…” He stopped. He remembered what the spirits had said. “Oh. My new pattern.”

“What?”

“Nothing. I’m coming home.”

“Elevator’s stuck between floors again,” says the cop to his partner, on duty in the lobby of the courthouse.

I’m crouched on the floor of the pitch black elevator, with my arms wrapped around my head so I can’t see the darkness. The elevator has stalled and the lights have gone out. It’s darker than anything I have ever imagined. Not just black, but a complete absence of light that presses on the eyeballs. I’m claustrophobic, so I’m sweating, my heart is racing like a greyhound, my legs are trembling so much I can’t stand up. I moan. There is an answering catch of breath. I’d forgotten the other person in here with me. A legal aid client, charged with attempted murder, this is the first time I’ve ever met him. When I interviewed him half an hour ago, he was completely out of it, monosyllabic. I decided he should plead “not guilty” at his arraignment–if we ever make it there and if I’m not a complete basket case by that time.

Through the fingers over my eyes, I suddenly see a flicker. Although the emergency light is on, it’s weak, and doesn’t lessen my fear of being entombed in a cramped metal cube where we’ll eventually run out of air.

My client is pressed against the opposite wall with his hands, in handcuffs, in front of him. He looks like an animal at bay, tense, ready to fight. His head is down. Suddenly he raises his head and glares at me. I am here with a man who took a deboning knife and attempted to murder three of his fellow workers. I have no idea why he did what he did. Was it an argument they had, or did he just go off his head?

I’m terrified. Although at six feet tall in my high heels, I tower over him, he has a compact frame. I think he could overpower me. I look at his hands. They’re strong, used to cutting through animal bones. I imagine him jumping me, pulling me down, kneeling on my back, getting those manacled hands over my head and garroting me. I start to shake and hyperventilate. There is no way I could escape. I watch for him to move. He pulls himself away from the wall and rubs his hands together, pulling the fingers and shaking them out. Pray God he’s not loosening them up. I carefully reach out for my heavy briefcase, with its metal corners.

The elevator suddenly jerks and as it does, the emergency light goes out. As the overhead lights come on, I see a movement.

“Holy shit, holy shit,” says the cop as the elevator doors open onto the courthouse lobby. “Christ almighty,” groans his partner.

I’ve always liked those chicken bone candies. You know, the shiny little ones that crunch when you bite into them. It’s not so much the taste I like but that feel when they splinter into pieces. I love the sound of them cracking, the sensation of the fragments in my mouth.

When I found real chicken bones in the garbage, I loved to stand on them, hear them break under my foot although it was better when I grew up and was strong enough to crack them with my hands. My dad punished me, but I didn’t care. It was harmless fun, like when you see kids throwing stones at frogs. I really liked to do it when my kid sister, Jenny was around. I can’t count the number of times I’ve scared her shitless by threatening to do the same to her puny legs. I’d just laugh at the little loser when she got upset.

When I was about sixteen, I noticed this girl, Lori, who lived in the neighborhood. Sure, there were girls in school, all big and fat, but I only liked the thin ones. She was tiny, so small she looked like a little girl. Thin face, narrow shoulders, poky little arms and skinny legs. Still, she walked and talked like a teen. We’ve been an item for a time now. I call her “chicken bones.” Jenny’s been mad as hell since I met Lori. It’s like she’s in love with me or something. She’s jealous and follows us everywhere. I’m getting tired of her.

She’s is in a dark room, her arms and legs spread and fastened to the posts of a bed. She’s scared out of her mind. What the fuck am I doing here, she thinks, what’s going to happen to me? It’s been hours since the figure tied her up, so she’s hungry and thirsty. She pulls on the ropes but they only get tighter.

Someone comes through the door, letting in some light from the hallway. She doesn’t know if it’s male or female, because she can’t see its face, but something in the way it walks is familiar. The figure lifts a baseball bat, and brings it down hard on her left ankle. There’s a cracking sound, and she shrieks in agony. It’s the worst pain she’s ever felt. The figure lifts the bat and brings it down again in the same place. The pain of it splintering roars through her. She screams “Why are you doing this?” The figure reaches over and starts to manipulate her ankle. In a low voice, it says “It’s so awesome when I can feel the bones all splintered and loose.” Just before she blacks out, she hears the figure say, “How do you like it now, chicken bones?”

When Dad and I arrive home from our fishing trip, we see that only the attic light is on. Which is strange, as Jenny, old scaredy-cat Jenny, is all alone for the first time.

“Where do you think she is?” asks Dad.

“Probably hiding under her bed,” I say.

We put our fishing gear down and go look for Jenny.

Once a month, for an hour, in a town of relentless darkness, the sun rises in the east and lights up this dark place. And the old house on the hill, otherwise invisible in the pitch-black darkness, can be seen from the center of town.

During the hour of light, we also see an old man inside the home. He always sits by a window and smiles at us. Looking through my precious binoculars, I see his warm gold eyes and I’m filled with hope. We believe he is the key to our freedom. But we will only travel to him in the light.

Now, the sun is emerging, illuminating our eerie town again. One of us must volunteer to climb the hill, speak to the old man, and find a way to freedom. Perhaps there is a universe of light beyond the house. The old man will know.

We are trapped in a world of relentless, cold darkness, rain, and snow. During the day, which is indistinguishable from the night, we walk the streets with flashlights and candles when we go to work, or shop, or visit with our friends.

Last month, we lost electricity and heat. Wearing winter coats, we sit inside our buildings with flashlights and candles too. In our homes, we sit by the fireplace to keep warm and dream of a soothing world of light and the old man whom we believe is our salvation.

Shall I climb the hill and speak to him? Many have volunteered in the past. Yet no one has returned to save us.

I ring the church bell, letting the townspeople know that someone is about to climb the hill. The others look out their windows and wave to me as I begin my journey. The sun is rising in the east and soon I will bask in a sprawling sun. I take my first step and hurry off. There is less than an hour of light remaining before we are prisoners of the darkness again.

I climb the hill. In the distance I see glittering objects and suddenly, the smell of vomit wafts down the hill with a zephyr. I gasp for air. My knees buckle. I crouch. Slowly, I rise and take a few shallow breaths. And I continue up the hill.

The sun is beating down on me. It is a beautiful sun, but I am sweating profusely and breathing heavily. And now the wind carries the scent of rotting flesh to my nostrils. I bend over and vomit. Then I continue on.

Now, I see them–the familiar bones, skulls, and rotting flesh of humans who climbed the hill but died before reaching the top.

Beneath me, the pulsating, hungry earth, a seething cauldron, feeds on the human debris. Soon it will no longer hold my heavy body, for a brutal sun is transforming it into quicksand. Yet I continue on.

Near the top, I discover more bones, skulls, and rotting flesh. Where is the house and old man? My eyes flit and dart across the glittering structure. Oh, my God! What do I see? I hear a distant shriek. The horrific voice is mine.

Too late to retreat into the dark universe I left behind, I struggle to remain afloat above the melting earth. I stagger toward the imaginary house and old man.

Sweaty and breathless, my skin roasts beneath a relentless sun that burns and eats my flesh. I reel toward the town’s illusion. If I can pass through the gold eyes of the sun and survive, I may discover a world beyond the darkness and an unbearable sun where humans can live. If not, I will die beneath this monstrous sun.

The wheel was slippery in his ten-o’clock-two-o’clock death grip, his palms soaking it in sweat. He held on for dear life, utterly focused on his steady left turn like a NASCAR driver. He wouldn’t compromise even one hand to change the radio station as the sound of Sting’s voice overtook it with one of his least favorite Police songs. There’s a little black spot on the suhhhhhn todaaaaaay. Off to his right, past the empty passenger seat, was a picturesque view–a postcard image of Colorado mountains and cloud-laced, purple evening sky, but Jake didn’t want to see it. Not one bit.

Kevin had told him he’d be driving through the mountains, and at one point he’d arrive at a stretch known as “The Rail,” but that’s all he’d told him. And Jake knew why. Because Kevin knew how he reacted to heights… the color draining from his skin, turning almost translucent as his muscles tensed almost to the point of immobility. He’d almost fainted on a ski lift for God’s sake, and now he was clinging to a Colorado mountainside at dusk on a two-lane highway with the tenuous grip of spinning rubber tires that was far too insecure. His front right tire wasn’t even twenty feet from the cliff that was hundreds if not thousands of feet up, and he felt he was being pulled toward it. Slipping. May as well have been thousands for all he cared, on “The Rail.” He understood now, perfectly, why it was called that, because it was rail-goddamn-thin.

He could sense the extraordinary colors of the crystal clear sunset, but he dared not turn his head. Even if he wanted to, his petrified neck wouldn’t allow it. Then he was slapped with a horrific blindness as a bright white flooded his eyes, reflecting from the rearview. He clenched his eyelids and opened them in a desperate squint, struggling for focus on the road, on his turn. His grip tightened. A car was coming up behind him with its brights glaring.

“Sonofabitch,” he groaned, the slits of his eyes struggling to see the road. He managed to lift his right hand off the wheel and waved it frantically, urging the car to pass. It tailed him closely for far too long. Slipping. “Come on, come on,” he pled, his panicked voice wavering, his hand gesturing more and more violently. Finally the car turned into the next lane to pass and the headlights receded, leaving tattoos of floating white spots on his eyes.

Jake turned his head unconsciously and saw that it was a long, jet black car. A Lincoln or a Caddy maybe. It hovered next to him and seemed to veer toward the center line. Toward him. His head turned from the car back to the road, then back to the car, and it seemed to be veering even closer now. Close enough that he could’ve leaned out his window and grabbed the passenger side door latch. “Hey!” he called out as his eyes popped. There was no one driving the car. There was no one in the car at all. It veered closer, then bumped, then pushed. “Hey!” Hey, stop!” It pushed again and Jake’s head spun to the right, out to the distance, to the tremendous, overwhelming height. He jerked the wheel fiercely to the left, at the attacking car. He tried to scream, but couldn’t, his breath stifled in his throat. His instinct was for defense, for preservation, but the terror flushed it all away like a tidal wave. Slipping. There was another jarring bump and he saw the metal railing that lined the cliff smash under the force of his bumper, splinters exploding into the air.

They hung for a second or two, and then trailed Jake’s car as it plummeted in a free fall toward the ground hundreds if not thousands of feet below.

You’re home alone when you hear it on the news; it’s like something you would hear from a fifteen-year-old girl around a campfire. A murderer is on the loose in your neighborhood, having just killed three women, gutting them with a meat hook. Still, something about this gives you the creeps, in that personal, something-just-isn’t-right way. All the news channels have his picture posted up; it’s almost a foregone conclusion he’ll be caught by morning.

You stay up for a while, with the typical I’m-just-being-paranoid attitude. Of all the houses around, it’s not like the killer would randomly choose your house. He’s probably already been caught anyway. Around midnight you decide to go to bed. You step into the bathroom to brush your teeth and glance out the window, something you do a million times without even thinking twice. But this time is different.

The killer is standing right in front of you, staring back with cold, emotionless eyes. You saw his picture on every news channel, there’s no doubt in your mind it’s really him. The phone is sitting right there by the sink. Did you lock all the doors? Yes, you’re pretty sure you did. You slowly reach down and dial 911, but the phone slips out of your hand. Oh God, it’s covered in blood. The killer is still standing there, his lips twisting into a smile as you hear a far-off siren.

You stand there for what must be a good five minutes, you not moving out of pure fear, him not moving for God knows what reason. The sirens are definitely getting closer. The 911 call must have gone through. The police will be here any minute. It is then that you look down at the phone and panic tightens its grip on your heart. and you realize the blood is not just on the phone, but on your hands and arms. Christ, it’s all over you. You turn your head back up toward the window and he is
still there.

You start to laugh. You’ve made a terrible mistake, and you laugh harder and harder as you realize the killer isn’t standing outside your bathroom window at all. This bathroom is on the second floor. And besides, you weren’t staring out the window. You were looking in the mirror.

I don’t know why dogs love to chase cars so much, but I’ll tell you why I enjoy it. It’s because of the adrenalin rush, the way it gets your blood flowing like a raging river.

I’m considered a legend in these parts of rural Kentucky. An old folklore passed down from generation to generation like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster. Everybody cringes and gets fearful at just the mention of my name: the Mayfield Man-Eater.

Take for an example this red Jeep Cherokee that’s parked on the side of the road. I can overhear the teenage girl ask, “Isn’t this the place where the Mayfield Man-Eater roams? Looking for tender flesh to sink his huge fangs into, and devour whomever he likes.”

My mouth waters at the thought. She knows my myth well.

The boy laughs. “Urban legend,” he chuckles. “That’s all. But I did hear that he and Bigfoot like to watch young couples have sex.”

Well, I can’t speak for Bigfoot, but he was right. I like to watch… and wait. For the right moment to make my move. Like right now. The windows are real fogged up, and the Jeep has stopped rocking back and forth. I break a branch. Snap!

“Did you hear that?” I hear the girl ask with terror in her shaking voice.

“It’s nothing,” the boy says, breathless. “Just the wind.”

Another branch. Another snap!

I hear the boy say, “Oh shit! Let’s get out of here!”

Then some commotion in the Jeep. The engine coming to life. Tires throwing bits of gravel into my face. The adrenalin starting to run through my veins like a runaway train.

Oh, I think as I start to give chase. How I love to chase cars.