MicroHorror

In a last-ditch attempt to save their marriage, Porter and Sylvia decided to take an autumn road trip from Philadelphia to a cozy bed and breakfast in upstate New York. But soon enough, tempers ran hot inside the tin can of their VW Bug, and Syl tossed the GPS from the window, somewhere along Route 87.

Furiously following a crinkled map while Syl stared silently out the window, Porter realized that some things just weren’t meant to be. So when they came upon the burnt red farmhouse somewhere outside of Buffalo, Porter already had his speech planned. He knew the speech would be the easy part; the hard part would be ridding his life of all aspects in which this vile woman at his side had become a part. Then a grubby hand slapped the windshield. Syl screamed.

“Where y’all from?” the farmer asked. He was long and lanky, face like a cracked desert. As he wiped his hands down the front of his soiled overalls, he craned and squinted through the glass at the limping lovebirds. Porter unrolled his window.

“Philly,” he said. “Do you have a room for the night?”

“Yeah, we got a room,” said the farmer. “We got golf too. See the sign over yonder?”

Porter followed the farmer’s gnarled finger to a worn sign at the end of the secluded driveway that read: McCree’s Bed and Golf.

“We got breakfast too,” said the farmer, snapping off a piece of chewing tobacco. “But the old bitch was too lazy to paint it on the sign. You know what I mean, fella?”

Then he leaned on the door and flashed a brown smile. Syl tugged at Porter’s sleeve.

“I don’t like this place,” she said.

Porter pulled her fingers from his sleeve and winked at the farmer.

“We’ll take it. Is there time to swat a few golf balls before dark?”

Porter and Syl followed the farmer up the squeaky staircase to their room on the second floor. Despite the general mustiness of the place, there was something to be said about rustic charm. Porter grinned as he flopped his bag onto the bed. Syl slapped him.

“You are such as asshole, Porter. As soon as we get back to Philly, we’re getting a divorce.”

“That sounds fine, baby,” he said, unfazed. He unpacked while Syl huffed and stomped around the room.

“Where did that creepy farmer go? And where is his wife? I need to find the bathroom.”

Suddenly finding a moment’s peace, Porter stretched out on the bed. Just as he began to drift, someone shook his foot.

“Get on up,” said the farmer. “I got the golf all set up for ye. You can smack a good one before supper.”

Porter, groggy, followed the farmer down the stairs.

“Where’s Syl?” he asked.

“She’s waiting on ye. She’s been waiting on ye for a little while.”

Behind the farmhouse was a rectangular tract of razed land that was bordered by bright maples. In the rays of the dying sun, they looked like giant sticks of pink cotton candy. Porter, slowly absorbing the scenery, felt a twinge of true happiness. Then the farmer pressed a scythe into Porter’s palm.

“Gotta use this,” he said. “Make sure your aim is true, though.”

Porter marched over to the edge of the driving range. Syl’s head protruded from a hole in the ground, her neck collared by a patch of artificial turf. The ball-gag kept her from speaking, but her eyes said plenty.

“I slapped my bitch ’bout two hundred yards,” said the farmer. “You hit better’n that and you get the night for free.”

Porter lined up the scythe. Forgetting his prepared speech from earlier, he simply said, “Goodbye, baby.”

Then, with a mighty swing, he lopped her head clean off. It careened to the right, finally crashing down into a rose bush.

“Damn, boy! You hooked it! Looks like you’re paying.”

Early in life, Winston began to enjoy his food. The act of consumption, ingrained into everyone from animal to human, became addictive, like heroin to a musician or alcohol with a writer; he took wonderful pleasure in every bite, from simple, unhealthy forms like hamburgers to sweet and juicy types like apples and pineapples, which held back hunger and fought illnesses equally. It didn’t matter what he ate; all foods that fit inside his mouth brought Winston satisfaction that sexuality couldn’t, whether he touched women frequently or not. He didn’t, but when he bit into bananas blanketed in thick chocolate, it hardly mattered anymore. Especially, foods that came fried, with batter and syrup, lifted his purpose to where warm bodies lived freely and physical love accounted for little. Sex would divert from the real joy of existence.

Naturally, Winston had watched his belly grow into a beach ball, bloated and bouncy, with flabby islands atop like female breasts. Many children laughed when he walked, and joked that he had impregnated himself with the butcher’s beef. When those steers had lived, they had transferred a baby calf into Winston, by the kids’ account. Winston burned feverishly, with apple-redness in his cheeks, until he finally stopped walking through his neighborhood at all. Lately, he snuck through the back doorway, unable to fit properly through the window, which wouldn’t have helped his dignity, yet without snickers that embarrassed him so greatly.

He went to the hospital on his walk through the park. Behind the low hills, the hospital had helped friends. Maybe if he found the proper doctor, it would help him, too. Inside, the medical man spoke about surgery, with Winston’s inability to quit food consumption, even partially. Reluctantly, as he feared needles that would bludgeon his body and injure him, while helping him, he joined the doctor in the operating room for outpatient stomach repairs. When he left, he shouldn’t wish for food, without the same appetite; he shouldn’t be able to stuff as much food into him, as well. Yet, while he put his body through the medical gown, he bowed his head mournfully. The final day of caloric pleasures would bypass him.

After the operation, he didn’t feel food intensely before he ate. With the sensation of vomit in his throat, just a side effect temporarily, he dialed his mom to tell her about his plans without an appetite. Waddling to the telephone, he pushed the buttons. On the opposite end, the lady that Winston didn’t recognize spoke about a hospital stay, a tumor embedded into her breasts, and little hope, according to the medical personnel.

Instinctively, his body went for the fluffy cake on the tabletop. He ate it quickly and looked for pizza. Luckily, he still had some, by the cold chicken from earlier in the week. Thirty minutes later, both the large pizza, with six pieces left, and the bucket of crispy thighs found his stomach. Only they didn’t stay; he vomited quickly. Not all the food left his system. Shortly afterward, he fainted like a tree whacked by a lumberjack. On the floor, he stood after what felt like eternity and looked at his body. Touching his belly, where no bulge formed and ribs poked beautifully, he noticed that he wore no clothes anymore.

With a look at the floor, he eyed the blubbery body, wrapped in a bulky jacket and husky jeans. One tear formed in his eyes. Only, it didn’t wet his cheek; it didn’t exist physically. Likewise, he had indeed lost blubber, which had jutted through his shirts for twenty years. When light shone brilliantly upon him, it warmed his body, and lifted him to a place where food would be plentiful yet none would be eaten. And his mom would join him shortly.

Machines had yet to blow fluffy snow onto the hills. Weather conditions offered warmth, dryness, thus the artificial blizzard. Grass stood below piles of slush. Wetness melted quickly. Earlier, Bobby prayed for snowfall. With warm temperatures, the ski resort would close temporarily. Bobby wanted snow to hide what he had thrown into the machine. With the maker ignited, the body would burst into chunky spray. That would blend the whiteness with bloody slime, like thick oil onto watery puddles.

His family would have approved, if not openly, when Bobby had threatened the local bully. When Bobby had attempted to harm with words, the offender to his family had laughed, not shaken fearfully, like any bully would. It seemed inappropriate to inform his family; it would incite punishment, like repossession of monetary allowances. Another plan had to form; luckily, it did. Children behave inappropriately when they act like adults. Yet, that brought Bobby to the house off the property of his family to build the trap. It stood over the hole, with branches perched precariously, and fluffy snow atop. It took just hours to shovel properly. Nobody in his family would do what Bobby did. After all, the offender had threatened to shut the place permanently, yelling about furry mice in the bathrooms. And health inspectors had visited. Tied by Bobby, he rested helplessly in the snow machine.

With a loud rattle, the machine belched flakes. With a start, Bobby bumped into a tree blocking his path. Wrapped in black leather and boots, the tree became a body. Below a hat with a police emblem, two steely eyes squinted. Above the hillside, bloody redness would add texture to the slippery hills. Naturally, that meant Bobby understood who stood before him and why.

“Mr. London vanished mysteriously.” The officer spoke, looking not at the snow machine or hillsides. “He lived in the house off the slopes. His family cannot find him anymore. Your family owns the slopes. Mr. London brought problems to the ski resort. I believe he found a mouse.” He shined his badge with a leather jacket cuff. “Nobody saw Mr. London lately. Did you see him lately?” He paused briefly, and spoke slowly. “Kids like to tell the truth. Adults like to hear the truth. Why not tell me truthfully about Mr. London?” He squeezed Bobby’s arm, but not tightly.

Bobby looked at his hands, folded in mittens. He spoke firmly for a boy of fourteen years. “My family will live here always. Nobody will close the ski resort, not after thirty years.” Dry-eyed, he looked at the policeman who looked like a trunk with thick branches. “I kept the family business alive; I couldn’t keep Mr. London alive. Without him, business will thrive. Now, I will live happily, like my family.”

The policeman shook his head. Bobby held his head highly, looking at the adult. Unashamed, he kept his hands for the metal handcuffs. The boy took off his wet mittens, with respect to the legal profession, without animosity. “Leaders jump forward when others fall back. Without fear, I acted, and I alone. Never will I feel afraid.” Clicking the steel handcuffs onto Bobby’s wrists, the officer smiled skeptically; he had witnessed youths like Bobby, aware that jail alters their perceptions. With his hands bound, to live in jail, not the ski resort with his family, Bobby didn’t bow his head. Almost joyously, he walked onto the slushy road, looking at the squad car. When the officer inquired about his readiness for life behind bars, the boy stated, “With boldness, I will live peaceably in jail. It lives with those who live with purpose, how I always live.”

Inside the squad car, which bleated brightly, loudly, Bobby looked into the blurry sky, not to view the sunset with finality, but the bloody mess blowing majestically atop the slopes. That, not his final dusk, brought a toothy smile.

1. I love the smell of old houses.
2. I hate the smell of wet earth.
3. I like driving at night with the radio turned all the way up.
4. When I was barely two I took a fall and still have the scar beneath my hairline.
5. I lost a coat long ago–blue cloth–and I still miss it.
6. When I was six my bicycle hit a rock, and I tumbled over the handlebars. I keep a chip of the cast in the crawlspace behind my old closet.
7. People tell me I should leave for a new home, but I can’t.
8. The accident I had when I was 18 was quite severe, and there was a notice in the paper.
9. The driver of the other car survived.
10. I spent the night in the hospital’s coldest room.
11. I used to be afraid of the dark.
12. I stand in a corner, watching you read my words.

Rage is a funny thing. It’s always there, bubbling below the surface of that face we wear when we walk out of the house every morning. It’s there when we’re sitting in uncomfortable chairs listening to people talk about things we couldn’t care less about. It’s there on the commute home, when we’re gripping the wheel and wondering if the airbag is working as some thirty-something cubicle drone pushes his SUV to 70 miles per hour on the highway when we signal to merge into his lane because ours ends in twenty feet. Rage is there when we flip on the television to watch a mindless sitcom with a leggy blonde and the husband she clearly married for his sense of humor rather than his good looks or income, wondering why those people look so damned happy in their quiet, dull little New Jersey suburb.

Rage is there when we tuck the sheets under the mattress and pull the duvet right up to the pillows, knowing we won’t sleep in that bed tonight. It’s there when we pull an old black hooded sweatshirt out of the back of the closet and yank it over our head, stuffing our hands into the pockets and finding a nickel and a stale stick of gum. It’s there when we shove the keys into our pocket and pull the front door shut behind us.

It’s there when we walk down the street we grew up on and keep our head down because we’re afraid some sweet neighbor with shiny teeth will smile at us and ask us about our life. It’s there when we hear the little Jack Russell yipping from the old lady’s window on the corner, tiny tail flying back and forth so fast it’s nothing more than a blur behind the animal. It’s there when we turn that corner and head toward the only busy street in this sleepy, useless little town.

It’s there when we duck behind the Italian Imports store and turn down the alley, heading for the river. It’s there when we take our hands out of our pockets so we can throw our arms out like a tightrope walker when we slip and skid down the muddy incline by the bridge. It’s there when our white sneakers slap against the mud and the ground tries to suck them back in with every step.

Rage is there when we make it under the bridge and almost trip on the steel-toed work-boot on the ground and bite our lip to stop the shouted expletive.

Rage is there when our eyes register the blood-matted hair and vacant expression frozen to the waxy skin.

Rage is there when we hear the squelching of footsteps in the mud behind us.

Rage is a funny thing, because it’s there bubbling below the surface even as our blood is bubbling in a hot stream down the front of our black sweatshirt when we try to gurgle a scream.

Kevin walked away from the tent and wielded the red flashlight like a sword.

“Ain’t no way!” His buddy, Tommy followed after him. “You telling me an angel gave that to you?”

“Yep.” Kevin smiled and held the light under his chin. “And he had black wings.”

“So what’s it do?”

“I’ll show you.” Kevin fanned the flashlight over his head and a series of stars collapsed into darkness.

“Jesus!” Tommy was stunned. He could barely see his own hand in front of his face.

“The good news,” Kevin said maniacally, “is that I have eternity to play with it.”

It took only three seconds to erase the moon.

The colony of misshapen creatures crawled out of the sea on a moonless evening. They approached the island shoreline with rudimentary tools and began to rapidly carve the volcanic rock. Although the vast majority of these gargantuan artisans lacked conventional appendages, and were at constant odds with physical disabilities, they managed to overcome the limitations of their bulky fins and tentacles to successfully craft a masterpiece.

Periodically, labor was temporarily suspended in order to re-submerge their bodies into the ocean depths and revive gradually desiccating flesh.

From the high granite cliffs above them, the island inhabitants, obscured in shadows, witnessed the transformation of their landscape and were bewildered by the massive undertaking. The muggy air was assaulted with the roar of prehistoric life excavating sand with immense jaws speckled with ivory teeth. All night the monstrous brutes shifted their weight from earth to water, back and forth, like the whisper of waves.

As darkness withered into thinning vapors, they completed their monumental sculptures and receded into the safe anonymity of the unexplored deep.

When the sun finally struck these mammoth stone effigies, the natives were astounded to see their own perfectly dark faces mirrored on that desolate stretch of beach.

The tree was evil.

Just as they said.

She and her parents had moved to Lyons Grove when she was seven, after her father got a position at Curtis Laboratories. She’d been wearing red and white checkered skirts and white collared shirts at Divine Grace Catholic school ever since.

Sammy had been going to her new school for only two years but her mother had already become a nasty piece of gossip among the kids with her addictions to Virginia Slims and Popoff vodka, and her father’s job allowed him almost no time at home. Sammy didn’t dare take her friends to her house after school. She would save herself that particular humiliation. A staggering, mumbling drunk haranguing her friends or passing out. As a result, she and her friends spent a lot of time outdoors, in the parks, baseball fields and forest preserves. Bethany was the best of the few friends she had. She had a big, fluffy dog that never left her side and seemed to shed a pound every time it moved. His name was Sidney. Bethany would bring him with on their little after school hangouts and he always proved to be a good playmate, even though he would send Sammy into one sneezing fit after another.

One day in early fall, the leaves just starting to bleed yellow and orange, Sammy and Bethany strode one of the forest preserve paths with Sidney lumbering between them. The sun was hidden behind dark patches in the sky and a fine, almost imperceptible, mist hung in the air. It blanketed them with the exhilarating sense of the changing seasons. As they walked, they realized they were coming up on the dreaded “turn,” where the white tree stood. The monster tree. The one that looked like a great bucket of white paint had been spilled over it. The older kids spun tall tales about how it had eaten up some kid like ten years ago and now no one would go near it. The grown-ups won’t even cut it down, they’d say. They were all apparently too scared of it as well. The girls came to the turn, and stared at the tree. Its trunk was a light brown but was overtaken with pure white bark as it climbed. Its smooth, leafless limbs dangled in the air, with random knobs that looked like joints bulging in witch’s fingers. “Well I don’t know about you, but I’m scared,” Bethany quipped, and they giggled. Then there was a scratching sound, something stirring in the branches, but not even a breath of wind. Sidney started to bark and seemed to leap amid the branches, then vanished. A high-pitched gasp, a crushing sound, then nothing.

“Sidneeey!” Bethany cried out, and reached both her arms into the branches. As her fingers pried into them Sammy’s eyes froze as the branches raised up as if on a hinge, or a jaw, and hovered over Bethany. There was a dark red passage leading into a tunnel of darkness, like an open throat. There was even a huge dangling bulge, like the one that hung at the back of her own throat like a boxer’s speed bag. It was even darker red than the surrounding walls, with white spots of what looked like her Elmer’s glue drizzling down. The branches thrust down, all at once, and bit into Bethany’s lower back. Her legs fell flat against the dirt as the rest of her, above the waist, vanished. A spray of cold blood speckled Sammy’s face, hair and clothes. The tree’s mouth opened again, and bit down with force. Bethany was gone except for one shoe that had come loose.

No one believed Sammy. Not her parents. Not the doctors. Not the nurses who brought her meals, in this awful place her parents had put her in. She could still feel the blood on her face, and her hands. But the tree was the killer. It ate her friend and her friend’s dog.

It wasn’t like Barty had heard it would be. There was no tunnel with a light at the end. There was only the light, and it was in the shape of a door. It followed him around.

Barty knew he was supposed to go in, and he could feel it pulling. But he wasn’t ready to go yet. He was trailing his murderer, a big, rough-looking man, with eyes that were either enlightened or crazy.

A voice came from the door. “It’s as I said. The tunnel leads into this realm, and the door leads out.”

“Ohhhh,” said a second voice. “That’s why the people who die and come back report seeing a tunnel.”

“Yes, those who die and come back have their memory erased for the door, but they’re allowed to remember the tunnel because that is easily explained away with silly scientific theories. But that’s mainly a side note in your retriever training. More important is the psyche of your subject. This particular spirit is trailing his assassin, trying to decipher how a ghost exacts revenge. What he doesn’t realize is that this assassin only kills those who are ready to die and don’t know it yet.”

“So the spirit doesn’t realize it was ready to die?”

“No, and he also doesn’t realize that the anger he feels is not really due to his death, but the life he had before death. He feels he must act on that anger. That’s why he has not come through the door and ascended.”

“Ohhhh. I get it.”

Barty darted away from the door, but not really. It tailed him just fine. Two glowing spirits came out and grabbed him.

“He’ll be purified upon entering the next realm,” said the initial voice. “The anger he feels will be stripped away.”

“No!” Barty screamed. “I’m not ready!”

They took him through the door.

“I feel unbearable guilt for what I’ve done,” Evelyn said through the darkness, standing at the foot of the man’s bed.

“Unbearable guilt,” said the sleeping man and then stirred a little.

“I would rather end my life than live with the guilt for another day.”

“End my life.”

She sensed a third presence, in the new way she sensed things. She spoke to it telepathically, so the sleeping man would not hear. “Who’s there?”

The voice that came back was female. “I am like you, just dead longer.”

Evelyn hesitated and then said, “What do you want?”

She felt the presence come closer. “What are you doing?” it asked. “Why have you not ascended?”

Evelyn considered lying, but didn’t know if she could lie to a ghost. “I shout at him all the time. He only hears me when he sleeps, and he only hears me when I speak in the first person.”

“That’s because he thinks he hears his own thoughts. But still, what you do is in vain. By the time he wakes, the thoughts will be stored in a place deep within his mind, where they cannot affect him.”

Evelyn had found that she did many of the things as a ghost that she had done as a person; they just didn’t affect the world. She sighed. “This man stole me from my home and brought me to this very room. He raped and tortured me for days, before he killed me. He’ll do it to other girls. I’ll not ascend until I see him dead.”

“Fine, but you have to do it right. You must place these thoughts in his head and then rouse him quickly, so they are still there when he wakes.”

“How?”

“Place the thoughts in his head and then shout the word that all people attend to most, the word that is different for most every person.”

Evelyn thought she knew what the ghost was saying. “But I don’t know his name. I can’t find it either, because my only two choices are to ascend or remain in the room where I died. And it’s not like I have hands to search through his wallet or dresser drawers. He speaks to no one in here, so I don’t hear his name uttered.”

They were both silent for a few seconds and then the presence said, “He is called Andrew.”

Evelyn, though pessimistic, felt a tinge of optimism too. “How do you know?”

“I told you. I’m dead longer, much longer. I can get things you can’t yet. Now do this, so you might ascend.”

Evelyn felt the presence leave. She spoke out loud. “I feel guilt for all I’ve done.”

“Guilt for all,” the man said back.

“I cannot bear to live another day because of it.”

“Can’t live another day.”

“I have to end my life.”

“End my life.”

As loud as she could, she shouted, “Andrew!”

The man on the bed gasped. He then sat up and looked around. She could tell he couldn’t see her. He pulled himself to the side of the bed. He looked down. He put his face in his hands and sat that way for about a minute. She worried that he was just tired, not guilt-ridden. Then he reached under the bed, pulled out a pistol, stuck it to the side of his head and squeezed the trigger.

She sensed his spirit leave his body in the new way she sensed things. “Burn in hell,” she said, and then she ascended.