MicroHorror

“Ugh!” She made a sound of frustration… checking her MySpace for like the tenth time that day.

Nothing.

She sat, pondering if there ever would be a chance of any reconciliation. Probably not.

Sighing, she went into the kitchen, staring into the refrigerator, full and stocked, but yet nothing she wanted to eat, nothing seemed to really look good to her. It was a lonely, gray, dull Friday night and she had nothing to do. The ultimate showdown with her best friend had completely killed her social life. Being best friends with the queen bee isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

She considered watching a movie when she noticed that the cable started to go out. She rolled her eyes in frustration “Great! Just another cherry on my sundae,” she complained. “I have no friends left, no boyfriend, stuck in a job I hate…” She shook her head, refusing to let herself get… like she was before. She tossed the remote on the floor, curled into a ball. She noticed the lights flickering now. She had just paid both the cable and electric. Confused, she turned on the radio. Nothing from there either. She sighed, boredom overtaking her. She dozed off…

When she awoke, she noticed a movement in the back yard. Then a few more. She felt the lonely, sinking feeling in the bottom of her stomach start to disappear. She wandered over toward the door.

They seemed to be walking right towards her. For the first time in her life she felt happy. Never mind that they seemed to be walking so slowly, so strangely. She didn’t notice that. The darkness hiding their rotting flesh, she didn’t see anything at all…until it was too late. So consumed by her loneliness, she embraced these strangers… willingly letting them push her to the ground… and though the zombies devoured her, feasting on her organs, she died with a smile on her face.

Afternoon light dappled by outside leaves scattered shadows across her hospital sheets. The hospital reeked strongly of disinfectant. His mother opened her eyes and said, “Is that you, Harry?” Harry was his dad.

“No,” he told her. “It’s Blake, your oldest son.”

Her feeble hand fluttered, seeking his, so he took it in his and held it gently. If felt to him like brittle paper. He tried to will her his love though his hand.

“You look good, Harry,” she said. “You must be eating well.”

“I’m Blake.”

Her grip relaxed, and her eyes closed. The room filled with beeped warnings. “Goodbye, Mom,” he said at last, too late.

Blake let go of her hand and felt a tiny piece of her skin tug at his. He looked and a tiny bit of her old brittle skin had stuck to his finger. He looked at it and realized this was the last touch he might ever feel from her. He asked the nurse for a bandage and covered that bit of his mother’s skin to protect it.

Blake forgot about the bandage. The next morning, bleary-eyed, as hot water bathed him, the bandage washed off and lay unnoticed on the shower floor. Blake dressed and went to work.

Exhausted that night and a little tipsy Blake slipped his key in the lock and found the door already ajar. Carefully he eased the door open. Harsh light from the hallway swept across the interior as the door squeaked open. A young naked woman sat in a chair facing the door. The door stopped, left silence hanging, waiting.

“Is that you, Harry?” the woman asked.

Allswald Clarot stared at the image in the mirror. No guilt. No shame. He grinned. It was how he liked it.

A loud, steady voice came from the next room. “She’s sorry.”

Allswald rushed from the bathroom and saw his subject still quartered to the bedposts. Her eyes were wide open, not frantic, just energized, and her lips were straight.

“How did you get your gag out?”

“It wasn’t hard. And once I knew that Bella Transon was sorry, I had to tell you.”

The name sent shivers through him. He backed away and steadied himself against the wall.

“You didn’t know it, but you were looking for a certain image while sitting in that bar. I assumed a form close to that image, so you would follow me out, and then I let you capture me.”

“Shut up, slut, or I’ll end you right now!”

She shook her head. “Poor Allswald. All those girls you killed, trying to prove to yourself that she couldn’t make you feel shame anymore.”

He pulled his switchblade from his pocket, but just held it, folded in his hand. “How do you know all this? And how do you know my name?”

Her expression still hadn’t changed. “It’s right there in your mind, with all the rest.”

He flipped out the blade. “You lie!”

She didn’t even look at the knife. “No, it’s true. I saw what you saw in the mirror a little while ago, saw what you wanted to feel. I went deeper inside you, to the places you don’t look at any more, to the root of what you’ve become, and I found Bella.”

He stepped closer. “I swear I’ll cut your head right off!”

“In the fifth grade, Bella used to tease you. She humiliated you daily in front of the other children. You felt it then, the terrible shame.”

He stuck the knife to her throat.

Suddenly, her skin seemed to melt. He backed away and watched her body become smaller and her face became that of another person. He resumed his posture against the wall.

The woman that had become the child Bella Transon melted again and reformed into the woman that just resembled Bella Transon. “When someone becomes such a significant part of you, they leave a trace of their soul. I used that to find her. And she is very sorry. She not only hurt you; she hurt many others, and the guilt eats at her every day. She has crippling depression.”

Allswald barely felt the knife slip from his hand. He felt something unfamiliar burning inside. “Really?”

“Yes, Allswald. Really.”

Tears formed in his eyes, and he sat on the floor.

“You’re welcome,” she said, though he hadn’t thanked her. “I wanted you to be free of that, Allswald.”

He looked up and saw her skin was melting. She slipped from her binds and became an amorphous blood of gray gook in the middle of the bed. That blob became a person with a giant anaconda head.

She spoke in the same voice she had before. “I still have to eat you, though. I mean, a shape-shifter has to feed, and I don’t feel much guilt when my prey has been a predator.”

She was on him before he could move.

The first zombie apocalypse fizzled pretty quickly. Major cities were hit pretty hard, but once people organized and figured out the symptoms, things got wrapped up before the military even got to there to help.

Humans just aren’t meant to be effective zombies, you see. We’re almost entirely reliant on higher thought that is lost upon zombification, giving normal humans an absurd advantage over zombies. Also, as bipeds we require more balance and motor control in order to run than a zombie is left with. The zombie menace had only confusion on its side, and when that wore off they were wiped out.

Zombie animals, on the other hand, are a special kind of hell. While not quite as agile as healthy animals, they retain enough motor ability to run, and their instincts are not as badly impaired as humans. During the first outbreak only a few animals were ever turned, but those that were posed a massive threat. Stories of zombie dogs were famous, as well as the infamous killer sheep of Scotland. But human zombies could almost never catch animals.

After it was all over, though, someone got the clever idea to try and cure the virus. Started infecting mice for test subjects. No one will ever know how they got out; we lost contact with that entire city in one night. Rodents outnumber people eight to one in the city, and once the infected mice started biting other rats and mice in those dark places in the cracks of the city, there was no hope of containment.

Not that any of that really matters now. I can hear the zombies pounding on the front door downstairs. Much closer, I can’t hear the constant, inexorable gnawing. They’re slowly bringing the room down around me, with a mindless determination that only zombie rodents could possess. Somewhere outside, a long moaning yowl rises from an undead cat. An old enemy recruited by the rodent hordes.

The room that I’m now sure will be my grave is starting to fill with the stench of mice and rotting flesh. They’ll open a hole into the room soon, there’s no avoiding it. I resignedly reach for the can of gasoline I’d brought with me. At least I can know that mine will be a quiet corpse.

“Henry!”

“Henry! Hurry! They’re coming,” Helen said.

“Helen, I’m trying to watch my show,” Henry called from the living room.

Helen ran into the living room eyes wide, face flushed and looked her husband in the eyes. “Henry, it’s the posse.”

Henry jumped up and said, “Shit!”

“What are we gonna do? You know how these clowns get!”

“I know, Helen, I know.” He held up his right arm with the missing hand.

“How do they know?”

Henry hitched his only thumb to the left. “Trikeman. He told. That bastard! I’ll get him! He always leaves his tricycles in the driveway. I’ve never told on him before but if he wants to play then we’ll play.”

“I’ll take the blame this time but you gotta stop doing stuff without permission.”

The doorbell rang. Helen and Henry looked at each other and Helen opened the door. Red curly haired, white faced, red nosed, impossibly large red frowned mouths, blue triangle eyed men dragged Helen down the walkway to their tiny car.

Henry grabbed a beer from the fridge and sat in his favorite chair in front of the TV and waited for Helen’s return. He heard the front door open. Helen walked in and held up her bandaged right hand. They had only taken a pinky this time. She handed Henry a piece of paper.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Henry Bozeman:

It has been brought to our attention that you are in violation of the Covenants, Conditions and Restrictions for Clownatopia Glen Clown Owners Association Article VI, Section III that states:

“You may not alter, add, remove and/or change anything, anything at all on your property without prior written consent from the Clownatopia Beautification Committee.”

You have 24 hours to remove the birdhouse from your backyard and off the property.

Consider this your first warning. Penalties are as follows:
First – Pinky from right hand
Second – Right hand
Third – Wife’s Dignity
Fourth – Bludgeoning by not quite ripe tomatoes

Sincerely,
The Beautification Committee
Clownatopia Glen Clown Owners Association, Inc.

My body has been steadily shrinking for the last three months. The doctor says I’m imagining it but I know he’s lying. He’s too afraid to admit the truth. I know it won’t be long before I am completely gone and don’t know if there are any solutions. I’ve checked a ton of accounts of alien abduction but none ever mentions this. Right now, all that’s left of me is my torso. Thank God I know how to type with my tongue…

The problem with zombies is that they don’t make good drinking buddies. They’re already dead so they don’t have a stomach to hold the beer in. It just goes right through them, making a hell of a mess on the living room carpet. Takes ages to clean up. So I’ve decided to hang around with werewolves instead. Sure, they have fleas and ticks, but at least they try to keep the mess to a minimum when the party is over.

The editor didn’t like my story about a private detective who discovers a lost city under a Mexican pyramid. Said the plot was too formulaic and the protagonist’s anger issues didn’t create a lot of sympathy with the reader. I crumpled up his letter angrily and tossed it in the bin. I swear I saw the shadow of a man moving along the walls of my apartment that night, his hands jabbing the air with what looked like a knife. I locked my bedroom door and tried everything I could to not be myself.

Darkness.

When I first attempted this trick–illusion–I nearly died when the water into which the box submerged filled the box with liquid. My heart stopped briefly, after perspiration beaded frigidly on my forehead. Naturally, the liquid in the pool washed off the sweat when the nails broke and the wood allowed massive amounts of liquid. My breath quickened, until the liquid prevented breath. And my heart couldn’t keep the beats, like I had aged to ninety years instead of thirty-five with fine health. Pulled from the liquid, before my brain ceased altogether, I leapt onto the edge of the pool, holding the handles by the surface, and finally, stood triumphantly, like I had planned the entire ordeal. Of course, I hadn’t, but the spectators didn’t need to know; if they would have, it would have killed my profession, or my involvement in it.

Three minutes ago, I lay inside the box, like before, as a promoter wanted me to attempt the illusion but live to brag about it on television. He had arranged for me a time slot on the local station, airing happily against major network shows. If I died, barely anyone would watch my demise, unlike the quality programs, yet if I survived, my next illusion would play to hungry audiences that didn’t wish to look at me initially. Anyhow, I lay on the platform, inside the box, with perspiration on my lips and forehead. With hands to God, before the chains allowed no movement, I hoped while I rattled the metal that God would spare my life in time to prevent brain trauma. After all, if the trick failed before, I shouldn’t attempt it anymore. As a magician, I lived to buck my lifespan. Other professionals think similarly, like police officers and extreme athletes. We need adrenaline like food and water.

After ten minutes in the wood, I felt the force pulling me downward. I heard no submersion of liquid around the wood. Naturally, the nails held tightly, as I had adjusted them after the first attempt. Finally, the bottom touched a surface, hard and rocky, and clunked loudly, painfully. With chains on my wrists, I pounded on the lid. Why didn’t I splash in liquid, and float slowly to the rubber bottom of the pool? Unlike before, I couldn’t hear the drain, pulling liquid into the trap. Pounding, I yelled for my lovely assistant, a beautiful blonde in a black leotard, tightly wrapped around her skinny body, but she made no announcement that she heard. She had stood by the pool before, to pull me safely to the top. Without notice from her, I assumed she left the auditorium, and I as well, without consent.

After eternity, the nails squeaked, yanked from outside. Without my hands bound anymore, I pulled the nails, but failed. Numb, my hands operated poorly, like my entire body. Moonlight bleated brilliantly; I wished to sit in the lovely glow, but couldn’t somehow. Looking upward, with wet eyes opened barely, I heard words I would never forget, however long I lived, if that remained an option anymore.

With hands holding the lid, opened to reveal the body, the graveyard attendant, with the priest and police officers, looked upon the body. The father recited holy prayers, quietly. One burly officer nodded, and the graveyard attendant said, “Embalmed, like the doctor announced. Thirty people attended the funeral of Gerry the Great, the illusionist, and I attended like the father.” Another officer nodded stiffly; the third turned, sickly. “When he attempted a trick, buried in a pool, nobody pulled him out in time.” With a headshake, he said, “He did it before, failed, but got a television show, concluding in water torture.” The youthful officer smiled, weakly. “No network aired it fully, but looking at his body, I feel grateful. It didn’t surprise me it failed. Some frontiers should remain mysterious, like death.”

Blood was dripping, splattering violently while I walked. My own arm was crying the ruby rivers of my clumsiness and I wanted to believe I failed of my own free will, but it was a lie. I was nearly defeated. In retreat, I obsessed about the details as I often do. The directionality of my drops would surely tell the tale of my slowing and the abuse I’d taken to defend myself.

There was no escape from the evil. Another attack and I’d temporarily lost the ability to even breathe. Cold bloody hands closed in on my neck and violent convulsions tried repetitively to snap and suffocate, but my strength connected. My fist wore a reward of teeth through my bruising fingers, but escape was again a possibility. Hurriedly, I took a hold of a shirt and wrapped it around my bleeding arm, only to be tripped and beaten on the ground again.

She was vicious, a complete psychopath that should never have existed. Every direction I went she’d known, and every attempt to survive, she’d stunted. It was almost as if there was no life without suffering, and there’d be no suffering without living. I was trapped. Stalemate. “Enough!” I screamed to the evil. Wicked red eyes glowed in horror. “I’ll be late for work; I don’t have time for this shit!”

As routine called, my eyes returned to brown, my shirt wiped, sloppily, the remains of my raining blood. My arm was treated, nearly unnoticeable and my ego was forever damaged again, the daily self-destruction of a true psychopath. The evil voice erupted. “There will be more.”

“Of course,” I spoke in confidence. “It’s not over until we both fall forever.”

Today she held me to near blackness. She will kill me someday, and I know this. When it happens and the directionality tells you I tried, and the splatter implies that I failed, there will be only the stories that tell you that homicide of one’s self isn’t always suicide. In the mind of those that cohabit with the damned, there isn’t room for segregation. As a whole we succeed and when we fail, essentially, we all fail together.