MicroHorror

Benny sat on his fluffy bed, exhausted from his first day in high school. Then he lay on the thick mattress and puffed the pillow. Noises always kept him awake. Nightly, he would listen to bellows from the backyard, where another family lived in a house joined by the lawn, and rattles of bricks. They slapped the road, like tractors that paved the blacktop, by workmen in jackets. When he looked into the backyard, with bellows in his ears, he saw nobody but the slinky feline that belonged to the family across the maple trees. Glancing to the blacktop that ended before the major highway, he eyed no large tractors, no steamrollers, and no bulky men in jackets. Only three rows of pointy cones and a narrow pillar separated houses from the roadway. With no noise anywhere, apparently, he put the pillow below his head. Knowing that loud conditions existed no more, he allowed his body to fall into sleep unknown on many occasions.

When he looked at the clock readout, he awoke, alert and jumpy. The blackness through the window shade still offered nighttime. He didn’t need to wake for hours. What woke him happened in the bed. Below his body, the bed moved like massive worms lived below the sheet and squirmed likewise. Layers of mattress floated slightly, below his legs and back, and bumps lowered and lifted quickly. They told him that he didn’t sleep alone anymore. Obviously, animals had found his warm mattress and were burrowing into the pads below the top layer. Immediately, Benny jumped off the bed, stuffed his feet into shoes, and ran into the hallway. He wished not to look at mice, or touch them, but they had apparently clawed into the wall, into his bed, and now played with the cotton and coils that added comfort to the mattress.

Later that day, after the final buzz of the school bell, he walked to his psychiatrist’s office. He spoke routinely to her now that the tragedy happened that caused him to suffer mental breakdowns. He stepped over the thin carpet and looked at the wood walls until he sat. Reluctantly, he told her about mice in the bed, and noises from nowhere, which caused Dr. Leslie Snow to prescribe pills. They should alleviate the symptoms, increased monthly. By her estimation, he suffered hallucinations. When the tragedy happened, his mom landed in his lap after her Mustang smashed into a truck trying to pass. Benny held the head of his mom, her lengthy hair in his hands, her body lifeless, while he tried to squeal. At that moment, he began a rocky road that brought breakdowns to his weak mind. Before the session ended, he bawled about his mom, like always, with her bloody head in his bloody lap. Dr. Snow allowed him to wipe his tears before he walked back into society.

Lying in bed six hours later, Benny bounced on the mattress, with busy mice below the top layer, and held the pillow to his mouth. It muffled yells from his shaky lips. With Dr. Snow and her words in his mind, he took the first pill to stop hallucinations. That should alleviate the sensations that irritated him. With the thought that tragedy conjured the noises and bumps within the mattress, Benny fell asleep happily. When he woke, the bloody red numbers told him that school would begin in thirty minutes. The bed didn’t bounce anymore, as expected.

Before he woke, the bed stopped lifting, quickly if slightly. Benny slept peacefully, finally. Psychological problems shouldn’t bother him anymore. Only, his mind didn’t conjure the effect, not completely. Three furry mice burrowed through and below the fluffy mattress, jumped onto the thick carpet, and left the bedroom through a jagged hole in the wall. They would return, with psychological medicine or not.

With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I watched the tax man’s black sedan pull into my driveway. He’d been doing that all morning, going from one house to the next, collecting the amount due from each neighbor he visited.

And now, it was my turn. I suppose I could have hidden inside my house, pretended that I wasn’t home or something, but the penalties for being past due had undoubtedly become much worse than last year’s. Nope, I would have to face the tax man on this day, as it was the Fifteenth of April.

Gently shutting his car door, the man held his briefcase in one hand while he adjusted his tie with the other. He began his short walk towards my front door, and smiled when he saw my form standing behind the screen door.

“Howdy, howdy,” the man greeted cheerfully, and I recognized him for what he was: one of those nerdy pencil pushers who was always dotting other people’s Is or crossing other people’s Ts. God, how I hated those fucking pencil pushers.

“I don’t have any money for you,” I answered gruffly. “The economy’s still down the shithole, and I haven’t worked in over eight months. So piss off.”

“Sorry to hear that, sir,” the tax man replied. “But the rules are the rules, and the government has to get its cut.” Undeterred, the man brazenly pulled open the screen door.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked as he shoved me back. He was much stronger than your typical bean counter.

“Do you know what the penalty is for not paying your taxes on time?”

“An arm and a leg in fines, I suppose.”

“Almost got it right.” The man smiled again, and I did not like what I saw in his eyes. “More like an arm or a leg.” Expertly, he flipped open his little briefcase and revealed a spotless and shiny hacksaw. “One way or another, the government will be getting its cut.”

The screen door slammed shut behind him, and I screamed.

Leaves, moldy and discolored, lay spread across the threshold. This gave my usually confident footfalls a momentary pause, as if the refuse were collectively trying to forbid my entry.

Glancing behind me, I took in the entirety of the decrepit yard. It stared back at me with its vast and impersonal countenance. The once majestic iron gates had long since lost their imperiousness, and were now meaningless and rusted wrecks. The formerly robust and thriving landscape had become a handful of barren and twisted trees, dotted here and there with clumps of yellowed and dried grasses. Everything within view, it seemed, had some time ago given up the will to live.

Turning back towards the edifice before me, I found this observation included the mansion as well. Its bricks were faded and sickly, its windows either cracked or shattered, and its open doorframe exposed its naked interior to the world. Where once was a bold and impervious front, only a desolate and barren shell, an ancient illusion, remained.

Emboldened, I dared a single step inside, finding the atmosphere to be infinitely darker and colder than outside conditions warranted. For the next few seconds, I gauged nothing save for the dusty floor and the blotched walls, but this too proved only an illusion.

Like a creeping rot, the Evil began to stir within the foundation of the structure. It emanated from the walls like a toxic cloud, reaching out towards my body as if it were a pet yearning for its master. I knew full well which of us would be serving the other.

Nevertheless, I allowed the Evil to reach out and grasp me. It swirled crazily about my form as if it were a pack of dogs gripped by bloodlust, ready to confuse me with its deceptions, to tantalize me with its readily available carnal temptations, and ultimately, to corrupt me with its promises of power and grandeur. And I, after a multitude of dejections and failures, was all too eager to give audience to its hollow and meaningless diatribe. Too eager to participate in the mansion’s wicked schemes.

A single female hand, tinged a deep and clammy blue, formed from within the malicious mist. With sharp red fingernails, the hand hovered to me, anxiously reaching out to caress my chest. The cold fingers next ran down the length of my arm, snaring my own hand and drawing me, ever so gently, further into the merciless clutches and inner workings of the residence.

Although I realized this to be nothing less than a demon’s handshake, I found myself unable, even unwilling, to resist. For I had been away for quite some time, and wasn’t this my home, my true home, that I was now standing in?

The Devil came to visit me last night, rapping loudly at the front door as if trying to evade some pursuant mob of rabid Jehovah’s Witnesses. I stared at him through the peephole, my observant eyes catching his wary glances to the side, his immaculate slicked-back hair and his neatly trimmed black goatee. Then, his penetrating gaze stared back, and I knew he could see right through the door, right into the depths of my very soul, and since I wasn’t doing anything anyway, I went ahead and slid the deadbolt open.

We had our customary handful of King’s Ale, but it wasn’t until we were a good two hours at the PlayStation that he finally opened up and told me what was on his mind. Mr. Thomas, from across the street, was going to kick the bucket soon, and in a most spectacular fashion, Lucifer intimated. The middle-aged man seemed to me to be in perfect health, I countered, having witnessed him taking hour-long jogs every other morning. The Devil sat pensive a few moments, quietly irritated at my interruption, before he informed me that the impending demise was not to be of natural causes. The problem, he continued, was that he could not decide whom to enlist on his murderous task.

Together, we went through his short list of candidates, crossing each name off due to their various shortcomings; some were too naïve to get away with such a despicable act, or too complicated to be coerced quickly, or out of town for the next few days. When the Devil scratched a line through the final person, he casually leaned forward on the sofa, placing his elbows on his knees, and eyeing me anxiously.

Once the idea had crept past my alcoholic stupor, I could see what he was getting at, and since I wasn’t doing much at the time anyway, I said sure, I’d do it. The Devil smiled and told me that he knew I would, and just before he left he told me he owed me one.

I closed the door behind him, wondering what I would ask him for the next time I saw him. I still had enough money to last me quite a while, plus I had the new stereo system sitting in the living room, and that tricked-out Jet Ski in the garage. I’d have to think of something pretty soon, I figured, since the Devil was always dropping by and asking me for favors. And let me tell you, that guy was not one to be kept waiting.

The unyielding noise of the rowdy bar made Anna stagger backwards, head throbbing, skirt caught on the stool she had been perched on. A hand brushed against her shoulder but she jerked away, the intended comfort and pity burning her insides.

“You okay?” the man asked.

Anna shook her head and pointed to the small alcove at the end of the bar. “Bathroom,” she muttered, having learned from past evenings that the statement would keep most people in their seat. This was a ritual that, on average, she engaged in nearly three times a week. It wasn’t intentional. She didn’t start out wanting to be inebriated beyond recognition. But Death clung to her like a shadow, weighing her down until she could no longer escape the dark corners of her mind. This place, with its classic rock and cheap booze, provided a refuge, a moment’s peace where she couldn’t remember why she was so angry.

Moving through the crowd she felt the liquor swirl within her stomach. The hall smelled of urine and cheap cigarettes. Anna pressed her body into the back exit door, shoved it aside and stumbled over the beer can that served as a makeshift doorstop. Two men on folding chairs stared back at her in surprise. For a split second she hesitated. Then Anna gave a half smile when she spotted the silver flask perched on the lid of a trash can. Suddenly, it was in her hand. She took one deep swig and then another, the liquor searing her insides as she drank.

“Whoa there, honey,” the oversized biker said. “Slugs like that will kill ya.”

I’m counting on it, mister, a voice in her head whispered.

Anna tossed the half empty flask back at the man and continued walking. She had made the journey before; it wasn’t far. Tonight the alley was deserted and there was enough moonlight to see clearly in all directions. It was the perfect storm of sorts: Anna, preparing to outsmart fate, had planned it that way.

She continued walking, moving silently along the fencing until she came to the section of loose planks. Each one slid diagonally, creating a thin triangle that she could squeeze through if positioned just right. Once inside she crossed the gravel road and began walking up the grassy mound, to the tree by the dried-out creek bed. It was an odd thing, she pondered. A creek bed that was void of life, almost as if death refused to leave any aspect of nature untouched. Then without any warning or fanfare she reached her destination. It was a little anticlimactic, but that didn’t bother her. Instead Anna kicked off her shoes and sprawled out over the velvety damp grass.

I’m ready, she thought. Take me now.

As if he heard her silent command Anna felt a presence join her. She didn’t turn around. It didn’t matter how it happened. In fact, she paid good money not to know. She just wanted it to be over. She wanted to see him again.

Something latched onto her, yanking her backwards with a hunk of her ebony hair. Her whole body went rigid.

The knife was quick; it flicked across her neck, the mark of a skilled killer. She felt a piece of herself falling through the dirt, into the sealed grave below. When she settled, a decaying hand reached out to embrace her, welcome her. She clung to the dead man, her lover, and found peace.

My friends and I belong to a club that meets up every fortnight. None of us are sure how we joined or what the rules are exactly. That’s part of the fun. We just wait near a freeway on the outskirts of town and a black van comes to pick us up. We are blindfolded and gagged. I don’t know by whom or what. Once Dave thought he saw a mask, like the one the guy from Scream wears, but he couldn’t be sure.

We black out and wake up in a random location. No place is ever the same. Once it was an abandoned farm where all the people were dressed as farm animals, another time we were dumped in the desert.

The most fucked up time was when we woke up in a forest somewhere. It was winter and the trees were moustachioed with snow. No-one was about. We walked around in circles, getting lost. Everyone was starting to get delirious, imagining the moon was unravelling its skin, the trees were giant needles for us to be impaled on.

And that’s when I saw them. Half a dozen crow-like creatures. They were tall as people but had the heads of crows. I’m not sure where they came from or what they wanted; they just appeared.

I can’t remember what happened next. There is the taste of smoke in my mouth and my skin is charred. I don’t know what caused it.

Sometimes I see flashes of images when I sleep: surgeons, lots of surgeons. One reaches in and pulls out reams of black feathers. Fade. Lead-coloured sky, remains of a forest. Men with guns, lots of men with guns. Another fade. In a room, folding my wings back into my body. Letting my eyes grow, my mouth emerge.

I haven’t been to a club meeting in a while. I’m too afraid of what I’ll end up next.

I stand like a statue, motionless in the shower, facing away from the spray of water. The steady pulse is hitting my back, splashing off or sheeting down my body on its way toward the drain. It seems that the running water should somehow be important to me, but I don’t know why. I can’t focus. I’m not even sure how long I’ve been standing here like this. I should also realize that the water is no longer hot, but I don’t, at least not in a conscious way. Maybe on some level I do, I can’t tell.

I can hear a cricket somewhere in my bedroom. That seems unusual, and I know that I shouldn’t be able to hear it. I also shouldn’t hear the bass from the cars going by outside, but I do, quite plainly. I can even identify some of the songs that are playing. I’ve never heard cars go by while I was taking a shower before. I also hear the neighbor’s dog barking and the kids playing outside. I hear it all.

These sounds are making the other angry. He wants out, wants to take control, but I’m fighting him. He has a name, but I don’t use it. I never use it. I just refer to him as the other. Using his name would give him power, and he has enough of that already. He’s exerting his power now, trying to take over to become the one, which would then make me the other. I can’t allow that to happen.

He questions me; berates me. “Why did you turn your head? Why did you look up? Why did you turn to the left? What’s over there? Are you stupid? You must be stupid!”

That’s why I don’t move. By not moving, the other doesn’t have anything to harass me about. But he does anyway. He’s caged within. He slams into the barrier that I’ve created to hold him. It feels as it would if you were to throw your entire body against a door, trying to break it down. The barrier held… this time, but it felt like he nearly made it through.

I turn to adjust the water. “Why did you turn? Why did you raise your hand? Why don’t you just go back to doing nothing? It’s what you do best anyway!” I again remain motionless as I prepare for another attack. I must fight this. I must maintain control. I can’t let him win.

My neighbor’s phone rings. I hear it plainly. I feel him hit the barrier again. Children laugh. He hits again. Green Day is playing on the radio. He strikes again. He’s trying desperately to get out, but I continue to hold on. The barrier held. He withdraws, but I know that he hasn’t gone far. He’s waiting, waiting for the next opportunity. This time I remain motionless, not giving him a reason to begin the assault again.

A phone rings. This time it’s mine. I want to move. I want to answer the phone. I turn off the water. The other spews forth a relentless diatribe, but I persist. I get out of the shower and rub a towel quickly over my body, absorbing the majority of excess water. The phone is still ringing. I grab a robe and walk to the phone, ignoring the insistent and constant tirade of the other. If I can ignore him long enough, maybe I can usurp his power.

“Hello,” I say into the phone, picking it up after the umpteenth ring.

“Hi, Daddy! Why did it take you so long to answer the phone?”

“Hi, baby girl. I was just taking a shower…”

The end of the world as we knew it ended on October 13th, 2011. At first, the media declared, “This is just a virus outbreak that’s contained to a little community.” But with more and more media coverage, it was pretty apparent what had happened: Hell had released its demons upon an unexpecting and unprepared world.

The demons varied in shape and size. Some were large and red, while others were small and black. They all had haggard faces that bore an evil grin with massive yellow fangs that liked to slaughter and devour everyone that got in their way.

I, along with four other people, took shelter in Fort Knox. We’ve lived here for six months, and had been commutating with other survivors via ham radio. However, it’s been five months since we’ve heard another voice, and we’re starting to believe that we are the last people alive. Every so often, we venture out for supplies and to see how the demons are doing. They seem to be dying off, but they did spring a surprise attack on us. That’s when they got Harold. I tried to help him, and got scratched badly in the struggle, but the demons were too strong and pulled him from my grasp.

That was two days ago and Duncan, our self-appointed leader, says, “It’s up to us to repopulate the world, and kill off the demons. It’s our only hope.”

“Yeah,” Christy, a thirty year-old former beauty queen, chimed in. She’s had her baby-blue eyes on Duncan since we took refuge.

That leaves me with a big man named Tex. He’s called that because he’s about the size of Texas. Just the thought made me gag a little. But that’s when I realized that the sickness wasn’t from the notion of having Tex on top of me, but from the scratch. It was starting to fester and smell awful. I kept my mouth shut, though, because if the others knew I was changing into a demon they’d throw me out, and more than likely I would starve to death.

So, I sit and wait. I listen to them talk about hope, because as they said, “That’s all we have now, is hope.” I smile and leer at the three of them, as though they were a sixteen-ounce porterhouse with a loaded baked potato on the side. Mmm. The painful, rumbling growl in my stomach is growing, and I feel like I’m going mad with every fucking minute that fucking passes. I can tell that by nightfall, my transformation will be complete and poor Duncan, Christy and Tex will find out the sad fact that there is no such thing as hope.

He planned it every step of the way. He wandered around the zoo for three days methodically checking the layout and formulating an attack plan. Sure, it cost him a few dollars in admission charges but it was going to be worth every penny. Even so, since he only got five lousy bucks per week in allowance, he was glad that he had just turned eleven and thus still qualified for the kid’s rate.

One way or another he’d show those teachers and psychologists who were always on his back that he really could “focus” and see something through to the end. Who the heck did they think they were anyhow? Even his parents bought into the crap they were all selling. Jeez! He had been grounded for ten days after his last report card. And he hadn’t meant to hurt that little twerp next door; all he wanted to do was play with that new game she got for her birthday. Was it his fault that she wouldn’t share? He was tired of being picked on, of being blamed for everything. It seemed like nobody had any faith in him anymore.

He exited the zoo grounds, unchained his bike from the rack and peddled for home. It was Saturday and he knew his folks would be going out with their dweeby friends for the evening. He’d pretend not to be feeling well so he could go to bed early. He’d have no trouble sneaking out of the house past that stupid cow of a babysitter. All she did was eat, watch TV and talk on her phone with her friends … all about boys and stuff. She hardly paid any attention to him. Some day she’d get hers too. But that could wait. This was when it all started… tonight!

The streetlights had been on for a good two hours. He made his way stealthily down the back stairs and out the kitchen door. He was careful to tread lightly on the top step of the rear porch; it creaked like his father’s left knee when the old guy got up from the table after dinner. No that it mattered; inane dialogue from the TV in the family room and adolescent giggling covered whatever noise he made.

Ten minutes by bike to the southeastern side of the zoo. He knew just the spot; he had scoped it out earlier in the week. Wearing a padded backpack full of tools, it took him no more than sixty seconds to scale the wall and drop noiselessly like a big cat onto the other side. With clinical precision he began killing the smaller animals. He bludgeoned some and stabbed others. “What a night,” he exulted as he threw the dead, dying and dismembered carcasses into the saltwater crocodile enclosure. Enrapt by the carnage and the sounds of savage thrashing he had orchestrated, he was oblivious to a slight rustling in the bushes off to his left.

“What a night,” the head zookeeper thought as he raced back to work. Talking to his wife over dinner and a bottle of wine, he suddenly realized that he’d neglected to double-check the status of that damned computerized lock on the tiger cage. It had been giving him trouble all day. He’d gotten so busy at the end of the day that it just slipped his mind. He punched the accelerator and sped through the intersection on a stale yellow light. There’d be hell to pay–literally–if one of those big cats got loose!

Daybreak nears and I must quickly write my message. I cannot still my trembling hand, so please excuse the poor quality of writing.

Had the consequences not been so dire, I would have enjoyed the irony of virus 2022XS. Spring’s arrival, last year, was celebrated with the appearance of a massive iceberg off our coast. Its middle was sunken in a concave manner and the towering, corner spires glistened pale blue in the morning sun. Souvenir hunters drew close enough to chip off samples. The foolish jumped onto the monolith for photos, soon to be posted on social networking sites.

It did not take long for the virus to spread. People fell ill, died momentarily and returned as… something less than themselves. Many fled this island carrying the plague to the mainland. It was swiftly transported to Europe and Africa and…

Scientists theorized the XS virus was an ancient evil, hidden in the Arctic for millennia, now exposed through melting polar ice. Politicians speculated it was a brazen terrorist attack on western society. The fringe element considered it retribution from God or perhaps alien spores deposited to “thin the human blight.”

There are two distinct groups. The Alphas, who hunt living people, assemble on a small hill overlooking the city. As the sun rises from the Atlantic, they turn in unison into the breeze, attempting to pick up the scent of their prey. The second group, the Omegas, feed on rats, seagulls and other small animals. They will kill the humans they encounter, but do not eat their victims.

The slow-moving creatures hunt in large packs and the two groups have no association with one another. If they accidentally intersect, the melee can result in severe bites, gouged eyes and limbs torn from sockets. Despite the limited food supply, we have never understood why the beasts do not cannibalize one another.

The number of living swiftly declines, as does the number of our enemy; the war of attrition continues daily. Killing the dead is difficult as you must remove their arms and legs to stop their mobility. They will then simply starve to death. The wailing from the beasts can be too much to bear and it is often necessary to lop off their heads.

The human population must hide during the day while the beasts hunt; we forage at night while they rest. I live on the roof of a downtown office building. If you want to call it living. I have my sleeping bag, a rain barrel, a small potato garden and a solar panel to keep my Sawzall charged. I carry it always, to assist in the dismembering of the beasts.

At last reckoning we were 66 in number and have looted most of the businesses and homes in search of food. The Alpha group is now a legion; the Omegas have all but rid the city of vermin and domestic pets. We recently discovered, purely by accident, that if the creatures are subject to a small electric charge they are left stunned and immobile for a period of time. They are then easily dispatched to Hell.

I have learned to live with their oozing flesh and their crazed, bloody eyes. However, I can no longer look away as I kill them. I have grown tired of seeing the faces of cousins and brothers, of neighbours and lovers. I will seal my message of warning in an empty rum bottle and toss it into the dark Atlantic. God willing, it will be found and prove useful to someone along coastal America or beyond.

A sympathetic comrade has provided me with a fully fueled chainsaw. At daybreak, I will call the Alphas from the base of the hill. The monsters will shamble after me and I will meet them in battle, disabling as many as possible with my heavier weapon. When I am nearly overrun, I will dive into the ocean’s inviting waves for cleansing.

I will swim east to be free.

Sean Finch