MicroHorror

“I heard a dude got his head cut off on this ride,” my older brother, Bill, said.

“Naw,” his girlfriend, Tara, replied. “That happened at another park, not here.”

The line edged forward.

“How long have we been standing here?” I asked.

“‘Bout an hour,” Bill said and kissed Tara. She squealed and hugged the giant, stuffed dragon he’d won for her.

“Exactly an hour and twenty-eight minutes,” said an old dude behind me. He wore a T-shirt that read THRILL FREAK. “But it’s worth it. The Rocket Socket is the tallest and fastest roto-drop in North America. You fall at seventy-five miles per hour. Man, it’s a freakin’ killer ride.”

An attendant opened the gate, finally letting us past.

Tara pointed to the first pair of seats on one side of the triangle-shaped column. “Me and Bill will sit there. You don’t mind sitting alone on the other side, do ya, Troy?”

She bent over to place the toy dragon into a storage bin. Her shorts, already tight, edged higher. She stayed like that for a moment, her bottom swaying. I turned and climbed into my seat. When the attendant came by to check the shoulder belt, I had my hands crossed in my lap.

“Ya gotta close the lock, man, or…” He paused, noticing the bulge in my cutoffs. He made a face. “Freakin’ thrillies. Buncha sickos getcha rocks off on a stupid ride. Just make sure the lock is closed, ‘kay, dude?”

“Hey,” I called after him. “It ain’t like that. I ain’t no weird–”

Oh! The sudden g-forces shoved me into the hard plastic seat as the ride shot into the air. The skin on my face pulled taut, my teeth went numb. I gripped the padded bar across my lap as the shoulder straps cut into my chest.

The ride jarred to a halt near the top. Blood thrummed in my ears as we hung suspended in midair. My breath came in short, erratic bursts; I thought I might puke. Then, I noticed a hand gripping my bare leg.

Hadn’t I been sitting alone?

I turned my head to stare at the girl beside me. She might have been pretty once, with rosy cheeks and long blond hair. Now, her eyes bulged from their sockets, her black tongue protruded past blue lips. But that wasn’t the weirdest part. I realized that I could see the stars shining through her translucent skin.

She screamed as the brakes released and we plummeted with bone-melting speed. I watched as the V of her shoulder belts sliced through her neck.

The ride came to a stop again, before rocketing back up. Enough time for her head to topple from her shoulders and land in my lap.

She never stopped screaming. The head rolled like a basketball on my legs until she stared up at me. Foam coated her lips; tears streamed out of her eyes in muddy rivers of mascara.

I kicked my legs and strained against the padded bar, desperate to get her off me.

The head left my lap at almost the same time as the lock opened. The ride descended, reaching its full speed. I tumbled out and smacked into the pavement–just seconds before the seats stopped on the platform.

“I heard a dude was decapitated on this ride,” called a voice.

Not a dude, I want to correct him. A chick, man, a chick.

“No way, that’s just an urban legend,” replied someone else before Tara started screaming my name.

When I was a child I broke my legs, and now my skeleton hates me.

I’m all healed up and the years have gone by, but it doesn’t matter: skeletons don’t forgive.

I have a recurring dream where my skeleton dances with me. We quickstep and waltz, everything is pleasant, until my wife cuts in. My skeleton watches us, and I feel his jealousy and hate. He covets our flesh. He cuts in, then takes my wife from me, twirling her around the dance floor. She laughs and cries out in pleasure, but the dance ends with his hands around her throat.

The dreams are warnings.

I look at my hand sometimes, and find it has curled into a fist. I stare at my wife, and see in her panic that I have been shouting.

Her bruises don’t get a chance to fade.

It isn’t me, it’s the skeleton, but no one listens.

I tell doctors, but they don’t know what to say. They dispatch me to various specialists who give me stupid prescriptions I tear up.

I forgot about my broken legs for years, blocked it out. It was only recently that I began to understand. It was when Judy left me. When she took the kids.

She knew there was a monster inside me. It hit her, not me.

Not me.

That was when I knew for sure. Not me, something inside of me, but what? And then I remembered.

My skeleton. My broken legs.

My grandfather had told me, on one of those nights in the ward. I was ten, my legs were in plaster. Everything was so sterile and cold. He told me stories to keep me from crying. Once, with a smile on his face, he told me how angry my skeleton was with me.

At the time I had thought he was making a little joke. As you do.

But it was a warning. Like the dreams that would one day come, a warning that skeletons don’t forget.

Now I don’t know what to do. I pace the house. I forget to eat. I can’t shave, I daren’t pick up a knife. It wants to do away with me.

How do you escape your skeleton?

My wife calls me one night. I try to tell her how much I miss her, her warmth, her smile. I want to tell her I forgive her for seeing Jim behind my back… (I could have gone crazy but didn’t)… instead I find myself shouting, it is the skeleton again, my hating, vengeful, skeleton.

Later, sitting naked in the bathtub, rocking back and forth, I whisper apologies for cracked bones through cracked lips.

I’m tired, but I can’t sleep. Skeletons make you sleepwalk. It’s when they get you.

I hate it, now, as much as it hates me.

Why can’t it forgive? What’s wrong with it? It was so long ago.

The end, when it comes to me, seems quite obvious.

On a cold, black, night, after the birds fall silent, and the roads clear of traffic, I drive to the tallest building I know. I take the stairs to the roof, force the door, and emerge to the scene of my own revenge.

I will break more than legs. Punish what’s inside. Save Judy.

I remember, when in hospital, I had a complete X-ray done. Though I was a child, I vividly recall the leering skull, the splintered bones.

You could feel the animosity.

Standing on the roof, I hold my hand up to the moon and stare. I can almost see the bone beneath. How it would like to claw at me, shred me from its frame. I hear laughter, and realize it is my own. Soon the skeleton will be broken again, and there’s nothing it can do

The moon bathes me, it is my second, final, X-ray. For one last moment I am whole.

And then I jump.

And what is not already broken, breaks.

The bell chimes, announcing death
Calling one and all as witness
To behold a strangled neck
Marked as an example
For none to follow as lead
Lest they welcome death
With open arms, and bitterness
On their tongues and on their minds
 
Children run through the streets
In a race against their excitement
Squeezing through an anxious audience
Shoving their way up front
For their first, unhampered view
Of the freshly dead as its
Puppet-like dance nears an end
 
The rope, straining with deadweight,
Barely glides back and forth now,
Reminding some of a ticking clock
Winding down and out of time
 
Faces in the crowd reflect hatred
Shock rounds others’ eyes
Cheers ride the group in waves
Awe sits on children’s visages
As they lick their penny candy
And enjoy the larger-than-life show,
Which introduces
Their innocent souls to death,
And label it as commonplace
 
Beneath his dark cloak,
Death winks at the children one by one
And motions for each to take his hand
Shyly, they each decline and run
Back to their mothers’ skirts
Where safety clings to their bones
And where they peep from around
The folds of material to confirm
That they imagined the strange,
Dark man, whose hand is outstretched,
With invisible offerings

The children sigh as one–
A gesture which defies their years
And gives away their fears
As they realize their mothers’ skirts
Hold no safety from Death
He will have his way… one day…
He shall have his say

Jennifer crouched behind a large tombstone and hugged it like it was some enormous teddy bear. She gripped her paintball rifle tightly and slowly peeked around the corner of the tombstone. It was a moonlit night, but she still couldn’t spot Matt.

The paintball battle had carried Jennifer and Matt from the Hampshire Woods into the Elmsgrove Cemetery. The Cemetery was strictly off-limits to any game playing. Mr. Henderson, the caretaker, made sure of that. But here she was… fighting the best paintball player in town in the creepy Elmsgrove Cemetery.

Two paintballs whizzed by Jennifer’s right ear, just missing her. Time to move. Jennifer glanced around and spotted a sinister-looking moss-covered crypt not far to her right. She stood up and sprinted for the crypt. She arrived winded, but unscathed. The game was still on.

Jennifer leaned against the cool wall of the crypt and tried to catch her breath. Where was Matt? She waited. She listened. Gathering her courage she looked around the corner and scanned the graveyard. No Matt, but she did have a better idea of where he might be after that close call back at the tombstone. Her breath was still rapid and her protective goggles were beginning to fog up.

“Hi.”

Jennifer’s heart leapt into her throat as she spun around. Immediately a shovel smashed into her head and her face became an instant mass of searing pain. For a moment she saw stars, then blackness as she crumpled to the ground.

Jennifer woke up in excruciating pain. She was on her back with her hands bound behind her. Her mouth had been duct taped. She was extremely thirsty and knew the sticky wetness she felt on her face was blood.

Through blurred vision Jennifer saw that she was on a dirt floor. The room was lit by a single light bulb dangling from the ceiling. She thought she could hear muffled sounds coming from the ceiling above her, but her ears were buzzing and her head was so foggy she couldn’t be sure what the sounds were.

Jennifer’s mind slowly floated back to consciousness and now she was sure that she could hear heavy footsteps getting closer…

Closer…

Closer…

Jennifer looked up and her eyes grew wide with terror. Above her stood Mr. Henderson, leering down at her with his unnaturally pale, moonlike face. But that wasn’t why she was so terrified. It was what he held in his hands that caused her to shake violently with fear. In a clear bloody plastic garbage bag was Matt–chopped and bagged.

Jennifer screamed, but the duct tape muffled her scream to a murmur. Henderson frowned and dropped the bag of Matt next to her head. She desperately tried to squirm away from the gruesome sight, but Mr. Henderson’s boot pressed onto her chest. She couldn’t move.

He bent down close to Jennifer’s face. She could feel his breath against her ear. “Time for the game to end,” he whispered. Her eyes were as huge as saucers now. “You can’t play in the garden of the dead and desecrate their eternal resting place with a silly game.” He pressed down harder on her chest. “Your friend has already joined the souls of this sacred place and now it’s your turn, honey.”

Henderson reached into his back pocket and pulled out a clear plastic garbage bag and let it drop to the floor. Jennifer tried to wiggle away and began to sob uncontrollably. Through her blurry, tear-filled eyes she could just make out Mr. Henderson turning away from her. Then Jennifer heard a chainsaw roar to life.

She felt the cold kiss of the corpse on the back of her neck and froze, as she slowly opened her eyes in the early hours of the midwinter morning. She felt his arm move around her waist, reaching for her as he’d done so many times in his life before she killed him. She barely had time to scream, trying to pull away as he forced his kiss upon her lips, leaving maggots and dead flesh behind as his lips moved over her body. She lay stiller than she had when they were married, seeing the glistening wound in his skull where she’d caved his head in. Her screams would go unheard as the husband she’d murdered slowly began to rip her organs from her body, the taste of revenge almost as sweet to him as her entrails, as he tore her heart from her chest, his dead, stiff shaft entering her slowly, and when he was done he collapsed next to her, and they rotted together for eternity.

It was a clear morning, with a perfect view of the sun hanging from the clouds above. And below that crystal blue sky sat the ruined city of Anchorage, dark puffs rising right into the mocking atmosphere. Eroded and sullied, the caved-in buildings and houses did nothing for the town’s character, but neither did the dawdling new inhabitants.

No, the zombies only pushed Anchorage off of the map, and anyone who tried to interfere was terminated. But now, after only a few years, the memory of the town has been forgotten along with the outbreak. It just sits there, wearing away, while the undead wander around aimlessly.

In Anchorage, there’s no one left to admire the sky.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Eric yelled, rushing up the fire escape. Glancing down fearfully, he saw the horde of zombies following close below. His heart beat heavy as he continued upwards, trying to ignore the sound of their cries. When he finally made it to the open window on the thirteenth floor of the Woodward apartment building, he hurried inside, slamming the window shut. Pulling the drapes, he ran out of the bedroom, out of apartment 13A, and into the hall. He passed by apartment 13B, 13C, 13D, and stopped in front of 13E. Knocking harshly on the peeling wood, he waited impatiently as he turned to look down the empty hall, the sound of the zombies smashing at the window of 13A vibrated towards him. The seconds ticked by slowly as he stared at the peephole of 13E. Eyes going wide with frustration and terror, he pounded on the door more fiercely.

“Luke! Let me in! Hurry!” Eric watched with relief as the door started to creep open, but it stopped short as the chain prevented the room from further exposure. Luke peered a lone eye out at him, then past him, down the hallway.

“I’m sorry, Eric. I can’t let you in,” he told him calmly.

“What?” Eric breathed heavily, eyes flickering down the hall again, towards 13A where the sound was growing louder. “Why not?”

“You know the group’s rule about individual expeditions out into the city. You disobeyed, so now you must pay the price.”

“Jesus, Luke! I’m going to die out here!”

“You brought them here, so it’s not my problem.” Luke replied stonily.

Eric closed his eyes briefly as his heart hammered against his chest. “I’m sorry, okay? But you know how important that picture was to me. I had to get it. It’s all I have left of Janine.”

Luke’s cold gaze didn’t falter as he said, “Well, I hope it’s more important to you than your life.”

Narrowing his eyes at him, Eric muttered, “Bastard. How can you do this to me?”
Looking behind him quickly, Luke returned to stare at his best friend as he said, “I can’t let you in, we have to follow the rules… but, here.” Tossing a gun at Eric’s feet, Luke added, “It’s got a full round of bullets. Use them wisely.” Then he shut the door, leaving Eric all alone in the deserted hall. Picking the gun up from the floor, he heard the stampede of feet from behind him. Giving 13E one last look, he aimed at the doorknob and fired, kicking the splintered door open as he hurried down the hallway, disregarding the loud gunshots and Luke’s cries as the zombies tore him limb from limb.

I was sound asleep when I heard it. The loud cry that startled me from my dreams. Lifting my head from the pillow, I stared at the open bedroom door, down the dark hall where the crying was emitting from. Looking over at my wife, who seemed to be in such a deep state of dream that the sound did not wake her, I slid out of bed. The crying softened as I neared the last room on the left: the baby’s room. The large white crib shook as soon as I entered, then I heard a soft giggle vibrate along the yellow walls. My precious daughter. My pride and joy. Smiling as I wandered towards her, I lifted her up from her wooden prison. “Hello, my love,” I whispered as I kissed the top of her head. She was so gorgeous, an angel from heaven.

“Kevin, what are you doing?”

My wife’s voice diverted my attention. Peering over at her, I replied, “I’m just holding our daughter.”

“Kevin…” She sounded frightened as she took a slow step towards me, reaching an arm out. I let her place it on my shoulder as she frowned down at my cradled arms. “Come back to bed with me. You’re tired.”

I gave her a strange look before glancing back at the baby. Terror filled my heart as I noticed she was gone. She had vanished from my gentle embrace.

“Where is she?” I asked my wife shrilly, looking down into the empty crib. My eyes surveyed the entire room but the baby was nowhere to be found. “Where is my baby?” I cried hopelessly, feeling my wife’s hold on my arm tighten.

“Come on, Kevin…” She tugged me but I wouldn’t budge.

“Tell me where she is!” I yelled at her.

Her face heated as she took her hand off of me. “Stop this right now.”

I glared at her. “Where did she go, Sheryl? You better tell me.”

Sheryl remained quiet as she stared at the beige carpeting, a small baby toy lying at her feet. She picked it up slowly, staring at it with a fixed expression of sadness. “The baby is gone, Kevin. You know that. You were there when she… when she died.” She finished shakily.

Confused and doubt filled my mind as I glanced at the toy. My little girl is dead? No, she couldn’t be. She was just born. How could she already be dead?

“You’re a liar,” I said into the still night.

My wife’s brows rose as she stared at me. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re exhausted.”

“No,” I spat, grabbing her hand tightly. “I’m wide awake.”

“Kevin, you’re hurting me.” She moaned as she tried to pull her hand away, but I held on tighter. “Kevin!” She yelled loudly, terror creeping into her voice.

“Are you scared, Sheryl?” I asked her.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“Because,” I said angrily, forcing her onto the floor. “You’re hiding her from me! I want to know why!”

“Kevin, please!” She cried. She was trembling now as I twisted her arm behind her back. I watched the flow of tears stream down her face as she looked up at me with those beautiful blue eyes, the same blue eyes our daughter inherited.

Picking up the small child-sized rocking chair that sat next to the crib, I asked her one last time. “Where is she, Sheryl?”

Her eyes went wide as she stared at me, then at the pink chair that was raised above her head. As her face wrinkled up with grief, she murmured sadly, “She’s dead.”

“Wrong answer,” I told her as I brought the chair swift against her skull. Her head split from impact, and as the blood trickled down her face, I heard my daughter laugh one last time.

We moved to this small coastal city three weeks ago. It’s hard adjusting from the busy city life to a life in a coastal community where their major revenue comes from tourism. Even harder going to a high school whose football games were the main entertainment on a Friday night and going to the beach was the way students cut class. Though a sunny day is best wasted at the beach rather than class, I don’t see why the beach is something that people need to cut school to do. I can’t see what the big deal is about the beach. One day in passing, I heard a neighbor talking about a great view that always kept her amazed. It was a hidden little cove down the street. Listening carefully I heard her softly give the directions to this magical place, maybe then I would finally understand why the beach is such a big deal around here. The woman described the path: you have to jump the fence that was recently put up to “restore the wildlife” and continue down the grass hidden path to the eucalyptus grove. After ducking and climbing over a few tree limbs you’ll come out to an alcove with a bent tree branch that is perfect for sitting; the branch is just far enough away from the edge of the cliff for safety and privacy, but close enough that you can see the water and shore. The eucalyptus leaves on the ground, crushed by your shoes, mix with the sea air and create a one-of-a-kind scent that relaxes you and makes you fall in love with the beach.

At least that’s how the woman described it. I now sit in this cove. I jumped the fence, though there was no “restore the wildlife” sign, only a rusted plaque that was bolted to the rusted fence. I climbed over and ducked under dead tree limbs that must have fallen during a storm many years ago. I found the branch that was supposed to be perfect for sitting, so close to the edge of the cliff that you could see what fate awaited you if you took a wrong step. The dead and rotting eucalyptus leaves did crush beneath my feet and mix with the sea air, but it didn’t create a scent that made me fall in love with the beach. As I sit here, in this cove, the breeze rustles the leaves behind me, I hear a twig snap next to me, and I realize that the dead and grotesque branch that I am sitting on is away from the edge just enough that people cannot see me from the beach and the waves are crashing loudly on the shore, so loudly that no one could hear me scream.

“After I began high school, I joined the junior varsity football team like any boy who loves sports would. At the time, I just wanted to join my friends. And my friends wanted me to join them. They would have killed to protect me. No days in my life filled me with happiness like those.” Ruefully, he said, “Why does time always vanish as quickly as the midday dew?” Wilt held his chin on his heavily lined hand, with his bloodshot eyes lost in remembrance. He sat inside his room in the retirement home that had housed him for thirteen years. By his side, Melinda leaned back, trying to recall when she entered high school. Nightly, he brought the years back, like a robot programmed with one purpose alone. “My father hated the sport, unusual for a father, I think, but my mom would wash and iron my uniform before practice. She took scuffs off my shoes with the polish kept for her leather shoes.”

Wilt closed his eyes tightly, and brushed his hand through his thin hair like the action brought physical pain to his body. Almost every action brought pain to the body of Melinda, but people her age rarely complain. While her friend talked onward, his voice trailed like a fire about to extinguish. After thirty minutes, he slumped his head like it weighed fifty pounds. With intense effort, Melinda held her wood cane, a birthday present from her friend, and pulled her body to her feet. When she turned to walk to her room, with Wilt asleep, she looked back happily. She smiled until she noticed her friend didn’t sit normally, but slumped awkwardly, with his bones about to break. When she put her fingers on his neck, a formality with the elderly, she realized if the bones did break, they wouldn’t bother Wilt. After ninety-six years, Wilt had joined the friends of yesteryear, wherever they were.

After the nurse of the home wheeled Wilt into the hallway for transport to the hospital, Melinda sat in her room across the hall with the television tuned to some national talk show. She wanted to watch television throughout the night, like only teenagers do. When the sun shone brightly through the window, she would welcome the day lonely and empty; after all, she would join her friend no more. She hadn’t witnessed a sunrise in many years; she wanted to look upon the cloudy sky and marvel at the yellow dawn. It would take just five hours.

After fifteen lively minutes of the show, she heard a knock at her door. With everybody asleep, she expected to look at the nurse, who probably came back to question Melinda. Probably the black-haired nurse, who looked youthful and lovely in ways Melinda resented, wished to inquire about a burial for Wilt. After all, Melinda qualified as family to the elderly male because he had nobody else. Wilt had married but had produced no children; his wife had passed away twenty years before. Initially, the landlord had informed her that nobody would disturb her after dinnertime. Intrigued, she looked through the peephole after she lumbered her body onto her wooden stick and walked toward the door. Nobody waited in the hallway.

With another look, she saw a person below the view. The boy stood about five feet in height by the funhouse-mirror quality brought by the hole, and appeared to wear an unusual costume. Holding a helmet, he wore red and blue stripes and white pants that stopped at the knees. Vaguely, he looked familiar, and Melinda snapped her fingers. Naturally, the nurse buzzer wouldn’t help. Melinda alone would likely see the boy. Unquestionably, the uniform had been washed. And Melinda knew instinctively that his mom had ironed it before he arrived.