MicroHorror

2084

“Kill the traitor!” the Chief, a seven-foot monolith, commanded.

“Sampson can’t be the mole,” the albino midget protested. “He’s been my partner for fifteen years. Always has my back. Saved my life once. And when we spend down time together, he always reveals a passionate love for our country. He’s a great patriot, Chief.”

“You’re myopic, little man. From where I stand, I’ve got a clear view. And what I see confirms my suspicions. So kill him, Bronson. Or there will be consequences.”

“Consequences?”

“Yes.”

And the Chief sauntered off, leaving the little man alone in the catacombs where all assignments were given.

***

Like Bronson, Sampson was a senior agent. He was also the Chief of Psychiatry at the Institute of Trust. A mole had penetrated the Agency. He and Bronson had searched for the traitor for the past three weeks to no avail. Now, the shrink was the primary suspect. Of course, he did not know that he was a suspect or that he had already been found guilty and sentenced to death.In order to survive, Bronson had to kill Sampson although he knew his partner was innocent. If he did not obey the Chief, someone else would kill Sampson and come for him too.

***

Deputy Chief Johnson limped into the Chief’s luxurious office, as vast as a grand ballroom, on the 200th floor of the Trust Foundation building. The walls were snow-white and lined with flowing red and blue bookcases.“Come in, George.”

“Yes, Chief,” the ghostly, emaciated cripple, who stood only 5-feet-4-inches tall, muttered.

“Please, George. Don’t be obsequious! Call me Guy. At least when we’re alone.”

Johnson nodded in agreement but remained silent.

“Relax, George. You did well. Got me the information I needed. I’ve ordered Bronson to obliterate Sampson. I do believe he’s our mole and… an alien too. Can’t trust those psychobabble freaks.”

Johnson grew a fat smile. Then he added: “He’s our primary suspect, Guy. Yet agents Wright, Brothers, and Biggs are not beyond suspicion. And don’t forget our loathsome cockroach Bronson.”

“I see.”

“Well, what shall we do?”

“You will get rid of them, George. Clean house before there’s a full-fledged alien invasion.”

And Guy Orwell turned his back on Johnson, a signal to the Deputy Chief that he had been dismissed. Johnson hobbled off.

***

After midnight, the alien slithered into the catacombs, removed its mask, and shrieked relentlessly into the dark void. Soon It would rule with absolute power.

***

The Institute of Trust was the entire sixth floor of the Trust Foundation building. Sampson’s office was located in Room 66, a labyrinthine universe of dark secrets.Bronson rang the bell and the romantic receptionist buzzed him in. Wearing a gold jacket that hid his .38, the midget entered Room 66, and smiled wickedly at Barbara Orwell, the Chief’s daughter.

“Dick’s waiting for you,” she said dreamily.

Bronson nodded and sauntered off through the meandrous maze. Clutching his .38, he knocked on Sampson’s door.

“Come in, Charlie.”

Bronson entered, pointing his .38 at his partner.

Sampson rose. He pointed his .44 Magnum at the little man. “Got an anonymous note warning me about you. Thought it was phony until you pointed that thing at me. Goodbye, Charlie!”

And the two men opened fire, killing each other. The Chief watched from his office, having planted three cameras in Sampson’s office.

***

Wearing a human mask, the alien entered the mammoth office.“Come in. All’s well. Our suspects are killing each other. An anonymous note has been floating around. Everyone’s paranoid. How sweet.”

“My idea.”

“Well done. But Barbara’s upset about Sampson’s death. Thought she was in love. Well, she’ll get over it.”

“Don’t worry. I killed her!”

“What?”

Slowly, he removed his mask and revealed his grotesque face and gargantuan alien body. And the monster, a.k.a. George Johnson, slithered toward the Chief, shrieking relentlessly, as It watched the Chief’s bulging eyes and trembling, flailing body. Soon, it would swallow and devour the dumb creature alive.

• Copyright: © 2009 Mel Waldman

“This happens to all girls,” Mom said, but I think she’s just trying to make me feel better. You wouldn’t know it by looking at the red stains that covered my hands and flower dress, but I looked pretty before I came outside. I looked pretty before the bloody mess. I can see my reflection in the window, and I miss the way I looked before this happened.

Mom draped her arm around my shoulders and kissed me on the top of my head. Her lavender perfume smells like something I might like to wear someday. I never used to pay much attention to it; it was just Mom’s smell. But at this moment, in this situation, the strong lavender smell is invited.

“We’re going to have to scrub the stains off the driveway before Dad gets home. We don’t want to make him wonder, now, do we?” Mom smiled at me. Her teeth were so white, so straight, and so pretty. I hope mine look like that someday. She has a curvy body, too. Her dress is like mine, but she looks so much better in it.

“Here, baby. Clean your hands and legs off. It looks like you got a little on your face, too.” She handed me the towel that usually hangs near the stove. It has kittens and puppies on it. I would have preferred the tan one with the sunflowers, though. Oh, well. She walked behind the house and when she came back, she handed me the shovel. I’ve never touched it, but I’ve seen her use it before, when Daddy wasn’t home.

“Does this ever happen to you, Mommy?”

“Of course, doll. It usually happens towards the end of the month. But there’s no reason we can’t share it together. How does tonight sound?” Mom asked. She looked proud of me. And as I stood here, barefoot and bloody, I was proud of myself, too.

“Now, go out back and bury Scruffy and Cottontail. You’ve graduated to hookers and transients.”

• Copyright: © 2009 J.M. Rit

Four men walked up a path that was so weed-bestrewn that it hardly existed any more. They were approaching a terrible old house about which it was rumored that no one could enter and then return from it live and sane. They were determined to prove these rumors false. They were occult investigators from New York. They would be the first men in fifty years to enter the house.

As they walked up the steps they noticed that, sitting on the landing above them, there was an enormous marble gargoyle. It had great veined wings raised above it, meeting on top of the head. Its face was completely flat and blank, as smooth and white as a fragment of eggshell. Apparently all of its features had been worn away by age and the wind. It must have rested there since the house was abandoned, for there was a thick coating of vines and moss on it which had grown into cracks in some areas. It was four feet tall when squatting on the ground, and would have been taller than a man if it stood upright.

The four men gravely examined it for a while, then opened the decrepit door and strode into the house. They found themselves in a large hallway with a dust-obscured mural on the wall. There were two doors leading further into the house; they chose the left-hand one.

Outside there was silence, save for the wind. Everything was still for four or five minutes. Then the gargoyle abruptly stood up. Vines snapped. It walked bat-like on its wings into the house. It closed and locked the door.

• Copyright: © 2009 Cyrus Wolff

“Hello, right wrist. How are you today?” Jeff asked.

“Excuse me? No, I don’t like razor blades and I wish you would stop asking for one.
You look nice the way you are. Smooth tanned skin. You’re in pain? From what?”

Jeff rolled his eyes. “Oh, life again.”

His right wrist began to shake.

“Now, stop that, I don’t like it when you get angry.”

“Yes, I know the blades are in the medicine cabinet and that’s where they’re gonna stay.”

Later, Jeff awoke from his nap and found his bed sheets damp with blood.

He quickly looked over at his right wrist. “What have you done?”

He noticed the box of razor blades next to him.

“How did you get into these? Shame on you! I told you no. How many times must I tell you? Now look at what you’ve done. The bed is a mess.”

He grabbed an old towel from the bathroom and put pressure on his right wrist.

“You just don’t understand the word ‘no,’ do you?”

Jeff walked over to the medicine cabinet and pulled out a roll of gauze.

He began to wrap the gauze around the right wrist several times.

“Do you see all the work you’re making me do here?”

Jeff exhaled a loud breath.

“This is the third time this month. Why do you like to upset me like this? No, I don’t want to talk to you right now. You’re just going to lie here and be quiet.”

A moment of silence went by.

“No,” Jeff said again as he looked over at his right wrist. “I told you not to talk to me right now. What? That’s not you?” He laughed. “Who else could it be?”

He slowly glanced over at his left wrist.

“It can’t be him. He has never talked to me before, only you.”

“What does he want?” he whispered to his right wrist.

“A razor blade? Why is it always razor blades? Can’t it be something nice like watches and bracelets?”

“He’s in pain too, huh? What is it with you two? You’re never happy; I don’t like you being unhappy. What can I do to make you both happy for once?”

***As Jeff lay in his bed, slowly slipping into darkness, he looked up at the ceiling and sighed a heavy sigh.

“Well, I hope you’re both happy now.”

• Copyright: © 2009 Lorella Mascot

Constable Ballou was sitting behind his desk smoking a long, black cigarillo when the commotion in the streets compelled him to move. He saw the citizenry standing statuesque in the streets as they watched the curious pair that walked toward the station. It was Deputy Cat escorting another man who was bound about the wrists with chains. Ballou stepped out to greet them as they shuffled up.

“Sheriff ain’t here,” Ballou said. He looked at the prisoner. He stood hunched and inert, his body draped with a knee-length overcoat with the hood pulled over his head. Ballou looked, but the man’s face was shadow-draped.

“I know,” Cat said. He pointed at the building. “You go on ahead and have yerself a seat right in there.” The prisoner said nothing. He trudged past Ballou like a doped elephant. As he passed, Ballou caught a whiff of the stench emanating from the prisoner–a mix of sweat, urine, and dirt. Ballou pinched his nose. He watched the prisoner go, and then he turned to the deputy. Cat was scratching his head with his face defined with confusion like an ape.

“What’s this all about?” Ballou said.

Cat shrugged. “Don’t know, but that feller says he’s done killed a buncha folks up in Clarkson. He swears by it.”

Ballou raised an eyebrow. “Killed some folks up in Clarkson? How many?”

Cat looked up, his face awash in something resembling incredulity, like a man struggling to accept the sight of something before unknown and altogether fantastical. “All of ’em,” he said. Constable Ballou said nothing. He turned and went inside.

The stranger was sitting at the sheriff’s desk, and Ballou sat across from him. They sat in silence for several moments, Ballou watching the stranger as the stranger watched the floor. The man rocked in his seat, wobbling like a drunk at sea.

“Cat says you done killed some folks,” Ballou said. “Up in Clarkson. That true?”

The stranger cocked his head slightly, and Ballou found himself looking down caved and blackened sockets, the stranger’s eyes tiny and obsidian like a rat’s.

“That’s right,” the stranger said. His voice was raspy, as if his throat was devoid of any manner of fluid. The voice of a desert wanderer. The stranger coughed, the sound phlegm-laden.

“Who’d you kill?”

“All of ’em. They all dead.”

Ballou rubbed his temples and shook his head. “There’s six hundred folks up in Clarkson. You tellin’ me you managed to kill all of ’em?”

“That’s what I’m tellin’ ya.”

“There’s some healthy fellers up in them parts. Just how is it you managed to kill all them folks, but you yerself walked out alive?”

The stranger grinned wearily. “They don’t know I done it.”

“You understand what yer sayin’, don’t ya? Yer confessin’ to the murder of a whole town, fella. You’d swear an oath to that claim?”

“I will.” He was nodding, still smirking slightly.

The sheriff leaned back in his chair and tilted his hat back. “So if I was to ride down to Clarkson, I’d find ’em dead. That right?”

“Dead as hammers. Every goddamned one of ’em.” The stranger coughed raggedly again. He was no longer smiling.

The sheriff paused. He leaned closer to the stranger, the better to see his shadowed face. He said, “Take that hood off. Let me get a look at ya. So yer tellin’ me here today, in front of The Almighty hisself, that you’re the murderer of six hundred souls?”

The stranger lifted his head and pulled back his hood. His face was pale, dripping with sweat, and his eyes were sunk back so far into their sockets as to be nearly invisible. The veins protruded from his face, and across the whole of it, pulpy, purple boils pulsed with each heartbeat as if they themselves were living things. The stranger leaned forward and coughed in Ballou’s face. He grinned again.

“Six hundred and one… now,” he said.

• Copyright: © 2009 Trinity Martin

Larry thought she would never let him finish. Every time he got close, she squeezed him in a mildly painful way, then drew him in deeper with thrusts and scissor motions of her limber legs. Finally, he could go on no longer. She sensed it, and stretched impossibly wide, using inner muscles to drain the last drop from him. Larry heard something snap. He opened his eyes in horror as she unhinged her lower jaw and took off his head.

Awake now, heart racing, he rolled over in bed in time to see Alice’s odd smile as green reptilian inner eyelids slid closed. Leaning forward, she unhinged her lower jaw.

• Copyright: © 2009 Mike Whitney

They came into the open area of the warehouse where two men scurried about. One of these men fiddled with a video camera while the other tended a chair placed in the center of the room. It was an electric chair. Carter said, “Is that it?”

“Yep, that’s her,” said the director. “Nice, huh?”

They walked over to the chair, and the director tapped the man on the shoulder. He looked up. “This is Hanley, our special effects man,” the director said. Hanley nodded, shook Carter’s hand, and then returned to his business. The director pointed to the cameraman.

“That’s Lewis. Lewis, this is Carter.” Lewis looked up, mildly annoyed at the interruption, and waved. The director shrugged. “And that’s it,” he said. “That’s the crew. As I explained earlier, we only have Hanley for about an hour today, so I want to get the special effects shot finished. How’s that costume feelin’ on ya?”

Carter looked down at his pinstriped prison uniform, circa 1920. “Feels good.”

“Good. Go ahead and take a seat.” Carter sat down in the chair. Hanley appeared before him and secured his ankles and wrists to it with leather straps. The wrist restraints were tight. Carter grimaced. “I know they’re snug,” the director said, “but I want to start with a close-up before we widen to an establishing shot. After we get the take, we’ll loosen them up.”

“All right.”

Hanley slid the metal cap down on Carter’s head and secured it. He said, “That was easy.”

“This could end up being the easiest one yet,” said the director.

“How would you like me to act in this take?” Carter said. “Violently? You want a struggle?”

The director grinned. “Do whatever comes naturally.”

Lewis drew near, instrument in hand, and when the director called for action, he swooped low over the restraints for several seconds as Carter flexed his fingers. “Cut,” the director said. “Nice.”

“Can you loosen these straps now?” Carter said. He laughed uneasily.

“Sure, just one second.” The director looked up as Hanley rolled a small control panel adorned with levers and knobs into the room. He plugged the chair into it.

“Okay, so how do you want to do this?” he said.

“What’s the normal voltage they use? Two thousand? We probably want something more dramatic than that, so let’s go with four thousand.”

“Hey, guys,” Carter said in a louder voice. “The straps. My hands are turning blue.” No one looked at him. They seemed to have forgotten his existence entirely.

“Four thousand it is. You want to tape his eyes?”

“No, he wants to see if they pop out, and at the very least, he wants to see the blood. He was specific about that.”

“All right, fuck this. I quit. Let me out of this chair. Now.” Carter’s voice cracked a little despite his efforts to speak firmly. He was squirming in the chair and had begun to sweat.

Hanley said, “You want to put a wet sponge under his cap?”

“No. If his head catches fire, that will be even more of a bonus.”

“Let me out of this goddamn chair right now!” Carter was fighting the restraints, his face flushed and dripping with sweat.

Hanley looked at him dispassionately. “Maybe we should record this, too. He might like all this struggling.”

The director considered. “You’re right. He likes to see a struggle. He might pay us more than fifty thousand dollars. Lewis?”

“I’m already gettin’ it,” Lewis said from behind his camera.

The director nodded. “Okay, positions, everybody. Get that microphone in close. I want to hear the sizzling clearly.”

“Holy God, holy Jesus! Wait a second! Jesus Christ!”

The director looked at the screaming, sweating, struggling figure in the chair, and then he nodded at Hanley, who stood with his hand poised over a lever on the control board. “Action,” he said.

Hanley pulled the lever.

• Copyright: © 2009 Trinity Martin

Chatter, chatter. That’s all I heard every morning. A lady needs her beauty sleep and I deserve it after sixty years of slaving in this godforsaken world. All I asked for was peace and quiet. Just a chance to go to bed, then wake up to a nice, peaceful morning with the sun rising and hitting my face, gently, like my husband’s hand used to be. After he had passed, I thought things would be quiet again, but instead I heard the chatter. The chatter of the little magpies outside. They were there every morning, chatter, chatter. Monday through Friday and sometimes Saturday. Wondered if they had lives. Places to go to like I did. Whether it was playing bridge or jumping off a bridge, I wouldn’t care, long as they just stopped chattering.

I wasn’t one for heavy metal music but if I was forced to listen to it, I think it would be more peaceful than the chatter I had to put up with each and every morning. Chatter, chatter.

My husband owned an axe. I remembered using it to stop his snoring. It had actually worked. Who needed those doctors to help you out? I had a better method. It had been heavy in my hands as I had approached my husband’s bedside, but once I had lifted it, the rest had been easy, gravity did the rest of the work. Right in the middle of his face! After that, silence.

I retrieved the axe again. I had told myself I’d never need to use it. Not that I hated using it, it was the cleanup that I hated. This time I was prepared. I got the big black garbage bags out beforehand and headed out the door. Sure I was in my nightgown, but what did shame matter. I got them as they headed to the sidewalk. Their backpacks hung on their backs. They didn’t see me coming out of the bushes. I swung the axe, silencing the first one. I thought the second one would run and squeal to her mommy. Luckily for me, she just stood there, so I gave it to her. Just hacked right into her. No need to wait for the baby teeth to come out, I did their mother a favor. They wouldn’t fit into the bag, so I had to cut them both down a bit more. After that, it was just a matter of putting the pieces into the bags, tying the bags up and leaving it on the side for the garbage man to pick up.

Now, just peace and quiet, except for those sirens in the background.

• Copyright: © 2009 Arnold Emmanuel

Tina hated blowjobs. Not only was she uncomfortable, she had to do all the work. Bobbing her head into this guy’s crotch while kneeling on a piece of cardboard was the last thing she wanted to do. On top of that, her jaws ached and this guy was trying to choke her with his dick. Top that off with the hygiene habits of her clientele–this guy, for instance, smelled as if he had not washed in a week. Still, $10 was $10, she was feeling the sweats coming on quickly, and it gave her time to think.

In a short time, “handsome” would be finished and Tina could score a few minutes of happiness around the corner. It amazed her that a few months ago she was a young fresh girl come to Atlanta to become a famous writer. A runaway from the suburbs, she came at first to Little Five Points to be with the artistic crowd. When she arrived, friends abounded until her money ran out. Because she was under age, jobs were impossible and that left begging. Even that didn’t fill her stomach.

Then someone suggested hooking. Far from a virgin, Tina resisted until the cold and hunger drove her over the edge. Broke, she gave an old man a hand job for $10. As time passed, she did more for more money. Then the guilt drove her to drugs to soothe her feelings. Now her life no longer revolved around words or ideas. Instead, she centered on the goal of scoring a few bucks for a fix for her habit.

“Argh!” the man grunted as he climaxed.

Spitting the semen out Tina jumped to her feet. “Listen, you bastard, I told you to let me know when you were about to cum. That little trick of yours is going to cost you $10 extra!”

The man laughed at her. Tina knew this guy needed a little prodding to get her full due. For some reason, some guys thought because they were paying her mouth that they owned all of her. She knew how to change their attitudes. Pulling out a box cutter from her back pocket, she flashed it at him angrily. “Listen, mister, pay me or leave here a eunuch!” With that, Tina grabbed his penis and held the blade at its base.

The reaction on his face puzzled Tina. Instead of fear or horror, she saw amusement. He smiled slightly and his eyes seemed to twinkle. Something about his eyes caught her attention. They were deep gray eyes, the yellowish white surrounding a grayish disc with a black hole in the center. Though they were cold and remote for reasons beyond her comprehension, she felt comfortable staring into them. It was like looking into a magic mirror from her childhood. She could see herself in these eyes and then she saw deeper.

Tina saw the world she left and the world where she now lived. She felt the pangs of guilt at a life wasted. Memories of a dream life rushed through her head. A wedding that never happened, a white dress she never owned, a world where she had promise and now nothing. Part of her ached for release from the bondage she had condemned herself to. A tear rolled down her cheek.

The tear was his cue. With lightning-fast moves, he was on her throat. In minutes, her blood and his mingled. The shock and the pain caused Tina to pass out. Smiling, he lifted her as a parent would pick up a child and carried her into the night. Leo had a new girl to work the truck stops. Now, instead of a chemical master, she had him.

• Copyright: © 2009 Joseph DeRepentigny

This is what will happen to you tomorrow. You’ll walk to your mailbox and glance right. Not intentionally, but one of those “automatic” things you do, things like swinging your arms, licking your lips, breathing, blinking, thinking absurd things and being comfortable with that.

You will see a small hole in the lawn. A thin, rustic chain is poured in with about eight inches left exposed. Several links have small, jagged protrusions that’ll surely cut anyone who grabs hold. You’ve never seen it before and don’t know how it got there. Intuition moves your thoughts closer though you stand fast, unmoving. Subconscious, ancient wisdom identifies what you see as a presentiment. You don’t know how to proceed.

You realize this at 10:37 a.m.

One minute and nineteen seconds later, you will be on your way back from the mailbox, this time searching left. A nervous chuckle, laughing at yourself for thinking the scene would disappear if only you subtracted your gaze and thoughts from it. This next part is very important: At that moment you will recall the most terrible thing you’ve never said. A dagger of malice you at one time held close, neatly tucked away upstairs that you may have acted on, but never told a soul. The knowledge of that escorts you over.

You will naturally survey the area, certain this is all a bad joke. Then you will remember this and conclude that it’s not. The chain does nothing supernatural when you kick it. It slides over like any other. A dumb, soulless, lifeless thing made for things both practical and cruel. Why should you fear it? It was poured in, so it can be pulled out, right? Your intellect tells you this. Will you trust it?

Moments later, your gloved hands wrap around the chain. You feel the prickles through the cowhide as you start to pull. Surprisingly, with little effort, it moves. You pull. Soon, a growing pool of chain is at your feet. It’ll feel like you’ve been tugging at this thing forever, but actually two minutes and fifteen seconds have elapsed. You know this scene has to end and an unnamed dread knots your stomach. But you can’t stop now. There is some kind of treasure at the end of this rainbow, however marvelous or terrible.

You will pull for another six minutes and three seconds. Then: the end. Fastened to the end of the chain is a padlock looped through the penultimate link, unfastened. You know it’s a padlock, but have never seen anything before like it. It is gold surfaced and oddly shaped. It will strongly call to mind a trapezoid but you know it’s not that. You’ll examine it, sliding it around with palm and fingers, ultimately realizing there is no–

What was that? You’d just heard something from below. The hole in your lawn. Without further thought, you’ll kneel and bend. Doubling over from half your height you will incline your ear to hear.

For the next eight minutes and fifty-nine seconds, you’ll listen to a nondescript voice detail the remainder of your life. During that time you’ll laugh out loud, shed three tears and shake your head in disappointment, smooth down your eyebrows with thumb and index, cry.

Twenty-three minutes later, you’ll step out next to a gray Honda Civic stopped behind the caution arm of a railroad crossing. The approaching train will be traveling at forty-five miles an hour, a good head of steam. You’ll think about your horrible secrets that are so loud you’ll drown out the admonishing cries of the passengers in the car beside you. Should you walk or run? Either way is preferable to life with new information. The train is coming.

You will start to walk, but the Honda’s driver is after you now so you run. You calculate six point five seconds to impact, but soon discover that was three seconds too lo–

• Copyright: © 2009 Tarvarus Goodwin