MicroHorror

“There she is, buddy.”

“Is it really her?” Cliff was still in a state of mild shock.

“In the flesh, man. Kristy Michaels.” Judd gestured at the woman silhouetted in the orange light of the setting sun. Cliff stared at the bed and his mind raced. All those sweaty hours spent in his room, watching porn, and here she was–the star of his every fantasy.

“How much did you say it was again?” Cliff was flustered. She was gesturing now–for him to come over, to be with her.

“Fifty bucks. I could probably get a lot more, but you’re my friend.”

“I just can’t believe Kristy Michaels is in your house.” Cliff could make out the starlet now, looking at him with raw desire.

“I saved her life, dude. She was out front. I pegged a few of them back with some big rocks, and when they were a little closer…” He patted the .45 tucked into his waistband.

“She got scratched up a little, but she was really grateful. Are you going to do this or what?”

“Yeah,” Cliff breathed. He had one more question, though. “That thing she was famous for–does she still do that?”

In response Judd smacked him on the back of the head. “Are you stupid, man?” He thumbed a key on his belt. “I should let you try, and see how you like it.”

Kristy shifted on the bed, and rattled her chain in assent. Cliff shuddered in anticipation. The tiny room was sweltering in the humidity, and he could see her skin glistening in the lessening light. Judd grabbed his arm.

“One more thing.” He slapped a condom into Cliff’s clammy palm.

“Really? It’s not like she’s going to get pregnant.”

Pow. Another cuff on the back of the head. “It’s for you, genius. Or do you want to end up like…” and he made the twitching gesture that had become all too well known. Two things, then I’m gone. I got Brandi Lake in the next room. One: be quick. She gets strong if she gets too worked up. Two, and I can’t believe I have to say this: stay away from her mouth.” As the pimp slammed the door and walked down the hall, Cliff could just make out his disgusted comment. “Does she still do that thing… Jesus.”

Cliff walked to the bed. The perfect body was still intact, marred only by some ugly purple-black scratches on her shoulder, where the skin was ploughed up. She moaned again through the steel muzzle. Cliff took this as a greeting, and returned, “Hi, Miss Michaels. I’m your biggest fan.” He got undressed.

It was everything he’d hoped for. He was so caught up in the moment that he completely missed the screams from next door.

The sound of chains dragging outside the door whipped Kristy into a frenzy, and with a Herculean effort, she pulled free of her manacles, leaving most of the skin behind. As the questing fingers, now moving in a broken, twitching fashion, found his shoulder, Cliff was off the bed in an instant.

The door smashed open. Brandi Lake, redheaded star of “Cheerleaders for Everyone,” stood there, her jaw gaping open where she’d pulled the mouth restraint free. From the streaks of gore running down her chin, though, it wasn’t bothering her at all. Cliff saw that she held Judd’s key ring, with his hand and forearm still attached. Brandi let out a low wail, and Kristy moved her hands as he’d seen them move so many times before, stroking his chest, leaving thick red streaks wherever they passed. He felt the metal mouthpiece bumping lightly at the back of his neck. Brandi came closer, raising the keys, and Cliff knew what was next. As he looked from one dead porn star to the next, all he could think was, “What a way to go.”

He is a suspicious-looking man, his eyes black with no whites. He is wearing a hat, sunglasses and a black slicker on a dry, hot summer night. He is carrying a ratty, oversized suitcase and shakes in an uncontrolled fit.

He steps out from the shadows and onto the street.

He is arrested twenty minutes later.

The cops seize the man’s suitcase with much difficulty; for such a rat of a man he sure puts up quite a scrap for his luggage. The cops beat the man half to death before they are finally able to pry the case from his grappling, crooked little fingers. Inside of the case are more fingers, 612 to be exact, rooted from their owners’ palms.

The cops bark questions into the strange man’s face. Spittle collects and slides down his cheeks. Never an answer. Never a flinch. Just a smile. Just a strange, wicked smile.

Finally, the man opens his mouth, but not to speak. He wants them to look inside. They slowly move toward the strange man, their curiosity getting the best of them. The man’s tongue has been ripped from its root leaving only the scars to prove it. The man begins to laugh with a strange and frightening cackle formed by the absence of his tongue. The cops back away in horror.

They will never know the answers to their questions.

And neither will you.

“When our mom died,” I said, “she didn’t tell anyone who should buy the house in her absence.” Wiping perspiration off my forehead, I said, “Naturally, she loved you two above me. She put you both on a pedestal like she never did with me. She failed to understand why you didn’t have boyfriends.” I shook my head. “Our mom always played music around you two. With me, she just hoped for a life that didn’t include jail.”

Inside my shaky hand, I held a pistol like it weighed fifteen pounds. “Our mom would bawl like a baby to know that I would outlive her daughters. Maybe I will live in jail; maybe I should live in jail. Our mom didn’t prepare me for life outside this house, like she prepared you both.” I added, “She tried to prepare you, anyway.”

Below the yellow tabletop, I pulled the trigger until I emptied the small black pistol completely. My vision blurred; I threw my head back. Without control of my queasy innards, I vomited thickly. My fluids landed inside the basket behind the table at which I sat. Across from me, my identical sisters, looking limply at the tabletop, finally shut their eyes. For me, the family just ended, like it hadn’t after I had thrown the bushel of fluffy blue flowers on the casket that held my embalmed mother. I informed my sisters that I would never look at their naïve faces anymore, but they couldn’t hear me.

Gathering my duffel, I walked into the emptiness of daylight. With the sky just a bit chilly, the sun beamed like a lighthouse beacon. Likely, a neighbor had heard the shots, which still bounced loudly off the walls. Someone probably dialed the police. Perking my head, I heard the blare of sirens; they bleated rhythmically in opposite directions. With luck, I should be able to drive to Mexico, and escape jail. After five years for manslaughter, I wished to never expose my body to a jailhouse guard anymore. Still, I couldn’t look at my sisters like I had for twenty years. My enthusiasm for my family had left my body like sour vomit just did. Tossing my lengthy hair, I yelled, “Freedom,” and trotted joyously into the yard. As usual, my rusty Chevrolet waited, but to me, it looked immaculate. With broken doors and bent fenders, it impressed me like a limousine would.

Touching my jeans, I didn’t feel the bulge of my wallet. Any trip required money. Quickly, I walked back into the house and poked my hand into the desk by the door. At that instant, I heard a voice. “What brought you back?” Another voice said, “We can live without you.” On opposite sides of the couch, my sisters sat, leaning apart like a couple that had just fought bitterly. When I lifted my eyebrow, they looked optimistically at the other, like the problem that had broken their family would never come back.

Immediately, I froze, looking at familiar people. Actually, I looked at two lonely spirits that had just separated; I understood as I walked to the table, where I had shot my sisters. Their conjoined body still rested in a chair. Always dominant, Katherine said, “Like you, we will live freely, too.” Cat nodded quickly.

With the head of Katherine bobbing limply, the forehead of her shy sister pressed the yellow wood like a sticky substance held it. The thick body that shared one heart but two heads bled profusely onto the floor; my sisters, limp and bloody, brought pain into my body. Uncontrollably, I collapsed, with numbness palpable in my limbs. My family would look upon the house with freedom; like a penitentiary, it would hold me eternally.

I want to live, but I am suffering from a mysterious illness that is destroying my immune system and subsequently, my life-sustaining organs. The doctors told me my illness is deadlier than AIDS. The experimental treatment for this vicious disease costs over $100,000 per month. Because I am an eighty-year-old man with no health insurance, I will not receive this treatment. They have ordered me to choose between getting termination therapy–an instant, painless death with all funeral expenses paid for–and traveling on Termination Road.

On this dark road, I will encounter many life-threatening situations and enemies. I must survive these confrontations and reach the end of the road. If I succeed, I will be granted free medical care, including the experimental treatment, until my death or cure. But no one has survived the murderous journey.

Still, I’ve decided to travel on Termination Road. I know the odds of my surviving this perilous journey are about 100 million to 1. But I’ve got this secret gift. And I believe it will help me make it to the end of the road.

I’m about to start my journey. Nearby, I see dozens of dirty needles and other sharp objects scattered across the road. And in the distance, hidden creatures shriek.

I clear my mind and allow my gift to work. I travel to a beautiful place and time and I’m at peace.

Now, I begin my journey. I run across the long narrow road, untouched by needles or other sharp objects. I do not see these lethal things, nor do I hear the howling of the creatures.

I run for hours and I’m still alive.

On Termination Road I feel omnipotent. How can I be ill? I’m running fast like a stallion.

It seems I’ve been running for hours or days. Am I going mad? Termination Road is not a death sentence. It’s life!

Nothing can harm me. I’ve got the gift and it has freed me from the restraints of earthly existence. And in the distance, I see the end of the road.

As I cross the finish line, I pound my chest and shout words of joy to the Heavens. I’m a time traveler and I’ve traveled one hundred years back in time to a period of love and peace when Termination Road was called The Road of Life.

No one knows me at the finish line. But I’m safe here. Yet I need to travel back to my time and receive the treatment. I will clear my mind and allow my gift to work.

Can’t get back. I’ve lost my focus–my gift. The people of this place and time are loving, compassionate folks. But I will die in their presence.

I’ve lost my strength too. Seems the road gave me enormous power. And now, I’m ill again. What shall I do? I must find my way back, but how? Do you know?

Does someone out there know how I can find my way home? Help me travel one hundred years into the future. Help me!

Harry sat in his recliner watching the evening news. He’d broken his glasses two weeks before, and had to lean close to see the screen. Clutter and the stench of rotting food and soiled clothing permeated the room. He picked up a hard dinner roll from the TV tray beside his chair and gummed it, softening it with the saliva in his toothless mouth.

“You know, Bertha, the worst mistake I ever made was marrying you,” he said loudly. “All you did during our entire marriage was bitch, bitch, bitch about what I wear, how I act, and what I say.”

Bertha sat in a chair across the room from him, giving him a blank stare as though totally uninterested at what he had to say.

“You’ve never cooked or cleaned worth a damn and just look at this place. It’s a pigsty. If I could move about better, I’d clean the damn place myself.”

Their cat lay nestled in Bertha’s lap, kneading the folds of her house dress with its paws and purring loudly. It slipped its head beneath her hand, looking for comfort. The faded sunlight shining through the dirty window accentuated the wrinkles permanently etching
her pale face.

“See, and now, you show no interest in talking to me. All you do is sit there like a damn bump on a log and stare at me with that shit-eatin’ grin of yours. I’ve had it. I’d move out if I had the energy.”

Harry always knew when she was angry with him, because she wouldn’t talk to him. She’d just let her eyes bore through him knowing it would anger him even more.

His legs shook as he rose from his chair and stumbled to the kitchen. Dirty dishes lay piled up in the sink and flies buzzed around the overflowing trashcan.

“Dammit, woman!” he shouted. “Can’t you keep this place clean? We got flies and maggots all over the place.”

Harry maneuvered through the clutter, and poured himself a cup of cold coffee. After warming it in the microwave, he returned to his chair. He didn’t notice Bertha slump forward when he bumped her chair. A few minutes later, Harry took his eyes off the TV and glanced over at her.

“You know, if you’re so tired, why don’t you go to bed?”

Harry slowly rose and lifted her from her chair. She felt quite a bit heavier than he remembered. He carried her into the bedroom, barely able to hold her in his arms.

“Good Lord, woman,” he said, laying her lifeless, decaying body in the bed. “You smell terrible, too. Take a bath when you get up, will you?”

“C’mon, Marge, we don’t want to keep the doctor waiting.”

As Velma trudged through the lonely parking lot, her footsteps echoed off the pavement. She suddenly felt someone jerk her arm.

“Give me your money,” the voice demanded.

Velma slowly turned around, holding her purse in front of her.

“I’m old, gray, and feeble,” she commented. “I would make a good target.” She stared at the young punk with her old green eyes. “Isn’t that right?”

Her purse was quickly grabbed from her wrinkled arms.

“Well, I can see you have no manners.”

“Shut up,” he snarled, looking through her purse.

“I wouldn’t talk like that if I were you. Looks can be deceiving. I’m sure you’ve heard that one before.”

He continued to search her purse.

“Do you still want to rob an old feeble woman like me?” she asked. “Are you going to give me my purse back?”

“It’s my purse now, bitch.”

“Don’t you have a weapon?”

“I don’t need a weapon with an old bag like you.”

“Oh,” she said. “Then I guess I’m no threat?”

He looked up at her, his eyes hardened. “That’s right.”

She knew she had to act quickly while he was busy searching the contents of her purse. She slowly slid her hand under her dress and pulled out a small dagger from her garter.

Thoughts of rage filled her head. So I’m no threat, her mind yelled out. How dare he speak to me like that, how dare he pick on an old woman.

Suddenly, Velma quickly plunged her dagger into his gut area. Swiftly in and out. Fury. Swiftly in and out. Anger. Swiftly in and out. Revenge.

No time to be slow now.

“You’ve picked the wrong victim today, young man.”

The robber grasped his stomach. “You fucking bitch,” he said, as he collapsed to his knees.

Fire burned in her green eyes, making them more intense.

“I’m gonna make sure you never do this again.”

Velma went for his eyes.

He screamed.

Velma collected her purse and casually strolled away.

“Velma, you shouldn’t have done that.”

“I know, Marge,” she said to the voice in her head. “You know how I get caught up in these darn incidents.” She smiled. “Three this month already.”

She knew she was getting smaller by the day. She began to stay indoors so people wouldn’t see how tiny she had become.

Gretchen had spent years trying to get Abraham out of her mind. Although he consumed her thoughts daily she didn’t think it was in an obsessive way, as she always continued to function. He was the first man she had fallen in love with, and despite having flings along the way, there he was, stuck in her mind like paper on glue. He would show up every few years, and she’d always let him in, no questions asked.

Gretchen climbed up on the chair, and then her dresser. She lovingly stroked the picture of Abraham she had hidden under her Bible. Gretchen jumped off the dresser onto the chair, and down onto the floor. Her once shoulder-length hair now dragged on the floor behind her. She curled up on the pillow that she now used for a bed. During the night was when inches of her would disappear. Gretchen wondered how much of herself would be lost tonight.

Gretchen awoke to a knock on the door. Groggy, she went and tried to get up on the chair by the window. Gretchen realized she couldn’t reach the bottom rung of the chair now. She saw a shadow pass by. A man’s head was peering in the window, illuminated only by the moonlight behind him. Abraham.

Gretchen began running and tripped trying to get over a bump in the carpet. She turned over and realized the moonlight was shining down on her. She saw Abraham’s shocked expression when he spotted her. He had a look of horror etched on his face. Slowly Abraham backed away from the window until she couldn’t see him anymore.

Gretchen was used to him leaving. She went back to her pillow and rocked herself to sleep. She knew this time he’d never be back. She wondered if there’d be anything left of her by morning.

Garner woke in the dark, his mouth dry to the point of being torturous. The air was dank and still.

It was happening again. Just as before, he was fully dressed and lying on a soft bed. He raised his arm slowly, only to hear his bones creak; the sound was eerie in the darkness and his hand would only move a few scant inches. He tried raising his leg and met with similar results. There was no pain; there never was.

He remembered reading about something called sleep paralysis and wondered if he was experiencing it firsthand. Garner tried to sit up and was unable to do so. Frustrated, he thrashed about as best he could.

“Did you hear that?” said Sarah

“No. What was it?” said Jackson. He was getting impatient.

“It sounded like a banging noise…”

“Look, just leave the flowers on his grave and let’s go. I don’t know why you still do this to yourself. Garner’s been dead for fifteen years–it’s time to move on.”

Jimmy held the .38 to his head, ready to die. At least he thought he was ready, as he stood on the rooftop of the twenty-story apartment building. His wife of fifteen years had left him for another man. A more exciting, vibrant man.

Joanne was a vicious woman, venom for blood. Verbally, in private, always in private, she rivaled the best abusive talkers on the planet, never needing alcohol to be at her best.

“You pathetic piece of mouse shit,” and “Be a man, for fuck’s sake,” two of her favorite sentences.

He had no idea why she said such odious words. Maybe she just went crazy, had cracked like a fault line, the good part lost forever in a deep abyss.

Jimmy had a stable, well paying, $70,000-a-year bank job. Joanne drove a Mercedes, bought and paid for with Jimmy’s money and credit.

They had no children, thankfully, not his choice, but her selfish preference.

“They’d destroy my figure as well as my mind,” she’d say every time he brought the subject up, adding, “and what little sanity I have left after having to deal with morons like you all day.”

Jimmy ultimately lost his job, his wife keeping him up all hours of the night, purposely. She’d unplug the alarm clock when he finally did fall asleep. “Payback,” she’d said, for all she’d been put through.

Jimmy kept the apartment, Joanne moving out, taking whatever she wanted, leaving the dog, Marty.

Marty, Jimmy’s beloved Basset hound, was in the apartment. He remembered this fact as he stood on the roof’s edge. What would happen to Marty? He’d probably go to his wife, and she’d no doubt call the pound. A dog at his age, ten, wouldn’t last long. If no one came by the apartment, the dog could go days, weeks, before starving cruelly to death.

Jimmy stared at the street below, cars racing by, pedestrians on their way. This was all Joanne’s fault, leaving a horrendous ruin in her wake, a human hurricane. How selfish could Jimmy have been, remembering now that he’d left the stove on. The whole building could’ve gone up, lives lost. It was all the bitch’s fault.

Later that evening, after turning the stove off and feeding Marty, Jimmy sat in his car outside of his wife’s lover’s brownstone. He’d found a better home for those .38 slugs.

Deak sat behind the wheel of the tow truck like a vulture waiting for scraps. The tow bar sat like a giant cross on the truck’s back, as if the vehicle were a divine symbol of something holy. He watched the rain splatter against the pavement, admiring the slickness as the oils crept to the road’s surface. He sipped his steaming cup of coffee, calmly waiting for the calls to come in. The rain came down in sheets, making visibility difficult. He grinned. Calls would definitely be coming in shortly.

Deak awoke each morning hoping for careless, drunk, or just plain old awful drivers to get in their vehicles and drive. They gave him his job, his career. Rainy days were his favorite.

He loved his work, listening to the police scanner, knowing all the accident codes, and always receiving a pleasurable jolt in his loins when he heard a bad one.

He’d witnessed countless crashes, always positioning his tow truck in the right places along the stretch of dangerous, winding back-country roads. The Deadly Places, he called them.

All roads had their accident areas and Deak knew them all, like most tow truck operators. To be the first on scene was exhilarating. He loved to hear people scream and gaze upon the burned and mangled bodies. He would rank them from best to most disappointing, keeping a log at home. He included the types of vehicles involved and the peoples’ names, feeling more personally connected. As much as he enjoyed the carnage, he would never think to kill someone. He never needed to. The road was his servant, his tool.

Sometimes, when no one was looking, he’d take pictures of the wreck scenes. Digital photography made developing the pictures a pleasure. Pop in the memory card on any computer and like magic they appeared onscreen. He always posted them on the internet, knowing others like him existed and would enjoy his work.

His job was simple: park, wait for the call–never a day when one didn’t come, pick up the pieces, and haul them away leaving the roadway clear, as if nothing had ever happened. Deak always made sure he took all the debris, wanting to keep the Deadly Places concealed and invisible to danger. The stretches of roadway he prowled were always the cleanest in the county. The local Department of Transportation always thanked him for doing such wonderful work. It’d be a shame if warning signs were installed, causing Deak’s favorite work-related sites to become boring. He wondered if most tow truck drivers and body shop owners had a morbid side. Did they wake up hoping for business too?

Deak continued to sip his coffee, watching the people race by in their vehicles as they cut each other off, tailgated, swerved, stopped short, and screeched tires, waiting for the next call to come in.