MicroHorror

“Can I take your order, please?” The disembodied voice crackled through the rusted speaker-panel.

Gareth eyed the faded menu board, its peeling plastic cover split leaving a water-damaged smudge of color where illustrations of burgers, chicken combos, soft drinks and ice cream desserts had once attracted the hungry traveler.

“Just a burger, mate.” It was late; he was famished and exhausted and still had another few hundred miles’ worth of traffic to contend with before reaching home.

“The Big Boy Burger or Flame-Grilled Mexicana?” The static-bored voice had said the line so many times it had lost all nonsensical meaning.

Gareth had forgotten they used to do the Mexicana–succulent one-hundred-percent beef with peppered cheese, onion rings, salad, jalapeño sauce…

“Mexicana with cheese.” He could already taste it, even though he hadn’t eaten one in more than ten years, back when this fast food chain went belly up. He thought it strange when he first spotted the weather-eroded hoarding, half-buried in bushes, along the motorway embankment; flashing light atop the slanted wooden post catching his attention from the monotony of the nighttime tarmac.

“Okay, drive round to the collection point, might take a few minutes.” A surge of static reverberated in his ears only to be lost again to the night air.

If it hadn’t been for the other car ahead of him in the queue and the other two parked up around the side of the building, Gareth might have doubled back out of there and drove on until he found a McDonald’s or Burger King, convinced the place was an abandoned shell.

Maneuvering around the tight bend, a dim light inside the restaurant cast a muddy aura over the kitchen area and out through the closed window; a stack of grey cardboard drink holders piled almost to toppling behind the frame.

Ahead, a steady breath of exhaust cloud flicked against the red brake lights of the car waiting at the collection window, driver’s door slamming shut as he braked behind him in line. Gareth counted his change out ready, dipping his head toward the open window in an attempt to catch a scent of that Mexicana burger they were preparing. But what he caught smelled more like the residues of a bonfire than the burger he remembered.

A purple-green-tinged privet hedge, to his left, buffeted the passing traffic as they sped on toward destinations unknown, while, in the middle distance, a car with foreign plates reversed from a parking bay and disappeared from view, its driver-side door badly dented.

He would park up there with his meal and be back on the road before long; Joanne would be waiting up for him like she always did, a tired smile on her lips, a table lamp left on in the hallway that would guide them upstairs to bed.

A piercing scream rocked him out of a daze and back to the queue, the car waiting at the window ahead dazzling him with two blinding reverse lights before suddenly rocketing back toward him. Before he could react, a jolt from behind splayed him forward, knocking the change from his grasp and down across the carpet. Slammed back by the car in front, halogen-bright brake lights ramping up onto his car.

To his right the stack of cup holders behind the closed window were swept away to be replaced by a face that would haunt his final moments on earth. In his rear view, another creature swaggered forward, and from the car in front.

When they attacked, Gareth could no longer taste that Mexicana but could hear a distant voice through the intercom, placing their order.

She said she was a shapeshifter, at which I laughed, attributing it to her slightly drunken state, then told her that she didn’t need to change at all, her present shape looked pretty good to me. She could have been a centerfold in any of the men’s magazines. A real knockout.

She said her name was Talbot, a funny name for a girl, but she made it work. I’m Cassidy. We had met in this dismal bar, seeking shelter from the rainstorm outside; one thing led to another, and soon we were drinking buddies, then before long, we were making out in the hallway to the restrooms.

Talbot was one hot little minky, and in a throaty voice through half-closed striking blue eyes she suggested that we continue this at her place, which wasn’t very far away. It seemed like a good idea.

We laughed as we ran through the rain, the full moon and streetlights of Portland providing just enough light to see by. Talbot suddenly turned down a dark alley, running with surprising speed and grace for someone balancing in high heels on slippery asphalt.

“I’m soaked,” she said in her little girl voice, peeling off her coat and ducking into a deep doorway designed for sheltered deliveries. I followed Talbot, noticing her thin dress was dripping wet, and that she was not wearing any underwear. Everything that counted was perfectly outlined.

“Kiss me, Cassidy,” she demanded, grabbing me with incredible strength for someone so small. Her kiss ended with a nip to my lip. Before I could react, Talbot licked the drop of blood from the cut, rolling it on her tongue.

“Let’s do it,” she cried, ripping her dress off, “right here, right now. Momma’s hungry.” She shivered in her nakedness, prancing out into the middle of the alley, in the still pouring rain, and when the clouds moved so that the moon was visible, she shook. Shook like a creature possessed. Her body changed, got larger, more muscular, hair, then fur, sprouted everywhere as her head elongated, a snout pushed out, ears shot up, fangs protruded and a howl, a werewolf howl, shattered the night’s quiet.

She turned to me, standing on her powerful hind legs, hand claws ready for my blood, muscle and guts. Of course, in the few minutes of her transformation, I hadn’t been idle. Or shocked. I’d pulled out my Azrael .666 holy revolver from its shoulder holster and flicked the safety off.

As she sailed through the air in her killing lunge, I fired an etherblast that lit up the alley and ripped a hole the size of a cherry pie through her chest. My second shot exploded into her open jaws, virtually tearing her lupine head off. I stepped aside as the dead werewolf hit the asphalt, killed in mid-leap.

Oh, did I forget to tell you, I’m a demon slayer? Always prepared, that’s me. I could smell the werewolf on her in the bar, full moon and all, so I decided I would be her prey tonight. Turnabout is fair play, after all.

I traced the cut on my lip with my tongue; it had clotted now. Luckily, Talbot had bitten me while she was still human, so no curse of the werewolf for me.

Talbot was starting to shapeshift grotesquely back to human, so I reached into my pocket, pulled out a nugget of Heavenly Host QuickFire, broke it in half and tossed the brightly flaring pieces onto the corpse. It disintegrated the body in seconds despite the rain which was still coming down hard. Just another day at the office.

A pair of heavily booted feet trod through the dark canopy of trees. Thomas was scared, almost beyond reason, as he inched his way through the claustrophobic blackness. He struggled to keep himself under control, aware that he was close to panic. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was covering the same patch of woodland in ever decreasing circles.

He told himself that he would be okay, as a whisper of wind flitted through the trees, mocking his optimism. His legs were numb and he felt the muscles tightening in his thighs, the survival instinct urging him to flee. He tried to calm his jittery nerves, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, insisting that he was alive and well and that he would make it through.

The others had not been so lucky. He might live another eighty years, but he would not forget seeing Neil’s throat torn out with enough force to nearly decapitate him. He hadn’t run at once; he had been too stunned for that and not from seeing his best friend’s life ripped from his body. His mind hadn’t believed what his eyes were seeing.

They had taken it for a bear, escaped from a zoo and long since lost to the wild, or so the local story went. Jack had raised his shotgun and fired a round into the head of their slumbering prey, whilst Neil stood ready to capture the execution of the legendary Black Beast on his mobile phone. Jack was an excellent shot but a poor zoologist. The shell had hit the beast, but the roar of surprise and pain had come from the other end of the animal.

It had risen with a speed that belied its great size and removed Neil’s larynx with a single swipe of its paw. This was no bear; its snout was too long and its jaw too heavy. It had glared at its tormentors, thick saliva pooling around malformed teeth and had uttered a chilling howl from deep inside its throat.

Jack had dropped his gun and immediately ran for the woods. The beast had launched itself with powerful hind legs and taken off in pursuit. Thomas had run in the opposite direction, feet digging into the sodden earth as his heart pounded in his chest. After a time he had no way of measuring, he heard a terrible, desperate scream in the distance and suspected he would not be seeing either friend again.

He had forced himself to slow down and suddenly, the woods were filled with muffled sounds of pursuit. He couldn’t see more than a few inches in front of his face as he paced his way carefully through the undergrowth and around the treacherous tree roots, until the forest thinned out, gently melting into a small clearing.

The relief he felt was short-lived, as he heard the heavy pad of feet approaching at speed. This time, he trusted those instincts buried in his twitching legs and ran towards a sturdy-looking tree. He pulled himself three feet from the ground, then six, then nine. As he tried to reach the next branch, his hand slipped on the wet wood, nearly tipping him to the floor and he decided to stay put.

The beast was a sight to behold as it entered the clearing. Heavily set and thickly muzzled, layers of muscle rolled sinuously beneath its shaggy hide. An angry wound on its hindquarters glistened in the pale light and was mirrored by the thick red smear across its dripping jaws. As it strode across the open ground, methodically and with purpose, Thomas was suddenly aware of three certainties.

He had been certain there was no Black Beast.

He had been certain that a shotgun would deal with anything he met in the woods.

He was certain that beasts couldn’t climb trees…

He pulled out all his teeth and mailed them to his mother, who was disappointed. She had wanted a pound of flesh.

Each night, his shadow appears as an enormous bird. Terrified, he would take flight, if only he had wings.

Dr. Malcolm pointed the microphone stem at Danny, the quiet docile boy scheduled for his preliminary interview. Malcolm heard about the case largely sensationalized in the media and became intrigued by the seemingly normal six-year-old boy and the story of his doppelganger.

“Are you comfortable, Danny?” Malcolm said in that scripted tone he had tried to hone for most of his career. It still sounded contrived to his ears.

“Yes…” Danny replied, looking ruefully over the microphone at the strange man sitting across from him.

“Very good, Danny. Now…” Malcolm tapped the microphone stem. “Please speak as clearly as you can into this.”

Danny grabbed the edge of the table and pulled himself forward.

“So, your mother tells me you avoid mirrors still,” Malcolm continued as he opened the manila dossier and began scribbling in the margins. “Why is that?”

“Because,” the boy whispered, “that’s where I first saw him.”

“Saw who?”

“My double ganger,” the boy mouthed slowly.

“Yes,” Malcolm smiled, “your doppelganger. Tell me, when do you first remember seeing your doppelganger?”

“Ever since I can remember.”

“And how do you know what a doppelganger is?”

“Nana…” Danny rubbed his nose and continued to fidget on the large plastic chair.

“So your Nana used to tell you stories about one’s other self–their evil self, is that right?” He watched as Danny nodded in agreement. “And what did she used to tell you about doppelgangers, Danny, that they looked identical to you?”

“She said they look just like us, that they are bad signs. They are evil. Abraham Lincoln saw his before he died.”

“But you first saw yours long before your Nana mentioned them, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Aside from your Nana telling you, how did you know this ‘other self’ was evil–what sorts of things did your doppelganger do that led you to believe he was not good?”

“When I first saw him outside the mirror he was mean. He used to play with my toys when I did. When I would go to sleep he would be there. I would go to wash and he would be there.”

“Was there ever a time when you didn’t see him?”

“When I went to see Dr. Clark.”

“Yes.” Malcolm thumbed through the file, “your other doctor. A nice man, I suspect.”

“I liked him.” Danny smiled. “I felt safe. When I saw him I didn’t see my double ganger.”

“I see… So what else did your Nana tell you?”

“She told me that sometimes the double gangers would go away. But if they didn’t you would have to make them.”

“And that is what you did, Danny, you made your doppelganger go away?”

“I had to.” Danny cried softly. “He would hit me when no one was around.”

Malcolm reached into his pocket. “Danny, I want to show you something, if it is all right with you.”

“Okay,” he replied, shifting in his seat.

Malcolm placed the picture on the table and slid it past the microphone in front of Danny, watching the boy’s expression turn to panic. “Who is that, Danny, in the picture with you?”

“I want my mommy,” he began to scream, “I don’t want to do this anymore!”

“Is that your doppelganger, Danny?” Malcolm said quickly, tapping the image of the twin brothers. “Who is that?”

“I don’t want to see him again!” Danny was sobbing, his quivering mouth lined with spittle. “He used to trick Mommy into singing to him at night!”

Malcolm leaned into the table, waiting for the moment. “And how do you know you won’t see your doppelganger again, Danny?”

“Because,” Danny replied, smiling through tears, “I pushed him in the creek and haven’t seen him since.”

Shrinks. They sit in a chair that costs more than my car, with that smug, condescending smirk on their bewhiskered, bespectacled faces and drone on and on about inner children, sexual conflicts, obsessive-compulsive BS, etc., etc., and of course, etc. Oh, and let me never forget Dr. Burnstein’s favorite—“’somatoform pain.” They do love to hear themselves talk and it only runs you about two hundred bucks an hour for the privilege of listening to them.

The medical doctors gave up on me long ago. They could find no cause for the severe pain I complained about. They all wrote me off as an addict looking to get his hands on pain pills. But now doc Burnstein is getting desperate. Three years in with no results has him a little edgy so now he wants to try something experimental. He teepeed his fingers to rest his hairy chin on. “The first thing we’re going to do is eliminate that ‘pain’ (wink). With that out of the way we’ll dig down deep and discover the real you.” He reached over and tapped me on the chest. “The real you is inside there, Spencer. We just need to find you. So, a new drug, since you have proven to be so resistant to hypnosis. A new drug to eliminate that (wink) pain (bastard!). It shouldn’t affect your psychological state in the least, according to the latest experiments with lab rats (really? rats, huh?). It will get rid of that somatoform ‘pain’ (what, no sly wink? no mini-lecture on the nature of psychosomatic symptoms?) and then we’ll get down to finding the real you.”

Well, a week has passed and–I’ll be damned!–the quack was right. No pain! My next appointment is in six days but I can’t wait. I’m too impatient and excited. Ha-ha! Progress at last!

I had to do a little shopping first but now I’m ready. The first tentative cut was a breeze. Hey, doc, no pain! I probe deeper using a soldering iron from the hardware store to cauterize the bleeders (so many. the damn things are a nuisance).

Now, wait… what the hell is this? Good thing the anatomy book from the library has actual pictures of real innards and not just drawings because these things look different in real life. Oh, it’s my bladder! Piss bag. How cool is that? Looks like I should have taken a leak before I started this little operation. Oh, well, no time to stop now.

Doc Burnstein will be so proud of me. He’s says I’m in here somewhere and until I find myself I won’t stop digging!

“Can you finish closing up, Bob?”

“Sure. How’s your daughter holding up?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“And you?”

Angie shrugged. “I’ll manage.”

On her way out, Angie grabbed a pack from the cabinet, filled a syringe from two ampoules then hurried out to her car.

At home she changed into a pair of fishnet stockings, a red skirt and shiny black thigh-length boots. A final adjustment of the wig and she was out the door.

John strolled into the bar, a practiced eye scanning the room. Bingo. A brunette sitting by herself. He could read them like a book. This one had recently broken up with a boyfriend; the puffy eyes told the story. Perfect.

He slid up to the bar and ordered two drinks, a scotch on the rocks for him and a Singapore Sling for the lady.

A blonde in fishnet stockings cut him off.

He smiled. This one wasn’t even an open book; she was a fucking billboard for fuck’s sake. A little old for his taste. A cougar on the prowl, but look at those legs!

She placed a hand on his chest and ran her nails along his shirt, sending shivers down into his pants. She might be worth his while…

“One of those for me?” she purred.

This was going to be too easy. The night was still young. He had the room till midnight. Maybe he’d have time to finish with her and still come back for the pining sophomore.

What? Stupid bitch! He fought down his shock and anger. “You spilled your drink all over my two-hundred-dollar pants!”

“I’m sorry.” She grabbed a handful of napkins and began patting down his crotch. Nails dragged up his inner thigh. “Why don’t you finish yours and we’ll go someplace where I can clean you up properly?”

John gulped down his scotch in a single swallow. The motel was just across the street. Why waste time here.

He fumbled for the key in his pocket then fumbled again trying to insert it. Damn lock. A card key would be easier, but you get what you pay for.

“Hurry…” she breathed in his ear.

The key turned in the lock. The door flew open and they tumbled inside. Suddenly sleepy he flopped on the bed, his erection bulging in his pants. The blonde placed her purse on the bedside table. Why do these old broads have such goddamned big purses?

“Sweet buns, you could be a plumber with the size of that bag. Make any houth callths?” Did he just slur? He tried to sit up but she pushed him back gently and slipped off his shoes.

“Be back in a second, honey. Got to wash my hands.”

“Wash your handths?”

She shrugged. “Habit.”

The blonde came back toweling her hands, only now there were two of her. He blinked. Even that was hard to do.

She unzipped her purse and snapped on latex gloves with practiced ease.

“Latex gloves?” he thought dimly.

Something metallic flashed in her hand. “I think you will find ketamine is more effective when mixed with Valium.”

“What…”

Bob entered the surgery just as Angie was closing the Great Dane. “You’re in early.”

“Just wanted to finish this postmortem.”

“Cause of death?”

“Kidney failure.”

“Poor old fellow. Not a nice way to go. Here, let me help you move him to the crematorium.”

“Thanks, Bob.”

Bob paused as they reached the oven. “Suzie won’t testify against the bastard?”

“She feels it’s partially her fault.”

“Nonsense! Being drugged and raped is not a normal college date.” Bob slid the Great Dane into the oven. “If she doesn’t testify the creep will do it to somebody else.”

Angie watched as the flames consumed the carcass and its four kidneys–two scarred and shriveled, two flush in the prime of youth. “How long do you figure someone can live without any kidneys?”

“About seventy-two hours, give or take.”

Angie smiled. She thought he was probably right.

“Nothing I could do about it… It’s hopeless,” Charlie complained in agony under the blankets. “I’m a lost cause, Terry.”

I looked at my long-time friend as we sat there in his obscure living room. He had kept the blinds closed through quite some time now. The apartment was a mess and the stench was so intense that I had to cover my nose with my shirt occasionally and breathe in through my mouth.

“You should see the doctor, Charlie. It’s gotten worse, hasn’t it?” I asked the wrapped-up pile over on the couch. The blankets pulsated in a shiver.

“No! No doctors! If you bring a doctor in here, Terry, I’ll never forgive you. I still get around… Can’t go outside anymore, though, but I can live with that.” He ran short of breath. Since the last time I spoke to him there was a change in his voice too. A change that scared the living piss out of me! His voice had gotten deeper, more nasal and snarl-like.

“You ought to just go away. Leave me alone from now on. You can’t save me… Please, I’m begging you!”

It was painful to see him like this–not to mention the speed and increase of the transformation. It was horrifying.

I remembered the day three weeks ago when it all began. Charlie had called me on my cell phone, sounding both afraid and euphoric. He wasn’t making much sense as he rambled on about “changes,” “magic” and “the fluid in the jar.” So I rushed from campus to his apartment. He was sweating like a dog when I got there, grinding his teeth and gesticulating wildly, his hair pointing in every direction. He talked extremely fast, using a very private kind of logic that made him sound on the verge of a psychosis.

“Terry, Terry! Glad you’re here. Come on in, there’s something I’ve got to show you!” Today, I wish he had never shown me what he did…

“What is that?” I asked when I saw the brown jar on the table in the living room. His eyes shone with enthusiasm.

“Indescribable. I’ll show you.” He started walking over to the table.

“Where did you get that?” I went over beside him, leaned forward and looked into the jar. A thick, clumpy and green mass floated around down there. It smelled like rotting fruit. Charlie pulled up his left sleeve and put his hand into the jar, penetrating the surface of the moisture.

“Watch this…” he said in a hoarse voice, eyes bulging out of their sockets. He kept his hand in the bubbly moisture for a few seconds and then hauled it up.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake… My God, no! Charlie, what have you done? What is it in that jar?”

He just looked at me, holding out his left arm so I could see where his hand had been. Now it was… gone, invisible.

“Don’t worry. Hand will reappear in five or ten minutes. Magic, huh?” he said with a mysterious grin on his face.

“You’re crazy, man… That’s madness! What is that fluid in that jar, Charlie?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know what’s in there. I found it behind the complex yesterday,” Charlie said and stared hypnotically at the jar.

A thump over by the couch dragged me out of my memories. Charlie had fallen or crawled down on the floor. He moaned. It was a disgusting, gurgling sound. His head appeared over the edge of the table. I pulled back on the chair. The voice was now unrecognizable.

“Terry… for… God’s… sake…”

Charlie’s face was all covered with some sort of green, mold-like fungus. Clearly it was spreading fast. There was no doubt in my mind about what I had to do. I reached in my jacket pocket and pulled out the borrowed .38 and pointed it at the thing over by the couch.

“Sorry, Charlie. May God forgive me,” I said and pulled the trigger.

I sat on the dock every day. I enjoyed the breezes off the lake, like the solitude of the water. My pole and my tackle box sat beside me. Inside the plastic container, I kept a school of minnows; also, I brought a small container into which I planned to put worms when the bucket emptied. With the water warm below me, I took off my shoes and put them by the yellow bait box. My feet fell into the liquid. They chilled immediately, and I wiggled them quickly and happily.

I took a minnow from the plastic container. Like my feet, it wiggled like it wished to flap in the water and stay there. A blot of blood oozed from the fish when I hooked it. The minnow didn’t fight as badly as I thought. Truthfully, it didn’t fight as badly as I hoped. Casting a lengthy line, I threw it into the lake. It landed as far from me as I could hurl it. Soundlessly, it plopped into the liquid. A bite jabbed the line. Another took my ankle; it nearly pulled me into the water.

Recently, my mother had offered a gift to my friends and me. She had taken everyone to the water park. One problem had existed which my mother hadn’t planned. I had never learned to swim. My brother had understood it at the park. With a slimy hand on my ankle, I had stood painfully; I couldn’t break the hold. With the pressure of his fist, I had jumped off the small platform into the shallow end. Then he had laughed while I had paddled helplessly. Finally, I had stood upright, with my face red and my limbs sore.

Holding the dock, I fought until my ankle lifted. Without the light of daytime anymore, I went down to the shoreline, and tried to look for the intruder who broke my solitude. Waving the flashlight, I found nobody. My brother probably took my leg and pulled it, like he had below the bridge at the park. With my light, I looked but I couldn’t find any footprints. Only animals had pressed their feet near the edge–a lot of animals, actually, had left tracks, which had already filled with black liquid.

Walking back to the dock, I tripped on a knotty vine and fell into the lake. My head submerged; liquid filled my nose and mouth. As a fish would on land, my body flopped inside the wide spirals of water that surrounded it. Weeds floated by my eyes, and I could feel my stomach fill with muck. An ugly sight warned me that I didn’t struggle alone. Although my brother hadn’t, someone had indeed pulled my calf.

A blurry blue spot looked like a fish eye. Only, it stared steadily; it didn’t swim or bob. Naturally, fish didn’t get that big by my house. A fluffy bushel of hair waved below the water. Around the shoreline, the brush looked sticky, bloody. Small flies jumped off the mud and buzzed loudly; a mess of insects bounced off the shiny surface.

Grabbing a root, I pulled myself back. I found a foothold and a place for my hands to yank my body to the surface. Although I didn’t die, I could have; briefly, I believed I did. As I walked home, with my body jittery and my throat scratchy (I still coughed loudly), I realized that I should take lessons on how to swim properly. With the lake by my house, it could keep me alive.

In my haste, I forgot my pole. When the sunlight shone, I went back to retrieve it. When I did, I found a smelly sunfish hooked to my line. Like the body below the dock, it too had lost its fleshy meat and had decomposed to its empty bones. I took the bait box, ran quickly, and never enjoyed the solitude again.