MicroHorror

They didn’t reach the new house until late at night. Through the car window, Maddie watched the rows of houses fly by–the same two-story homes with the same mailbox and neatly manicured lawn.

“What’s the house number, Mommy?”

“1715,” answered Mommy. She took a turn into a cul-de-sac and the boxes piled in the back seat pushed Maddie against the car door.

1715 Meadowhill Court. That would be her new home.

“This should be it,” said Mommy, pulling into a driveway.

The house’s only distinguishing feature was Daddy’s truck parked on the curb. For a moment, Maddie thought she saw a shadow flash by one of the upstairs bedrooms.

Maddie helped Mommy by carrying a box labeled CDs and ringing the doorbell. The chime reverberated through the house, its quiet music echoed by the sudden sound of footsteps, which grew louder and louder until the door swung open, revealing Daddy.

“I was just assembling the dining chairs,” he said cheerfully, taking the box from Maddie and kissing Mommy on the cheek. “Come on in.”

While her parents unloaded Mommy’s car, Maddie explored the house: the living room stacked with boxes; the kitchen, where Daddy had already assembled the dining table; the bathrooms that smelled like paint. She ran upstairs, peeking into the master bedroom before skipping down the hall to the next door: her own bedroom. Her heart thudded with excitement as she examined the room. She maneuvered around boxes, opened the closet door and flicked the light switch on and off, on and off.

“Don’t do that, Maddie,” said Mommy, “you’ll kill the lights.” She held a sleeping bag. “For today, we’re all going to sleep in Mommy and Daddy’s room. We’ll go to Ikea tomorrow and pick you out a new bed.”

A brand new bed, just for her. She took the sleeping bag from Mommy and followed her back down the hall. Just as they reached the master bedroom, the door to Maddie’s room slammed shut.

Maggie jumped. “What was that?”

Mommy frowned. “Oh, Daddy probably just left the window open. It’s a bit gusty tonight.”

Maddie fell into an uneasy sleep, drifting in and out of strange dreams and the sound of Daddy snoring. Her eyes flew open when Daddy gave a particularly large grunt, and then she heard the hurried whisper: “Maddie.”

She sat up, wide-eyed. “Hello?”

“I’m in your room.”

Maddy bit her lip. She glanced at her sleeping parents, unease crawling up and down her spine.

“Maddie,” murmured the voice again, and a warm sensation spread across her skin. Her body got to its feet, and she tiptoed out of the room.

Her bedroom door was open a crack. She peeked in and saw a dark shadow hovering over the boxes.

Her heart thumped, but she cautiously pushed the door open wider.

“Don’t be afraid,” whispered the shadow. “I won’t hurt you.” The shadow flew around the room, illuminated by moonlight. “I just want to be your friend.”

Enticed, Maddie opened the door further, taking her first step into her room. She barely felt it as the shadow flew into her, covering her little body like a tight-fitting suit.

“Maddie, come down and set the table,” called Ashley. The kitchen overflowed with the scent of homemade cooking. Ashley added a little pepper to her sauce before yelling again, “Maddie!”

Her daughter came thundering down the steps. “What do you want?”

Ashley frowned, noting the sneer on her daughter’s face and the strange tint of her skin. “Don’t you use that tone with me, young lady.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Her mother put her hands on her hips. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you these days, but your behavior needs to stop.”

Maddie smiled, and Ashley almost took a step back as a hint of something stirred behind the little girl’s eyes. “Oh, you’ll find out, dear Mother. You’ll see.”

The demon Aeshma whispered. And I listened to the voice that sounded like the rustling of long dead leaves, the words seeming to emanate from the very molecules of the air itself. A million raspy voices from a single entity that filled the room and caused my eardrums to quiver with its resonance. And yet my parents slept on. Unaware of my shadow falling over their bed, oblivious to the glint of moonlight off the blade of the knife.

I thought of the cat lying on my bedroom floor, its blood tracing a nine-pointed star around its lifeless body. I could picture the black candles flickering light and shadow across its matted fur, could almost smell the aroma of incense, thick and sweet like the overpowering fragrance of flowers clustered tightly into a funeral home. And I thought of Michelle standing in my brother’s bedroom, her own knife in hand, listening to the demon whisper as well. Soon, we would hold the power of life and death in our hands; we would become King and Queen of the new, dark world. All of Aeshma’s promises would come to fruition with the completion of one simple act.

My father snored and rolled over in his sleep so that he was now on his back with the sheet tucked snugly beneath his chin. I watched his chest rise and fall, envisioning where his heart would be. My aim had to be precise, my stroke quick and complete… a true King could not afford to hesitate at the moment of his crowning glory.

“Soon,” Aeshma whispered in the darkness, “so very soon.”

I remembered when Michelle and I first found The Book in my grandfather’s attic, how the wind almost seemed to sigh through the cracks in the walls when we opened its cover. The pages felt warm and oily and the words and symbols almost seemed as if they were floating slightly above the paper. At that moment, the unfolding of our destiny had begun; looking back, I understood there was no other way this could have played out.

My mother and father had eventually found The Book, of course. I suspect they were searching through my room, expecting to find drugs or a hidden bottle of whiskey. Anything that would explain the sudden change in my behavior and the slump in my grades.

When I came home that day, they were waiting for me in the living room. I remember them yelling, something about how they didn’t want this sort of trash in their home and how they raised me better than that. To be honest, however, the sounds of their anger had been almost been entirely drowned out by Aeshma’s voice reassuring me that this changed nothing. And it hadn’t. They had taken The Book, but by then it was too late. Michelle and I had already committed the ceremony to memory and begun gathering the essential supplies.

“It’s time!” Aeshma hissed. “Do it, human, do it now!”

I raised the knife over my head and tightened my grip until my knuckles were white and throbbing.

“Do it! Do it!”

At that moment, my father bolted upright in bed, slinging the sheets from his body. He was fully dressed and held a small pistol in his hand. A pistol which was aimed directly at my head. I stood like a man frozen in time, my mind reeling and confused by this turn of events.

My mother was now also sitting up and I noticed the smirk that had crept across her face.

“Do it, honey,” she said. “Do it for your Queen.”

I became aware of The Book, clutched tightly to her chest. From down the hall, I heard Michelle laughing and calling out.

“I did it, Timmy! I did it! I really did it!”

My father cocked the pistol with his thumb and smiled.

“Goodbye, Timothy. We have no room for a Prince in our Kingdom.”

And then the demon Aeshma laughed.

“May I have the honor of this dance, darling?” Taking her gloved hand in his, he wrapped his arm around her waist and lifted his bride to her feet. On the moonlit terrace, he held her close, feeling each rise and fall of her chest as they moved to the music of Haydn.

The sound of a horse and carriage faded in the distance.

“I am happy to be your husband, holding you in my arms on this most auspicious night.” He pulled her closer.

“It is interesting that we should end up together after so many suitors came knocking at your door.”

Her hand brushed his neck.

“I know, darling. I know.” He kissed her lips.

“Shhhhh,” he said, silencing her attempt to speak. “I just want to hear the beat of your heart.” The room swirled around them, blending in with the night.

“That evening seven months ago when we met at the Governor’s Ball, the moment I laid eyes on you, I knew this was meant to be. When you tossed those flowing brown locks, the movement sang to me.” He twisted a strand of her tousled hair in his fingers.

“You were with your prince, remember? The tragic carriage accident left you a maiden again and even though you tried to push me away, I stayed by your side to see you through your loss.” He smiled.

“My persistence paid off. Knowing I was the sole heir to my wealthy uncle’s estate won your father over.” He dipped her. “We were destined to be together.”

As he waltzed her around the balcony, her head drifted to his shoulder. “There, there. It has been a long day.” He nuzzled her neck. “I know you are exhausted. Shall we retire to the bedroom?”

She let out a long deep sigh.

“Me too.” He scooped her up, cradling her body, and carried her over the threshold. They glided down a dark hallway to the master suite. Dim light from the fireplace glittered off rose petals sprinkled across the floor. She looked at him with intoxicating, deep green eyes, as he laid her down on the pillows.

He walked to the chest of drawers, removing his bow tie and ruffled silk shirt. “What your father did not know was that my uncle has been dead for years, and alas, I gambled away his fortune.” He saw her reflection in a mirror over the vanity. “The pauper I used to impersonate him was very convincing, was he not?” He turned.

His bride’s eyes were wide with horror. The sedative he’d given her had nearly worn off.

“It will all be over soon.” He knelt on the bed next to her. The surgical blade glinted in the light of the fire.

A tear trickled down her face. She tried to speak, but her lips were crudely sewn shut. He moved the dowry in the leather satchel to the side, raised the razor high above his head, and finished the task.

“Thank you for–the dance.”

Vito sat on his couch in his small house, in the rural countryside, in the middle of a chilly Minnesota winter. When he looked outside, the frozen cornstalks billowed softly, almost playfully, in the light breeze that rattled the windows. Inside his hand, he held a yellow flower, which bent by the stem as though a heavy weight rested in the middle of its fluffy petals. With his palm, he brushed his hair back, and licked his lips in anticipation of his bride’s arrival. Married three years, he could still feel adrenaline because of her. Thus, he wished to look presentable for her everyday.

As she always had before, Mina walked through the doorway, patted her thick boots on the mat, and put her jacket on the rack. She slithered from her simple clothes slowly and smoothly, in a way that brought heat to Vito’s face. After she folded her flannel blouse and oozed out of her jeans, she walked towards her husband in her black bra and panties. Her body jiggled lightly, with just the proper amount of perkiness. While still youthful, her breasts had lost just a hint of firmness; they flopped somewhat, yet her husband barely noticed. In her black wool socks, she crept silently, as a kitten would by the tail of a mouse. Touching the thick pad, with lust in his eyes, Vito invited her to sit on the cushion by his side.

Openly as a three-year-old child to a happy parent, she could talk about her night; she always could before. Vito could listen to her chirpy voice for hours and never feel boredom. She would always spend the nights looking for pleasure. As lovely as she looked, it would take just a few hours to satisfy her needs. Usually. Whether Vito approved mattered very little anymore.

“Could you bait the hook without any trouble?” On the couch, Vito talked about his job and his life, but brought the conversation back to hers. She sat by his side, looking at the fire. Crackling loudly, it ruptured another hefty log. “Did those animals take your bait?” Despite her silence, he understood by her forlorn expression. He said, “I’d be surprised if they didn’t.” Surprise opened his eyes widely.

Instead of talk, Mina hugged her husband tightly. Curling her supple arms around his body, with her head on his shoulder, she shook her head. Vito didn’t believe her; how could he? When she flipped her blonde hair and jiggled her voluptuous body, most men wouldn’t be able to resist; at least, they never had before. She looked for ordinary men; usually, she found plenty.

From her body, Vito heard the sound of metal crumpling slowly, completely; her body cried for the food that it needed for survival. Mina had yet to eat; she seemed to need it badly. Growing behind her upper lip, her pointy teeth touched her husband’s neck lightly, and then sharply, without viciousness. Caressing his thick neck with its tongue, an animal played with Vito. Without concern for anyone, it bit instinctively, with frustration rather than aggression. As an animal would, Mina jabbed her teeth into his body. Only blood seemed to quench her thirst, and thus, heal the inner pain that broke their bond of matrimony. Her husband found just one way to offer it.

Vito didn’t resist; instead, he spoke a final line that told of his devotion to the beauty that had married him three years before. He said, “I’d be lonely without you.” Slowly yet without hesitation, Vito laid his head back. A mask of perspiration covered his hairy body, from the fire or from the hunger of his bride. Groaning, she nibbled his fleshy nape, and finally, took his blood. While she did, Vito looked at her with narrow eyes yet with a smile that wouldn’t leave his lips.

The Martian ambassador and the leader of the mission from Earth stood together at the edge of the pond.

“We call this ‘The Pond of Truth,’” the Martian said.

“What does it do?” asked Colonel Beckwith.

“When one looks into the pond,” the Martian explained, “one sees one’s true nature in the reflection.”

“Is that so?”

“It is.”

“Is it ever wrong?”

“No,” said the Martian. “Never.”

Colonel Beckwith leaned over the pond. In the reflection he saw himself drawing his photon pistol and blasting the Martian in the head.

Suddenly the Martian ambassador’s hands wrapped around Colonel Beckwith’s neck. He shoved the Earthman to the ground and pushed his head beneath the pond’s surface. The pond was full of some sort of Martian acid, which dissolved Colonel Beckwith’s head in a matter of seconds. The Martian tossed the headless body behind him and looked into the pond. Once the surface settled, the Martian saw the same thing reflected that he had seen before the Earth mission arrived: his family, enjoying a meal of roasted human flesh.

“No,” the Martian said, smiling, “it’s never wrong.” He grabbed the Colonel’s body by the ankle and headed for home.

Edna and Ralph were cozy in the back of his father’s baby-blue Ford Fairlane. Slowly, the car began to rock. Their rhythm seemed to harmonize with the very sounds of nature all around them. Night birds courted among the lush canopy of trees, singing away the last faint rays of light. The golden-rimmed clouds parted, revealing the perfect orb of the full rising moon. An unearthly howl filled the forest then, silencing all. The teenage lovers, lost in the perfect solipsism of young lust, heard nothing but their own haggard breath, moving faster and faster. It took the squeal of preternatural claws rending the metal flesh of the hardtop to jolt them from their…

***

“Carl, this isn’t about werewolves, is it? They’ve been done to death. And teenagers? Next they’ll be meeting up with Laurel and Hardy. This is 3-D we’re launching here. Three-god-damned-D. You’re proposing we waste the single most exciting revolution in moviemaking on the same old shit that we’ve been turning out year after year?”

“People like werewolves, Mr. Anderson.” Carl flushed purple, but had already moved the sheaf of papers to the bottom of a rather impressive stack.

“People liked Nixon at one point, Carl.”

“Point taken, Mr. Anderson. Perhaps we could try something a little different.”

“Yes, different. Now we’re talking.” The portly film exec leaned back in his padded chair. He lit another cigarette from the end of the one he was finishing, and took a drag. “Go ahead, Carl. Wow me.”

***

The new young master of the house arrived early in the day. The stately manor house had been a bequest of his recently departed Uncle Chesterton. Putting aside the bizarrely hostile behavior of the locals, including the rough young gent who’d shown him to the gate, he felt a kinship to the place. There was something in the air here that called to his blood.

It was only later that night, as he was making his way toward the lower chambers, that he got his first inkling of something amiss. All was silent, which was odd, as the house was draughty, and should’ve been a haven for mice and rats.

The chamber at the bottom of the spiraling staircase was shut tight. Alvin put his shoulder to it, and grudgingly, it gave. Upon spying the large oblong box in the corner…

***

“Vampires, huh? That’s different, Carl? You think any self-respecting teenager is going to strap blue and red glasses to his head to sit through… Listen, listen closely, Carl–that sound you’re hearing is Bela Lugosi spinning in his grave and the son-of-a-bitch isn’t even dead yet. And again with the “silent,” we’re making talkies here, Carl. Jesus.”

Flustered, Carl drew in a deep breath, and started muttering. It was so low, it sounded like buzzing.

“What was that, Carl?” The exec was fuming. The meeting was a bust.

The scrawny writer pushed up Coke-bottle glasses and cleared his throat. “I said I’ve got one more.”

“Well, let’s hear it.”

***

The moon shone coldly with pale white light. The silence of the desert filled the air with ominous foreboding. In a far-off corner of a crypt, the dust began to stir…

***

“I swear to God, Carl, if it’s fucking mummies, I’ll garrote you with that stupid purple necktie you’re wearing. You’re supposed to be a writing genius, Carl. You’re a HACK!”

Carl was murmuring/buzzing again, but Anderson took no notice. “Why on earth do I pay you? You’re worthless–what’s more… you’re fired. Get out of my sight.”

At this, Carl’s face split in two, and released the monstrous fly-thing that had been using him as a shell. Pincers like scimitars clicked in front of its mouth. Shaking off blood from its wings, it launched itself into the air, and sped toward Anderson. His last thought before his head was snipped from his body was, “Now that’s what I wanted to see.”

Hide, Mama.

Take your daughters to the false security of the attic.

Take buckets of water, baskets of food.

Hide… and pray.

A shawl-covered face lined with worry peeked through the small attic window helplessly watching as dozens of her neighbors were consumed by the beast. Groups of men fought bravely but to no avail. Many died. Even some women and children were struck down on the spot while others were carried off to an unknown fate. The dead would remain where they lay. No one would dare to move them, not even under cover of darkness. The thing’s depredations had nearly reduced the town to a city of ghosts.

Mama held her two daughters close, trying unsuccessfully to quiet their fears while they hid in the attic of their ancestral home, surrounded by heirlooms and family treasures of days long past. Two sets of terrified five-year-old eyes pleaded with her for reassurance but Mama’s eyes betrayed the hollow despairing terror raging within.

Mama knew it was futile to hide. Soon the food and water would be depleted.
But she held on, for the sake of her children. She hummed the lullaby her girls loved as they settled against her bosom enjoying the comfort of her warmth.

CLOMP! Mama gasped. The girls screamed before mama could cup her hands around their mouths. Something was in their house.

CLOMP! The crash of heavy footfalls on wooden steps echoed up the stairwell.

CLOMP! Mama prayed and cried silent tears.

CLOMP! The girls whimpered through mama’s fingers. She shushed her little ones to silence.

CLOMP! shuffle…

The attic door rattled as something tried to push it open. There were inarticulate sounds… then silence.

CRASH! The door caved inward in showers of splintered wood. The dresser and old trunks piled against it proved no match for the creature’s strength. The girls’ screams were ear-splitting. Mama wailed.

The monster fixed its gaze on the ragged mass of humanity huddled beneath the table. A cruel grin stretched its taut face. A beam of sunlight streaming through the small window fell upon the dreaded SS insignia embroidered on the monster’s immaculate uniform. It nodded to a subordinate and Mama and her two screaming daughters were roughly pulled toward the doorway.

A blazing match traced a fiery arc through the attic gloom throwing grotesque dancing shadows on the walls. The monster grinned as old photographs curled into ashes and orange flames devoured the memories of generations.

Mama’s knees buckled. A moan wrenched from her breaking heart fell upon the ears of the monster but affected it not. She cried, she begged, she promised anything for her children’s sake but the monster’s armor was impenetrable, and the attic dwellers, though alive, were effectively dead as they were forced down the steps into the bitter cold day and onto the waiting truck.

The beast exited the burning house and admired his handiwork. The mother was beside herself, wailing in utter despair. The girls screamed and fed on her fear.

The monster approached her. “Mama, don’t cry so! Auschwitz is not so bad. You have been listening to propaganda. I received word today that over five hundred Jews have left Auschwitz. And that is just today’s numbers. They have been set free… relocated.”

Mama gazed into his dark eyes. Mistrust mingled with fear.

The monster feigned hurt. “On my word as an officer!”

Mama dared allow a glimmer of hope into her heart.

“Yes, Mama, there is a way to leave Auschwitz. Once you arrive it will be explained so be sure to listen closely. Don’t lose hope. Be strong for your children.” With that the truck roared to life and soon was out of sight.

The monster nodded. “Yes, there is a final solution, a way out. One way.” He turned toward the house and watched the column of smoke billow upward.

She was so beautiful–so very, very, beautiful. What father would not do all he could to protect her? And so Dioscorus built a high tower and forbade anyone to enter except for himself and one maidservant.

Barbara grew more beautiful year on year but only her father saw it. He was determined that none should sully his daughter. The slobbering youths he saw outside his walls were all unworthy of her charms. He only… only he could love her as she deserved.

She escaped once but was discovered and brought back. Found by some good shepherd and penned.

Susanna brought her food and comfort and also a catechism and told her that her father was wrong to keep her thus locked up for his own pleasure. Dioscorus found the book and was furious for he was a committed pagan. He forbade her to pray.

But when he went away on business, Barbara had a third window put in the tower to represent the Holy Spirit. She swore it was a miracle sent from God. Did she really believe or was this the only voice she could put to her despair?

Her father’s fury now reached greater heights. He denounced her. She was imprisoned once again and this time at the mercy of strangers. Perhaps Dioscorus suspected she was no longer his alone. Sent before the prefect of the province, Barbara was condemned to burn.

Her gaolers had never seen such beauty and they swore that when they’d tried to burn her they found she would not burn. Every time they tried their torches would extinguish, so they said. And so once more she was kept alive. Surely another blessed miracle…

At length she was released back to her father who decided to carry out the death sentence himself. He took Barbara up to a high mountaintop and there he hacked her head off with his sword.

On the way down the mountain, God struck the pagan sword with a lightning bolt. Thus it is told did Barbara become the Saint of all who work with fire or explosives, because she would not burn, while her father was consumed by fire.

***

One might perhaps observe it was a pity God wasn’t “ahead of the game.” Then again perhaps the making of saints just excuses the worst excesses of man and has nothing whatever to do with God. At any rate Barbara’s story is no longer considered authentic and so the 4th of December is no longer her official saint’s day.

Who knows the brief brutality of the life that Barbara led?

One thing I have discovered. You excavate the story. You examine the finds. Sometimes you hear the distant echo of a scream. But history and legend are written by the victors. Thereafter it’s the archaeology of interpretation.

18th October 1916
Picardi, France

Dear Mum,

I’m sorry it’s been so long since my last letter, but I really haven’t had the time to write. All the boys say thanks for the biscuits you sent me–we had them with a cup of tea and they all said how they were the best biscuits they’ve had since leaving Blighty, so well done mum!

I’m on watch duty tonight and Corporal Jenkins is filling in this month’s munitions order in the dug-out, which means I’ve got both time and light to write to you. I know you must be worried about me, but everyone reckons it will be all over by Christmas and we’ll be on our way home. Won’t that be nice? Christmas back home with you, dad and Emily–I can almost taste that turkey!

There aren’t so many of us left as the last time I wrote. Not many came back from the last charge… well… we’re not really sure what happened to the others. Sergeant Parker says they deserted and I’m sure he knows what he’s talking about, but where would they go? One of the boys says Davenport hauled himself over the top of the trench one night and walked off across the mud, as bold as you like and disappeared into the dark.

I’m scared. I shouldn’t say it, but I am, because I’ve seen it–seen something out there in No Man’s Land–a shadow that’s darker than the night. You’ll think I’m being silly, but it’s true. I saw it last night and the night before, something so black that it blots out the moon and the stars. It dances out there in the churned mud and dirt, as thin as a sliver one minute, then wide enough to eat the sky the next.

That’s not all, mum. It speaks to me, I’m sure it does. When I’m out here, waiting for the dawn to come, I can hear a voice in the dark. It’s low and sweet and gentle, so quiet that I can barely make out the words, yet I can hear it over the howling wind as clear as church bells.

It’s calling me, telling me to rise from my post and climb over the top of the trench. There’s nothing to be afraid of, it says, the guns won’t get me while I’m dancing. I can’t make out the words; I just know that’s what it wants me to do. It sounds so lonely, like it’s seen some terrible sadness.

The shadow is moving again; closer than the last couple of nights. It’s so dark and cold, that I can barely keep my fingers from shaking. It’s coming closer, weaving in and out of the barbed wire, twisting and turning as though it’s trying to move in a hundred different directions at once.

I’m trying to be brave and I’m trying to do my duty, but I can’t take my eyes off it. That voice is in my ear again, telling me to join in the dance, just like Davenport and all the others. I don’t want to go, but it doesn’t feel like a request, more like a prediction.

I’ll have to stop writing now; I can see Jenkins blowing on the ink of his report and I suppose he’ll be putting out the lamp and retiring for the night. Don’t worry mum, I won’t be on my own. All the boys are with me, all those boys that went out and danced, knowing that they’d be safe from the bombs, the blood and the madness.

It’s moving closer, now; I can see it stark and black against the sky. Soon the light will go out and I won’t be able to see it any more, but it will be there, dancing through the valley of Death.

I love you mum. I love dad and I love Emily too.

I’m not scared any more.

Your loving son,

David.

The searchlights cut through the night, picking out the droning Luftwaffe bombers far overhead. Anti-aircraft guns positioned in London parks and the surrounding countryside kept up a constant barrage.

“What’s Jerry doing up there?” Private Wilkes asked his gun commander as another aeroplane passed without dropping bombs.

“Something tricky,” Lieutenant Smythe replied. “You can count on it. Definitely something tricky.”

“Tea?” Jane the wireless operator asked, approaching with a thermos and some white china cups.

“I’d prefer something a little stronger,” Wilkes laughed. “But if that’s all there is….?”

“I may have a little something to pep it up,” Archie the fourth member of the unit offered, and headed for the cab of their lorry. Suddenly he cried out as something floored him with the force of a rugby tackle. Before he could call out again, sharp teeth were tearing at his throat.

“Get the torch on it!” Smythe shouted, releasing his pistol from its holster.

Wilkes played the beam on the struggling forms. “My God, it’s a German. They must be using black parachutes so we don’t see them coming down. Typically underhand!”

“Achtung, Fritz. Off that man immediately or I’ll fire,” Smythe ordered.

The invader continued to gorge. Smythe fired a shot into the air, and the man rose slowly to his feet, face hideously dark with blood.

“Hände hoch!” The Lieutenant raised his own hands to convey the message. “Wilkes, cover him with your rifle. Jane, see if Archie made it.”

Jane screamed as the parachutist rushed to intercept her.

“I warned you.” Smythe fired into the chest of the advancing figure.

The bullet hit with an audible thud. The Lieutenant fired again and Wilkes joined in with his Lee Enfield but to no effect.

“It ain’t human!” Wilkes cried as he reloaded.

Smythe found himself the focus of attention. A boxing Blue at Oxford, he defended himself with swinging uppercuts and heavy body blows. The creature was not playing by the Marquis of Queensbury rules, grabbing the Lieutenant’s hand and trying to eat it.

“Take that, you cad!” Jane swung the lorry’s snow shovel in a whistling arc. The sharp edge cut through the thing’s neck, releasing a geyser of blood.

“Well done, Jane,” Smythe said thankfully. “Now for a closer look at this fellow.”

Approaching to help, Wilkes kicked something on the floor. “Cor! Real Havana cigars, these are.”

“Oh, what have I done?” Jane screamed, as the torch revealed a familiar face.

“It’s Winnie, sir!” Wilkes gasped. “Jane’s killed Winston Churchill.”

The strong, bulldog features of the Prime Minister gazed blankly up at them.

“Don’t worry, it’s a Doppelganger, Jane. This thing isn’t Mr. Churchill, it’s a double. Must be some kind of new Nazi secret weapon,” Smythe exclaimed. He bent to look more closely. “So perfect! We should be careful, there may be others around. We must let HQ know.”

Jane started toward the wireless and screamed. Smythe and Wilkes were beside her in seconds.

She pointed straight ahead. A dark shape could just be seen coming across the field.

***

Winston’s advisors were against him going anywhere on his own, but the gun crew was less than a mile from his temporary home and he’d sneaked out to surprise them. He loved surprises. In one hand he carried a glowing cigar, in the other a small hamper containing sandwiches made by his housekeeper and a half bottle of quite good brandy. He squinted as a light blinded him.

“Turn that off!” Winston ordered. “I’m sure you recognize me. I’ve brought a small repast to thank you for your sterling work in keeping Britain safe.”’

“Even sounds like him,” Wilkes observed.

“So, a double Doppelganger! Well, we’ve beaten one, we can beat another,” Smythe announced, raising his pistol at the advancing shape. “Jane!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Get your shovel.”