MicroHorror

Trapped.

Stag night. Prank. Drink. Can’t remember.

Focus.

Breathe.

Think.

Floor wet. Sticky. Area smelly. Pungent.

Something coming.

In head.

Recollection?

Yes.

Toilet!

In toilet.

Public toilet. Outside. Abandoned. Not much used.

Dark. No light.

Phone.

In my pocket.

No signal.

But light.

Use it.

See door.

Move hands towards it.

Locked.

Look around.

No keys. Anywhere.

Panic.

Claustrophobia.

Think!

Remember.

Friends out. Big session. Drink. Lots of drink. No stripper. Disappointed.

Then saw Ken.

Been a while.

Not long enough.

“No hard feelings, mate?”

“None.” Smile on his face. But maybe not in eyes. Had too much to drink. Hard to focus. Can’t remember. “How is Dawn, by the way?”

“Great!”

We drink. Feel guilty. Less so as we drink more.

Group breaks up. Bar closes. Club won’t let us in. Taxis beckon. Kebabs eaten. Goodbyes come. Poetic handshakes and potential hangovers. Watch everyone leave.

Except Ken.

Feel his hand. On my back.

“Night’s young. Another drink.”

Slur yes.

He buys drink.

Tastes funny.

Drink anyway.

Blackness next.

Wake up here.

Floor wet.

Graffiti on wall.

Door locked.

Shout, “help.”

No reply.

Look up.

See something.

Attic?

Yes, attic. Where supplies are kept. But door to it open.

Wonder what’s up there.

Move to see.

Foot hits something.

Look down.

Scream.

Man dead. On floor. Blood-covered badge says, “caretaker.”

Laugh comes.

From above.

Look up.

Picture drops down.

Dawn and I.

My face crossed out. Violently. Deeply.

Second photo falls.

Old one.

One I know well.

Dawn and Ken.

Before the breakup.

Before me.

Guilt returns.

As figure drops.

To feet.

Landing in front of me.

Eyes meet mine.

Glowing red in the darkness.

Knife in hand.

Keys to toilet in other.

Ken speaks.

“Hello, groom.

“Guess what?”

I speak.

“What?”

He smiles.

“No wedding.”

Advances.

“The best man just won.”

• Copyright: © 2010 Shaun Avery

A long time ago in Merry England, there lived a flesh-eating parasite by the name of K’rd. In its native language on planet R’drock, K’rd translates as both “hate” and “collector of food.” Upon landing near Locksley, K’rd found its first food in question: a young babe in the cradle of a peasant. K’rd, being no longer than a needle to pull thread, let itself be swallowed by the babe, whereupon it took residence in its skull.

The child is known today as the famous Robin Hood, with an artificially enhanced psyche that made him the best shot with a longbow in all of England.

As K’rd replaced his bodily fluids with venom and eggs on an extremely slow daily basis, Robin formed a band of sevenscore merry men in Sherwood Forest, courted the beautiful Maid Marian, and defeated the greedy Sheriff of Nottingham.

After the king’s pardon, Robin’s mind began to deteriorate. He became less and less merry, and no longer delighted in archery contests and October ale. He started to see things that were not visible to the naked eye. Finally, on one sunny day in a cottage of Sherwood, Maid Marian remarked on the twitching black larvae visible beneath his wrist.

“’Tis the offspring of K’rd, my dear,” said Robin.

“Is it serious?” said Maid Marian.

“Aye, but you needn’t worry,” said Robin. With that, he extended a very long tendril from within his tongue and removed Maid Marian’s brain whole through her right nostril.

After laying an egg sac in her now empty skull and burying her under the cover of darkness, Robin then drenched her brain in his own periwinkle maggot-infested vomit and cured it for a month.

After his band of merry men searched all of the kingdom for Maid Marian, a meeting was arranged in which Robin presented her brain. It had now grown into a hideous crustacean five meters tall, and it bore no resemblance to a brain whatsoever.

Before the men of Sherwood could even draw their bows, the brainbeast doused them in a torrent of fertilized eggs, which promptly hatched, and the newborn brainbeasts infected the merry men with a terrible disease that hollowed out their bodies from the inside and made K’rd thousands upon thousands of brothers and sisters swarm out from within their corpses.

Little John, who had been off hunting, heard the screams and came running in from the woods. All he saw was a sea of screeching and twitching K’rdlings, the terrible brainbeast and its children, his barely recognizable dead comrades, and Robin Hood, who frolicked in a pool of his own vomit and eggs. Little John was then devoured by the hungry brainbeast.

In time the K’rdlings had swarmed all over Merry England and infected the brains of rich and poor alike. Herds of brainbeasts flooded the landscape, and Robin Hood had become the screeching king of a once-proud island now infested with periwinkle vomit and pulsating egg sacs. From then on, England was known as “The Hive,” and the army of aberrations spawned by K’rd began their quest to rid the world of humans so that the Earth would be more appetizing for the planet-eating deity who ruled the planet of R’drock, Orrv. We will leave Robin Hood here because Orrv is too horrible to be spoken of by mortal tongues.

• Copyright: © 2010 David Hughes

Rex Miles sat on an old wooden bench in Cove Spring Park, tapping his foot impatiently. He glanced up at the full moon and could tell by its position in the sky that it was about three in the morning.

“Fuck, I’m bored,” Rex huffed, pulling out his .357 Magnum. He unloaded the bullets and held them in his hand, moving them slightly so the moonlight could gleam off of the silver casing. “That damn Bray Pliny is full of shit! There’s no werewolf in this park!”

***

Rex’s fatigued mind replayed the events of his unusual encounter with Bray Pliny, a middle-aged man who still had boyish good looks.

“I’m a detective,” Bray informed Rex, “and I’ve been investigating a series of murders in Cove Spring Park.” He laid seven photos on the table. “Strange murders that indicate that there may be a werewolf involved.”

“Werewolf?” Rex snickered, looking down at the pictures. They would have been shocking to an ordinary person but Rex stared at the mangled, dismembered and bloody bodies with no remorse. “I don’t believe in folklore, Mr. Pliny.”

“Neither did I,” Bray said, frowning. “But I’ve conducted three stakeouts at the park, and each time a member of my team has caught some sort of glimpse of a large wolf-like creature.”

“Why didn’t you kill it?”

“Please, Mr. Miles. Be patient.”

“Patient?” Rex retorted, rolling his dark eyes. “Patience is for the people that are willing to wait… and I can’t stand those people.”

Bray ran a hand through his wavy hair and said, “Rex, I know all about you. You’re an assassin. And I could arrest you for murder.”

Rex snarled his nose. “Then what’s stopping you?”

“The Mayor. He says that you two have done business before.” Bray shrugged. “I didn’t ask any questions. I just did what he told me. And that was to keep this thing quiet. So, he ordered me to contact you, and pay you for the hit.”

Rex nodded his head. “Yeah, Mayor Featherstone. I know him. A great guy who always pays in cash.”

“Well, back to the matter at hand, Mr. Miles. The werewolf. We shot at it twice, and I am quite sure that we hit it. But I guess we missed, or maybe… we couldn’t kill it with regular bullets.”

***

The night air picked up and blew through Rex’s hair. He squeezed the silver bullets and sighed, “Nonsense. There’s no such thing as werewolves.” He got up, put the bullets in his pocket and began walking to his black Tahoe.

A slight rustling came from the woods behind him. Rex turned around in time to see a large animal leaping through the air. It knocked him to the ground. Rex quickly grabbed his gun. “A werewolf!” he said, fumbling through his pocket for a bullet. He grasped one and put it in the chamber. “An actual fucking werewolf!”

The werewolf stood up on his hind legs. It was seven feet tall and covered with stringy grayish-black fur with a long snout that housed razor-sharp fangs that were dripping saliva. It howled.

Rex smiled cocky. “Here, doggy! I’ve got something for you.”

The werewolf crouched down, growling.

Rex cocked the hammer back. “Come and get it.”

The werewolf leaped. Rex pulled the trigger. The bullet ripped through the creature’s midsection. It fell to the park’s rough terrain and let out a shrill cry. It started to transform back into its human form.

Rex stood over the body. “Mayor Featherstone,” he said, putting another bullet in the gun.

Featherstone looked up. “I… I hate this life, Rex. That’s why I had Bray call you! I knew that you’d put an end to my misery. I’m just glad that I didn’t kill you first.”

Rex rolled his eyes. “Please, Featherstone, you know me,” Rex said, pulling the trigger. “I always seem to get out of hairy situations.”

• Copyright: © 2009 Chad Case

The man behind the counter watched out the window with sweaty excitement. A squat silver car pulled into the gas station and flirted cautiously with one of the pumps. For a moment it looked like it might stop but suddenly lost its nerve; the tires squealed, and soon the car was back on the highway, burning to get some distance between it and its little detour.

“That’s another one’s passed us by,” the man behind the counter groaned. “I just don’t get it, do you?”

His brother, who’d been helping himself to beef jerky while they waited, raised his hunting knife to his lips thoughtfully. After a few seconds’ deep consideration: “What number’d you put up on the big sign out there, anyways?”

“I don’t know. A dollar-fifty?”

“Well, there’s your problem. A buck-fifty? There ain’t a gas station in this state sellin’ it for less than two-seventy a gallon today. Y’ought to go out there and bump it up. A dollar’ll do.”

“I don’t understand.” The man behind the counter dug well trimmed nails into his scalp and scratched like it was going to help. “If they’re not stopping now, why wouldn’t we lower the price instead of raising it?”

His brother arched his back with the posture of a self-satisfied college professor. Strange that someone who ditched school at sixteen and never went back would look the part so well. “You see,” he began, “no matter what you might think, people really can smell a deal that’s too good to be true. You see gas more than a dollar cheaper than any place else’s got it, you’d be crazy not to think something’s going on. But twenty cents?” He spat on the dirty tile floor. “Twenty cents cheaper a gallon and you’ll have people lined up around the block.”

The man behind the counter looked down at his neatly pressed sweater and thought about it a moment. “I can see where you’d be right,” he said. “I’ll change the sign.” And so he knelt down behind the counter, nudged aside the cold, blood-smeared body of the gas station clerk who’d been working when they came in, and grabbed the box with the plastic number sheets in it.

“Twenty cents is all it’ll take,” his brother insisted, and he was probably right.

• Copyright: © 2010 Justin Pollock

“I don’t want you coming here again.” He had moved off of the bed, the deed done, and stood near the fire. He couldn’t look at her, his guilt overwhelming him.

She stared at the ceiling, listening to the flames in the hearth. She spoke calmly and firmly. “I don’t care what others think; I love you and want to be here.”

He closed his eyes at her words, grief rising as strongly as his lust for her had. “You don’t understand, Cerys; we can’t be together, there’s no future for us. I should never have let this go so far.”

She went to him, placing her arms around him. “I don’t care what you are, Arawn, I love you, I want to be your wife. I want to bear your children.”

He turned, grabbing her by the shoulders, shaking her furiously. “Stop it, Cerys! You don’t know what you’re saying. I’m a sin-eater, a pariah. What would your family say if they found out you were here? They’d disown you. Our children would be reviled, hated by all until they were needed to eat the sins of the flesh. I won’t let you do it; I won’t condemn you to the life I’m cursed with.” He pushed her away from him, hating how much he wanted her, hating the lonely life forced on him.

She did her best to control her tears, turning away as she began to dress. She made her way to the door, stopping to look back at him. He was hunched over the fire again, the light illuminating his body, making her ache to have him take her again. “I’ll be back, Arawn. Nothing will keep us apart. I’d give up my life for you.” She hurried from the house, holding her hands to her ears so she didn’t hear his wrenching sobs.

It took her longer to return home. She pushed open the door, hoping to sneak in undetected, when a growl emanated from the corner. Turning her head to quiet the dog, she gasped as she saw her father standing next to the animal. “Where were you?” He asked, straining to keep his anger in check.

“Out for a walk,” she lied.

“Don’t lie, you were with him. You were with that filthy bastard. You disgust me.” He walked towards her, his hand raised to strike; the sound of horses galloping out of the courtyard caught her attention. “You’re too late,” her father said, grabbing her by the hair. “He’ll be dead before you have the chance to warn him.” She broke away from his grasp, and started running towards his house.

She arrived too late; he was lying on the floor, bleeding heavily from the wounds inflicted by her father’s men. Pulling his head into her lap, she tried to find a way to stop the blood. He opened his eyes, trying to focus on her face. “Cerys,” he whispered. She placed her fingers to his lips. “Don’t speak, please, save your strength.” He smiled slightly, touching her face. “I love you. Prove you love me by leaving this place.”

“I won’t let you die alone,” she sobbed.

“Prove you love me. Leave this place.” He died in her arms; she held him until her arms were numb. She heard voices in the woods, and hurried to prepare herself.

“Cerys,” her father called. She poured ale into a bowl, and grabbed some bread and placed it on Arawn’s chest. She waited until her father appeared in the doorway; she grabbed the bowl, held it up and looked her father straight in the eye.

“Here, father, here is the result of your work!” She began to say the prayer Arawn taught her. “I give easement and rest now to thee, dear man. Come not down the lanes or in our meadows. And for thy peace I pawn my own soul!” She heard her father’s cry of grief as she swallowed her lover’s sins.

• Copyright: © 2010 VL Sheridan

Wispy clouds flowed over a full moon, reflecting brightly on the pale walls of the ancient granite castle in the forest. A burly man dressed in tough woodsman’s clothing waited in the courtyard, smoking an old tobacco pipe. A second man, thin and pale, dressed in black finery and a cape, appeared from the shadows of the forest and approached the smoking man.

“I have won our wager,” declared the man in black. “I have killed the greatest slayer!” He held up a necklace strung with four human canine teeth, the traditional trophy taken from an enemy of his kind. “You will relinquish the disputed village. It shall be our hunting ground now.”

The mountain man calmly puffed at his pipe. “You bring me the teeth of some doddering old sod and claim victory? Anyone who can figger out you sleep all day and sharpen a stick to do you in is the ‘greatest slayer’ now?” He held up a femur, saved from being gnawed away by respect for its former owner. “This is from a real man. Tracked each other for three days in dense cover, and he took a claw to the throat and still had the strength to pull a silver knife,” he said, pulling back his collar to show the burnt-black scar of silver cut on his shoulder.

“You call some bumpkin the greatest? I clearly came out the best in this wager; now give up the territory you agreed to,” the pale man shrieked.

“If the best you can beat is an old priest, I think I could just take the territory anyway,” the bigger man growled.

The pale man shot forward with inhuman speed and landed half a dozen quick punches before his opponent finished speaking. The woodsman shrugged off the blows and threw the lighter man several yards with an uppercut from his suddenly furry arm. He leapt upon his fallen enemy, but lupine teeth sank into only air as the pale man shrank and slipped out of his grasp.

The beast looked up to see bat wings billow out into a cape as the pale man dropped from the sky. A loud crunch echoed in the courtyard as a powerful kick snapped the werewolf’s shoulder blade. The vampire landed and slid fluidly into a fighting stance. The wolfman turned slowly toward him, audible grinding and popping coming from his shoulder as the bones regenerated and set. They stared each other down and prepared for another round.

“Do you have any idea what time it is? Get out of my courtyard!” a voice bellowed from the castle’s entrance. Fire exploded between the combatants. The wolf yipped and nimbly leapt the wall and disappeared into the forest. The vampire’s cape formed into wings even as he shielded his eyes with it, and he fell over before he remembered which form he was in and flitted off toward the rising moon. The two beasts of the night were gone without a trace before the light of the fire had begun to fade.

The master of the castle stopped in the hall on the way back to his lair. He ran a scaled talon over an ancient suit of armor, displayed prominently in the foyer. It was charred black in places and the helmet was fused to the breastplate from excessive heat. “They just don’t make slayers like they did in the old days,” he said wistfully to no one in particular.

• Copyright: © 2010 Brett Saunders

There were a lot of them milling about on the other side of the counter at this point. The mob filled the whole floor and spilled out the windows into the parking lot. They were still too stupid to make it over the counter into the kitchen, though. If one of them had complained about getting diet soda I would’ve believed they were normal customers.

My old manager fell onto the counter and began to flounder his way past the registers back to where I rested among the cookware. I scooped up some boiling grease from the deep fryer and splashed it over him. He started tearing into his arm where the splash of grease had started to cook him. Several others made their “food moan,” just like customers that had been in line too long, and dragged him back over the counter and began to tear into his freshly cooked back with their teeth. The food moan traveled outward through the crowd in waves, and all of them tried to pack closer to the feeding frenzy.

My down-home, deep-fried zombie recipe had attracted every rotting carcass in the shopping center to the restaurant. I’d heard some cars start up and squeal out to the parking lot since my customers got thick. People were escaping while the horde gathered here. I felt vaguely heroic.

I felt an odd sensation in my arm, and looked down to see the boiling oil from the fryer splashing my arm. It didn’t really hurt. In fact, I wasn’t feeling anything except a dull ache from the bite on my ankle. It smelled kind of nice. My thoughts were coming slower, but a brilliant idea came to me.

I lowered the biggest pot in the kitchen into the fryer, filling it with the boiling, delicious fat. My hands felt tingly in the fryer and smelled mouthwatering as I pulled them out. I nibbled on my thumb. We should definitely add thumbs to the menu after this is over.

I climbed onto the counter and flung the oil out over the crowd. Then I dove into the frenzy as the feasting started.

• Copyright: © 2010 Brett Saunders

They’d laid off our entire division. All at once, no warning, no apologies. Word was a loophole had given the higher-ups a golden opportunity to line their own pockets if they got rid of us. So now all forty-something employees from that section were out on the streets. So we’d come together at a local bar, supposedly to say goodbye to one another, but mostly to get drunk and bitch about the fat cats.

At one point the bartender joined in. They were refusing to renew her lease on the property. In a few months her bar would be a strip mall. So she gave us all a free round. Some specialty of the house she called “The Ghul’s Nocturne.” Whatever it was, it turned the night around. Before long we were all laughing and having a great time. After a while, we all got up to leave together. One great madly laughing mob.

We stepped out of the bar into the savanna. The setting sun shone blood red through tall grass as we laughed together and began to run. Swift shapes bounded out of the path of our uproarious pack, but they weren’t our prey tonight. We ran wild through the tall grass, crossing back and forth, snapping at the fleeing things in the night, but always moving toward one destination. My spotted brothers and sisters all shared one goal: the lair of the big cats.

Finally, we were upon them. The big cats were taken by surprise. They roared and blustered, but there were so many of us our laughter drowned out the greatest roars. They tried to flee, but we surrounded them. They tried to fight, but we were many. The sound of our laughter rose over the massacre.

I awoke the next morning to the news on my radio at home. A party at one of the mansions in the rich part of town had been attacked by a pack of wild animals. A few survivors were claiming it had been hyenas.

I got to the bathroom and looked at my blood-covered face in the mirror. Hyenas? Here? The thought was so absurd I began to chuckle, then laugh loudly. I stepped out of the bathroom into the tall grass beyond.

• Copyright: © 2009 Brett Saunders

Malak slouched through the bowels of the keep, intent on his present purpose. Age had withered his limbs and twisted his face into a warped mask, but his loyalties remained strong. In the old days, his Master had trusted him with a most important task. He would ride out with the cavaliers and rescue the errant children fleeing the flaming remnants of their villages.

“You will be my angel,” the Master instructed. “Suffer the little children to come unto me.”

He had been a good and faithful servant. Many hundreds of children had been brought to Ironoak and clothed and feasted there and kept warm. Now that job was given to another, and Malak devoted himself to more domestic duties. The kitchen was his domain, with the great feasting hall and the wine cellar.

Malak paused at the last ramp leading to the lowermost cells. His memory was playing tricks on him. He was supposed to say something. “The Master…” Malak strained, steadying himself against the wall. “The Master requests…” he stammered. He could not recall. Was it the wine he was supposed to bring? Was it some message for the steward? No, those things he could remember. The Master had made him commit it to memory, had made him repeat it. Now it was gone, flown down some neglected passageway of his mind.

Malak trudged on. He would not fail the Master. He would remember, come the moment. “The Master requests,” he repeated, “your presents.” No, that did not seem right.

He came to the bottom landing and chose one of the five doors at random and flung it open. Inside, the torches burned brightly, hurting his old eyes. He shielded his face, waddling into the room and standing there, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Children were playing all around him, running back and forth, squealing. Some were intent on the juggler tossing balls and bottles. Some sat hypnotized at the puppet show. Others brought empty plates to the banquet table, skipping away with full ones.

“The Master requests your presence!” Malak said. He grinned triumphantly. One child stopped and stared. A scowl overshadowed Malak’s face. He stared back at the child. There was something else. Something more. He pounded his flabby thigh with a wrinkled fist. He could not remember.

“May I help you, sir?” asked the child, who put down his plate and took Malak by the elbow, steadying him. He was all of nine years, with a brown mop of hair and clear brown eyes.

“Come with me,” Malak said. The boy complied. Malak brought him up the first ramp. The boy helped him along the way, his small soft hand nestled inside Malak’s claw. They reached the next landing, outside the wine cellar door on the kitchen level. Malak struggled to say what he was commanded to say, grimacing with the effort to remember.

“The Master requests your presence,” he said. Then he added, “At dinner! The Master requests your presence at dinner.” He shuddered with glee.

“But I am quite full, sir,” the boy replied. “I have already eaten breakfast, brunch, lunch, and mid-afternoon snack.” Malak looked down at him tenderly.

“No matter,” Malak answered. “Worry not.” Yes, Malak thought. Do not worry, little one. We can’t have you all tense and tough when you get to the table. Malak pushed open the door to the wine cellar and brought the boy in.

All that remained was to start the pots boiling and to find a nice vintage with which to serve the meal. Malak studied the boy’s neck, reached down with both hands and snapped it right above the Adam’s apple.

He tossed the limp body over his shoulder. It was the humane thing to do. Boiling water was scalding. He didn’t want the boy to have to suffer.

• Copyright: © 2010 Robert Meade

Thirty years ago, I walked into jail with a life sentence for murder–I killed my husband and his lover. With rifle in hand, I shot through the blankets they slept below. A spatter of blood shot like juice exploded by their pillows and the white cotton dyed into dark maroon. The lumps that carried their names settled; they became just limp flesh and brittle hair. Quickly, I put the rifle back. When nobody arrested me, I skipped around the house until I realized how silly I looked. Finally, I got in my BMW and drove to my friend’s house. She lived in the hilly part of town that looked down upon the lake; my husband and I lived by the water. We shared similar mortgages; we never complained. Our houses impressed friends and enemies alike.

Looking back on Henry, I could barely recall his murder at all. I could just remember we’d take trips to Las Vegas; he’d impress everyone (especially me) with large bets he couldn’t afford. “We only live once,” he told me. “Nobody knows when God will punch the ticket.” I didn’t think I’d punch his ticket, not God. People and God move in mysterious ways. Still, I wouldn’t have considered another woman in our bed. He never dealt with that insult. Of that, I learned not to regret, slowly yet eventually.

Anyhow, I stood in the cell and looked at the body in the bunk. A shapely woman of sixty lay with black hair and a pudgy nose visible above the ratty blanket. She wore an undershirt below her jumpsuit. Her breasts didn’t heave yet she slept. Somehow, she slept peacefully. I shook my head slowly, tightly. With her face lined by age and stress, she still looked lovely in ways I rarely found in jail. Without any sexual attraction, I liked her looks, as statuesque as they were.

Uncontrollably, I walked towards her, looking at her nose and thick eyelashes. They looked odd for someone her age. Downwardly, I kissed her cheek, and put a little smooch of respect and, somehow, love onto her lips. Only a slight exhale came from her little mouth, like the puff off an empty Zippo. A chill ran through me; nobody of such beauty should land in jail. When the door buzzed, I walked into the upper level of the dayroom.

Walking down the steel stairway, I looked at the TV. A flicker accompanied the static–the unit would always live. The bulbs brightened yet still appeared dull. Only, the lights burned brilliantly, suddenly; the walls burst into flames as crematoriums do. Strangely, the roof billowed into black smoke. Almost endlessly, the stairway continued. Squirming from anxiety, I walked slower and slower. My strides became hesitant, until finally, I dropped off the final rail and fell through a celestial manhole. As I tried to control my twirls, I plummeted quickly, helplessly. Somehow, my head drooped around my feet, my body like a pretzel, until finally, I landed on rock.

On the bottom, my husband touched my hand. With eyes wide, I heard him say, “I don’t love you anymore. And you won’t love anybody, either, after your time here.” As he stated, I didn’t. After what felt like eternity, I forgot about love. Occasionally, I looked at my husband. Whips pelted his body continually, as they did mine. I didn’t love him anymore. Worse, I didn’t love myself anymore. And I couldn’t blame anyone.

• Copyright: © 2010 Jon Brunette