MicroHorror

Lights glared along the highway, reflecting off the wet road surface and making everything blur into a yellow fug of unreality. Simon was tired. He wasn’t near his quota. Damned buyers weren’t buying. This was no kind of life! Dead-beat salesman in a dead-end job…

The radio music faded into static and attempts to retune were unsuccessful.

“Damned thing!”

He switched it off and shrugged, changed position, rubbed his neck, felt in his pocket for sweets, gum, anything. He found only fluff so he took the next junction heading for the Café & Donut. Susan would be wondering why he was so late. He could call from there, tell her to keep supper warm. The Café & Donut was closed.

“Well, I gotta have something,” he said.

Further on he could see a Drive Thru sign. It looked fairly close though he’d never noticed it before. He hated those places but the thought of a coffee–any coffee–and a burger was better than driving on empty so he made for that. It was off the main drag. He made a turn, then a second, a third. Didn’t have a clue where he was but he could see the sign. Getting to it was another bag of cats. A Drive Thru in the middle of nowhere, it seemed. Didn’t make sense, but he finally got there.

The pale man in the kiosk didn’t say a word, just took the order and then the money, handed over the food and turned back to his TV screen, which Simon noticed was showing nothing but static. No signal on his phone, either…

He pulled out and drove a little way away, pulled in and parked. Simon took the lid off the coffee. It wasn’t even very hot and if they’d put any coffee in, he couldn’t taste it. And the food–if you could call it food; he sank his teeth in, chewed, swallowed. The burger had no discernable taste. It was vapid. The texture was uniform throughout, the bun indistinguishable from the meat, the onion, the cheese; the pickle had no sting of vinegar. He’d have driven back to complain but looking in that direction, he could no longer see the lights that had led him there. Besides, he wanted to be on his way, and hunger compelled him to eat. Trouble was, when he finished he didn’t feel any less hungry. He phoned Susan. But somehow, by the time he got home, he’d lost his appetite.

The next day, Simon Soght had lost his voice–working too hard, his wife nagged. “What you need is a holiday. You don’t eat proper, you don’t sleep. You never have time for me and the kids any more, Simon Soght. Why, half the time you might as well not be here.”

He looked a little greyer that weekend: off-color, according to his wife. By Sunday morning he was ever so slightly transparent.

“You need to see a doctor, Simon,” his wife said.

On Monday his left arm disappeared completely. The doctor said he couldn’t find anything–said he was at a loss.

By Tuesday Simon was a shadow of his former self, unable to affect anything around him. He could no longer hear his wife’s prognostications nor respond to them.

There was no funeral for Simon Soght. There was nothing to bury. He hadn’t died. He had simply ceased to exist. In the pocket of his suit his wife found a faded receipt:

Dead-End Drive Thru
1 latte
1 ghost burger
to go

“What sort of account are you looking for, sir?”

Paul squinted. The early morning sunlight was already making it hard for him to see the teller across the counter, much less to concentrate on what he was saying.

“I’m sorry?”

The teller continued on with his patter; he’d obviously done this plenty of times before. “…and you’ll need to nominate how you want to access it, and how much to open with.”

Banks had always made Paul a little anxious. He wasn’t a rich man–he had no house he owned, no investments, just a little apartment he rented in the wrong and dingy side of town. He always regretted that he had never previously taken the time to plan his future.

And now he was concerned, really worried, about that future. So here he was, standing patiently, watching the teller finalize his new account. Paul’s head was still throbbing from the attack a week ago. You might say it was just post-traumatic stress, but it wasn’t; it was much more serious.

“So, your chosen account features would be…?” prompted the teller again.

Well, Paul wouldn’t be able to work days in future, that much was sure. And, after a while, he doubted whether anyone would be able to recognize him much, so coming into the bank wasn’t an option either. “I’ll need online banking, as well as access to your night safety deposit boxes.”

“Very good.” The teller ticked the appropriate boxes.

How bright was it in here? The light was definitely hurting his eyes now. He rubbed his neck, tried to reduce some of the tension.

“Almost there,” the teller assured him with a smile. “Now, your interest will be reinvested and compound every month, as I’m sure you’re already aware.”

“Great,” said Paul. He felt absolutely, totally drained. He hadn’t eaten or drunk anything for the last few days. The taste of food was revolting. Despite a raging thirst, he couldn’t even stomach a glass of water.

This was, he guessed, just as diagnosed. In the last few days, he’d read enough of the literature–not the medical literature, but rather the real stuff–to know exactly what it was all about. And what was about to happen to him.

Next would come the sleep, the long sleep. When he returned, things would be completely different. Some writers argued that you could sleep for years, maybe decades, before you awoke, that first time.

And who was going to look after him then? And how?

“Finally, just one last question, sir. How much will you be wanting to open the account with?”

Paul felt around in his pocket, fished out the last dollar notes in his possession. Twenty-five dollars and sixty-eight cents.

The teller looked over. “Well, that’s not a lot to start with, but I guess with a bit of compound interest it’ll quickly add up, won’t it?” he joked.

Paul rubbed his neck again, and felt the two small puncture wounds that he’d now had for a week. He was going to be a member of the undead for a long time to come, he suspected.

He squinted, ran his tongue over his teeth, and smiled darkly back at the teller. “It sure will.”

Did as she was told (didn’t she always?). Put a small clock in a blanket, and put them both in the basket of the vulnerable, wonderful little puppy. “Won’t feel lonely then,” she was told (and so she believed). “It will think the ticking is its mother’s heart beating.”

Frightened of the beating, since her father died, the girl left to be by her mother frightened, not by what she did, but what she may never do again (the mother, I mean).

The girl listening all night, with her head on her mother’s breast, listening to the sound of her mother’s heart beating, praying it would not stop. The girl ready to burst into action if it did…

Somehow she drifted into dreams of death being no dreams, just dark oblivion. Waking with alarm: her clock not going off.

She panicked, her pulse and imagination racing. Smelling a sickly sweet odor, overlaid with a stench like her brother had created when making a bad-egg stink bomb years ago, for a prank, with his junior chemistry set. A stench of innocence corrupted. “Mum?… Mum?” She shook the body, a bag of cruel tricks splitting at the seams. “Mum!”

The woman’s sparse hair dry and dead, on the head. Lying next to a meaty mess oozing noxious gases and juices, stewed in. The flesh of the corpse–putrid, perished: the bones seeming to be eating it away. Flesh no longer molded to the bone, just moldering. Maggots feasting on it: breakfast in bed. Dead, then. The girl had slept longer than she thought. Hellhound baying at the door.

Only occasionally took the dirty washing to the launderette; usually his old lady–his live-in squeeze–did. But, by staggering his visits–his duties–could get chatting (up) to different girls. He loitered and lingered as their skimpy lingerie got wet: his washing done quickly–covertly–secreting underpants secretions and all into washing machine–eyeing up the talent–after a tumble when washing done.

Took more than one encounter to get into a particular little darling’s knickers–lily-white. Helping out his “official” girlfriend–three Thursdays in a row (after noisy violent rows) doing washing and (sorry, forgot your stuff again: a dead giveaway) getting nowhere with the young “virgin.”

It was hard: (wasn’t it just!) to win launderette girl’s trust. She was shy and retiring (too young), unemployed, as was he. Third week in a row, “bumping into each other”–saw notice on the door: a job was going in the launderette. The woman in charge (sullen bitch) striking it rich, winning the lottery–washing underwear beneath her. He knew (thought he did) the owner of the launderette–though their paths hadn’t crossed for a long time, but being to idle to go for the job himself–he gallantly let the little cracker apply.

She became manageress, but he still could not get her knickers off–flirting–backing off–flirting; going round in circles, like the washing machine–and dryer (than his longtime girlfriend–frigid probably)–blowing hot and cold. He stayed away for a few weeks.

Then one day it happened. Launderette empty of people, but for the two of them: had a bit of a snog. Took her for a drink or three at lunchtime. Came back, putting closed sign on the door. Tipsy; heads spinning round and round, though not like machines (being hot-red-blooded)–screwing up against them–thrumming and vibrating.

And how did his live-in lover discover–uncover–the truth? Probably from the launderette owner, the proprietor, who had steamy fantasies about the matronly woman with the big tits–and had attack of conscience–sense of propriety–telling on her lover–with age. She came anyway–in a rage, another day with a huge black bin bag of his (and selected items of own) doing dirty washing in public: sticking it under young bimbo”s nose, starting with his smelly socks. Message loud and clear. You may have done him a service–wash, but the wedding should have been mine–your romance, a washout.

Dangerous sex–sheet stiff with semen–skid marks in “Marks and Sparks” underpants. Sperm in frilly knickers. And more worryingly than double cross dressing, was his irate missus (in her early sixties at least) out of the bag, whipping boxers covered–soaked with blood: (fight and what else lost?)

Sound of something solid–hard–in with the washing–thudding: should have been washed separately–irate shrieking butcher woman, off her head, turning air blue–water and whites turning red.

When Stacy bustled into the office to show off her baby, she couldn’t help but giggle with maternal pride as her workmates rushed forward in an effervescent tide of girliness.

Not the men, of course–they just rolled their eyes.

Stacy felt a flush of pleasure at the expression on the women’s faces as they gazed upon her little cherub.

“Are those maggots?” one of them heaved. “Oh, shit! It’s dead; the fucking thing’s dead!”

“Oh, dear God!” retched another. “It smells so bad!”

Stacy laughed so hard her jaw ached.

Jealousy, she thought, was such an ugly thing.

“We lucked into it, really. That kind of thing usually runs at least a few hundred dollars, but bam, there it was at a garage sale!”

The rocking horse came into my life when I was four. I was quickly advancing from toddling age, which meant that I must have been at rocking age. I remember every minute of that day clearly. My father pushed the pine and maple steed into my playroom, and upon its arrival on my crayon-scattered floor, gently set it rocking. I didn’t want to look at it. I didn’t want to look up from my board-books. He stood over me, eight thousand miles tall, and picked me up and dropped me on the back of the animal. Leather saddle. Real stirrups. Real bridle to clutch, real mane and tail to pull and cling to while you rocked back and forth for hours at a time. “It’s just like a carousel,” he told me. “Just like the pony rides at the street fair.”

He left my door open when he finally left my room, content that he was the world’s finest parent. I rocked and rocked. With each rock, the horse inched slowly forward. Soon, I could see out the door. Soon, I could see all the way into the living room. Soon, I could see my mother, still and grey, on the floor. She’d been there since yesterday. My father stepped over her and poked his head into the doorway.

“You like your horse, sweet pea?”

Well, Vernelle, it went like this. About a year ago, in spite of my back acting up and all, Hubert woke me up in the dead of night, saying he needed to go to the hospital. Must be pretty worried, I thought. The upshot was that he had that thing where your body starts eating your own flesh. He scraped his leg on something or another–he didn’t remember what, and then he just let it go. You know how men are.

Anyway, after the first operation on his leg, the head honcho seemed to think they had got it all. But that fancy doctor still came in every day and changed the dressing himself. I couldn’t keep from looking at the flesh–all pink and red and purple, looking to me like it was torn, mangled maybe. Oozing blood.

After a couple more operations, they sent us home. Said yes, they got all of it. So now it was me who had to change that great big bandage every day–what a nasty, bloody mess. Well, a few days later when I was cleaning him up, I heard him clear his throat. Seems like we’ve been married forever, and well, I can read the signs. He had something to tell me, something I might not like. So here it is, Vernelle, what he said, I mean.

That first night home when we came home from the hospital he woke up in the middle of the night and just lay there in the dark. That was the first time he heard it. Seemed like a noise–a slight wheezing–coming from under the covers. He thought maybe the cat had jumped up on the bed, so he paid it no mind. The next night, he knew it wasn’t the cat. He swore he could feel it breathe, that the skin around the wound felt funny, like it was opening a little, then closing. A few nights after that, around midnight, he woke up again and this time he heard a murmuring, coming from that ugly hole in his leg, and when he looked he saw what appeared to be a fleshy mouth, moving, trying to tell him something.

And now, Vernelle, with him dead and buried, a few days ago the side of my leg started itching and I scratched it–probably shouldn’t have, and even though I had plenty of alcohol in the house, something kept me from cleaning it up. Yesterday it started opening up, just a little, and last night it woke me up for the first time. Just a little wheezing sound, mind you, but I thought I’d just give it a few more days and see what happens.

I looked at the letter little Sarah had brought home from school, barely able to contain the rage coursing through me.

Noticing this, she looked up at me, bottom lip all aquiver, whilst in the background Nina stirred at the sewing machine, sensing too that something was wrong.

“Did I do something wrong?” Sarah asked, voice trembling.

Smiling down at her, I patted the girl’s head. “No, angel. Run off and play.”

She did so, and I watched her go, grinning. Then I turned to Nina and said, “Honey, we need to talk.”

“So what do you expect us to do about it?”

It was nighttime; our conversation had spilled over into bed. Now, as Sarah slept in the next room, I looked at her mother lying next to me.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “It just makes me feel so angry.”

She touched my hand. “But it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

I met her eyes.

Felt tears threaten mine.

But blinking them back, I soon fell asleep. And dreamt of burnt skin, smoke spewing monsters that chased me down endless halls until I woke up and wept at the morning.

Nina had work to do, a dress to sew for one of her online customers, so I took Sarah to school.

The yard was filled with other parents, but I didn’t speak to any of them, feeling, like I always did, kind of out of place there. Four years I’d been living with Nina and her daughter, yet I still felt ill at ease with the whole family thing.

Possibly because it had been so long since I’d had one of my own.

Still, I took my stepdaughter in, and waved her off. Then did my best to ignore all the parents, who, in turn, had ignored the letter from the school.

“You need to relax,” Nina said, consoling me in the night following another bad dream masquerading as a memory. “Let the school deal with it.”

“But they’re not dealing with it,” I insisted. “One scabby little letter hasn’t made a blind bit of difference.”

She shrugged.

Then I did something stupid.

Said, “Don’t you care? Don’t you want better for your child?”

Wrong thing to say, and she rolled over, turned away from me. Leaving me alone with my nightmares.

In them, I came home from a party, like happened in real life, and saw the house in which I’d grown up burning in the night. Heard the screams of all my family, saw their burning shapes at the window. Then fast-forwarded to what the newspapers told the world: Father of Four Falls Asleep with Cigarette Burning–Leaves One Child Behind!

In this dream, though, there was a new twist. I ended up in front of my fridge, looking at the letter we’d pinned up there, the one from the school. The one that said, Despite constant reminders, people are still smoking on the school site. Please help us keep the school grounds a smoke-free zone. Then I zipped from my home and to those very school grounds, and saw all those parents who had paid the letter no heed–saw them, breathed in their smoke, and burned with rage.

Then I woke up.

Went downstairs.

And borrowed Nina’s laptop.

The items I’d ordered arrived soon after.

That was good.

It gave me time to give the other parents a chance.

I watched them, found out where they lived, discovered when their children wouldn’t be around. All the time hoping that the words of the letter might sink in.

They didn’t.

So I picked a constant re-offender, a guy with no teeth and a baseball cap, and turned up at his door.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I’ve seen you smoking at school.”

“So?”

“Didn’t you see the letter from the school?”

“Nah–didn’t read it, mate. Now get lost.”

I sighed at him.

Then reached inside my pocket for the duct tape and the hunting knife.

The radiance of the doorway beckoned.

I put everything I had into my legs, racing toward the warmth and comfort of the light and the welcoming smiles of faces I had known. Behind me the questing talons of unforgiving and deepest night raked at my heels.

The door was before me; outstretched hands reached for my own as I staggered those last few steps.

Just before the threshold was crossed those cherished visages of joy twisted into looks of sorrowful lament and disappointment. I lunged as the faces receded and the doorway slammed shut.

Not quite good enough.

“Nurse?” The old woman in the gauzy blue dress sitting in the hall held up her hand.

“I’ll be right with you, ma’am,” Anne said as she strode past, a syringe of morphine in her right hand. She entered the trauma room where the doctors were swarming around a young man who had been brought in by an ambulance with its sirens screaming. Paramedics had pulled him out of his car after it flipped over an embankment and landed roof-down in a ditch. Now he writhed on the gurney, his voice nearly gone, but still emitting hoarse barks of pain. As she approached, Anne could see fragments of glass in his face, and a line that started below his mutilated eye, arched over his purple cheek, and ended where the blood spilling over his lips suggested his teeth had been knocked out. Steering wheel, she thought, as she punched the needle into his IV and injected the opiate. The man stopped yelping, and his body settled back against the bloodstained sheets. His eyes, opened wide, stared at the ceiling and began to glaze over. The doctors descended on him, hands full of needles and blades.

“Nurse, I…”

“I’m sorry ma’am, we’re very busy, it will be a few moments.” We’re out of exam rooms again, Anne thought, pressing her lips together. Old women sitting in the halls with the drunks on gurneys. She saw one of the drunks lying on his back, chest convulsing. She ran to him and rolled him on his side, and he vomited on the floor. The greenish liquid smelled strongly of peppermint.

“Ah,” she said, looking at his face for the first time. “Mouthwash Charlie. I didn’t even realize it was Friday.”

Charlie mumbled something, then passed out again.

Anne shook her head and called housekeeping. Then one of the interns came to the desk with an expectant look on his face. It made Anne wonder why she wasn’t getting paid the big bucks like the med school teachers, when she was the one actually training the medical profession’s next generation.

The old woman in the hall: “Excuse me, nurse?”

“Just a moment, ma’am.”

She followed the intern to find that the problem was a broken wrist that the student didn’t know how to set. Anne sighed and set the wrist, going slowly in the vain hope that the intern would follow along and not need help next time.

When she was done, she grabbed a diet soda from the machine and drank it as she walked slowly down the hall, trying to relax. What a day.

“Nurse?”

Anne lowered her soda and saw the old woman. Damn. Ah, well, better late than never.

“Yes, ma’am, what can I do for you?”

“I don’t feel at all well.”

Anne frowned and squatted down in front of the old woman. She’s so pale, Anne thought, and her eyes are so wide. There was something about that blank look the lady was giving her that made Anne feel uneasy. She took the woman’s wrist, the cool dry skin rasping beneath her fingertips, then furrowed her eyebrows.

Nothing. No movement.

She moved up to the woman’s neck, adjusting to find the jugular.

No pulse.

But that’s the jugular. I can feel the vein.

“What…” Anne stammered. “What’s going on?”

“I told you, dear.” The old woman’s eyes crinkled as the corners of her mouth curled up in an impish smile. “I don’t feel at all well.”

Then her wrinkled hand shot up and her fingernails dug into Anne’s throat.

Anne’s eyes went wide and rolled back as her skin wrinkled, then shriveled. Her arms curled up to her chest and she fell backward. Her head hit the floor with a dry CRACK and shattered, and tendrils of dust began to swirl out from where her body lay.

“Thanks, dear,” said the young woman in the gauzy blue dress as she stood and began to leave. “I feel much better now.”