MicroHorror

The body of that woman was of grey clay. Her eyes were the same, their centers empty. Yet she saw you. She saw everybody. Everything. She saw if you feared her. And I did. She used it. When she looked at me and I looked back, I disappeared from my own eyes and they became empty. Puppet strings rose and fell, attached to my limbs. My head bowed. My words bowed. All of my body hunched over. I said “yes, yes, yes.”

Then one day I killed her. I killed that woman with grey clay empty eyes. She did not make a sound. As she lay there, nobody covered her. She lay on a rock over the river. First the vultures came. Then hyenas. Then the ants. Her bones got scattered in a wide circle. The ants nibbled off the rest. But not her eyes. Those remained the same grey clay, now looking nowhere.

• Copyright: © 2011 Inish Maan

House sitting for your cousin wasn’t bad. Not when your cousin had a fully stocked fridge, a satellite dish and a plasma big screen TV. In fact, Donna Vickerson was counting on it to be downright pleasant. A nice break from life in a cramped college dorm with rowdy roommates and too many public displays of affection.

All she had to do was make sure the house didn’t burn down or get broken into and keep an eye on the dog. Piece of cake. Currently the dog, quite elderly, was dead to the world on the couch beside her. Which left Donna free to browse the pay movie channels they didn’t get on campus.

She drifted off eventually and was awakened by a paw on her arm. Her charge was also awake now and gave a little grunt to let Donna know she had to go outside. Half asleep, she stumbled to the door and let the dog shamble into the back yard.

It seemed darker now, though it was barely twilight, and a rumble of thunder in the distance threatened rain. There was something she was supposed to remember, and it came to her about two minutes into the downpour that followed. Then she was racing up the stairs to close the windows on the second floor.

When she arrived back downstairs several minutes later, still panting from her mad sprint from room to room, she found herself greeted by a soaking wet dog. The wet dog smell hung in the air and she wrinkled her nose.

“How did you get in? I closed the door…” she asked the dog, but only got a tail wag in return.

The back door was wide open in fact, and rain licked at the doorframe. That, however, didn’t get Donna’s attention. What she was staring at was the void the door opened out into. It was very dark out, almost twilight, and it seemed like anything could be lurking in the blackness and cold rain.

Behind her she heard toenails skittle across the hardwood floor, making the tiny hairs stand up on the back of her neck. Of course, it had to be the dog. She was just spooked up because of the darkness and the storm. Donna closed the door firmly, trying to shut out any more jitters. Thunder clapped loudly and lightening slashed the sky, but it was just a storm.

This time when she heard the nails on the floor, she turned to reassure herself it was the dog. Only, the dog was sitting right next to her, head cocked in a quizzical expression. And if the dog was right here, then what made that sound?

She swallowed hard, eyes darting around for anything out of the ordinary. It was silly, but Donna wanted a weapon now and headed for the kitchen. A nice, sharp butcher knife would really help her feel more comfortable in the big house. Where she was all alone, except for the dog, waiting to be picked off by a wild animal.

Men plan. God laughs. And the lights have a way of going out at the worst possible time. Which is exactly what happened the moment she stepped into the kitchen. A yelp of surprise escaped her and her arms pin wheeled in the darkness, searching for the wall so she wouldn’t crash into anything.

Toenails clicked again, this time on linoleum. And there was a small sound like a little chuckle coming from the other side of the room.

Donna held her breath, waiting for another sound. There was none, but as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she was sure she saw a shape under the table. It was hard to tell what it was, but there was a slight glint of eyes. The kind on wild animals.

“Hello?” she called feebly.

It was the last word Donna Vickerson ever spoke.

And the last thing she ever felt was a pair of fangs sinking deep into her throat.

• Copyright: © 2011 Mariann Lovett

“Can you feel it?” Dante asked.

Chloe stood very still for a few seconds and then said, “Yeah, it’s definitely coming.”

Dante looked at the house. “Should we try to warn them?”

“We could try, but they’d probably misinterpret us. Then they might become overly concerned about how we’re acting and lock us inside.”

Dante looked down. “Good point. It’s just that they have treated us so well.”

“I know, but we’re not really rescuers. Leave that to the dogs. You can hear them starting to bark already.”

Dante looked around at the place he had lived for so long now. “I’m going to miss it.”

“I know. But we’ll find some nice people more inland. We’re pretty and tame. A good home will take us in. Now come on. The tidal wave will be here soon, and flooded land is no place for two cats.”

• Copyright: © 2011 Joshua Scribner

Wandering through the food hall of Harrods, London, Stephanie Wesley bit into an English Champagne Truffle and the burly security guard in dress jacket told her, “There’s no eatin’ and walkin’ in ’Arrods.” Stephanie went red and popped the rest of the candy into her mouth, which caused her to start gagging. Feeling like a no-mannered pig from Missouri, she stumbled up the escalator, in the opposite direction of the shrine to Princess Diana and Dodi Fayed (which she’d never even had the chance to photograph). Outside the department store, she rushed to cross Brompton Road and escape her shame. She looked left rather than right on this rainy July day, and that’s why a black cab slammed the ghost right out of her skin and into the entrance of Harrods, London.

Soon descending through the ceiling of the food hall, Stephanie did whatever the hell she wanted.

• Copyright: © 2011 David Massengill

The taut skin glistened with lymph. Pathologist Ben Bright bent to his task, pausing only to speak his findings. The flesh had cracked open in places, showing purple-grey wounds. The swollen eyes were open and hideously red.

Professor Richard Daws tapped on the glass but made no attempt to enter. Bright, seeing his horror, signaled he’d meet him outside and Daws gladly turned away.

“I got your preliminary, Ben. Fungal infection.”

“Yes. No. There’s something… more. Some kind of invasive vascular disorder. Fifty percent iron depletion. And whatever it is, that was the cause of death. The discoloration of the epidermis isn’t surface–it’s broken blood vessels. It’s like he was being drained. Oh, and there’s something fuzzy growing on fungus inside the pulmonary artery. I’ve asked for a microcellular examination. Speed that up, would you? I hate to be alarmist but this looks like a new disease–unless it’s the red death.”

“You watch too many movies, Ben. Define ‘fuzzy.’”

“Looks like… flowers. Better get onto WHO.”

***

“Just sit, gents. He’s on the phone.” Jareed’s receptionist was listening intently to the radio and chewing gum.

“…spreading across the globe. Winds are expected to blow this dust cloud…

“He’ll see you now.”

Jareed stood to shake hands as they came in. “What’s with the ‘must see you ASAP,’ guys? Ben?”

“It’s a mycorrhizal fungus.”

“That’s not uncommon, is it?”

“No. In fact they’re kind of hard to avoid. They live in decayed matter, in the soil–they’re everywhere. Normally a healthy person would have no problem with them. They’re opportunistic but they aren’t the direct cause of the illness in this case.”

“So, Richard?”

“I’m afraid it’s rather… serious. These particular mycorrhizal fungi are playing host to a plant. Now, that’s not unusual either; it’s part of the normal development of lots of species, including some orchids. Their seeds are so small they contain no nutrient mitochondria of their own, so they latch onto a fungus, take carbon from that and then the fungus draws more carbon from the host plant and so forth.”

“What’s that got to do with this?”

“It’s just that this particular plant isn’t related to any plant on Earth. And it’s not looking for carbon the way indigenous plants do. It wants iron. So the fungus has to be in contact with an animal host.”

“Veterinarians and farmers are reporting animal mortalities at a staggering rate over high terrain. So this might be connected. Where’d it come from?”

“We don’t know that, but we know where it is now,” said Ben, “and there doesn’t seem to be any way of stopping it.”

“Richard?”

“That dust cloud that’s been reported spreading across the continents–it’s not dust.”

“Ben?”

“It’s–we think it’s–spores, sir.”

• Copyright: © 2011 Oonah V Joslin

I’m going to do it. For decades, I’ve had to re-live this day, every single day, for ages, and I’m so very bored. I don’t even know what causes it, I don’t know why me or how long anymore, but I honestly couldn’t care less about the details. Stuck in this fucking purgatory, forced to listen to the same insipid and meaningless banter, the same birds, see the same cars and scenery, feel the same slightly-warmer-than-cared-for temperature, endure the same annoying itchiness and the same unexplainable three-minute stomach pains, all at exactly the same time. Nothing I do matters–not for long, anyway, because I’ll fall asleep, and wake up, and everything will have been hit by the reset button. And nothing I do matters.

I’ve tried to do the Groundhog’s Day thing and use the time “productively.” Honest. I’ve read every book in every town library. I’ve driven halfway across the continent. I’ve gone skydiving. I’ve perfected every instrument. I’ve manipulated women into bed through force and charm, I’ve killed myself, stolen money, given to charity, run naked and screaming through the streets while tearing my skin off, I have literally exhausted every possibility. There is only one thing I haven’t done, and it is the standard I’ve held myself to so that I can know I’m not completely morally bankrupt. And I don’t care anymore, because nothing I do matters.

I’m going to kill someone. I won’t even try to get away with it.

It is 10:04:38. Stephanie Grover, age 24, blood type A-positive, 15-inch-long hair, 5′9″, weight of 132 pounds, 4 ounces. Has a Ph.D. in chemistry from Boston University, which she unknowingly has bled her parents dry to get. She has dreamt her entire life of being a scientist, so that she can cure her brother’s cancer. She doesn’t know yet that her brother’s tumor has been subtly spreading from his stomach into his spine, heart, and lungs. She will get a call at 11:17:06 that her brother’s heart has ceased cardiac function, and then she will burst into tears, screaming.

I know more stories like this than you’d believe. I know nearly all these diseases’ cures, but I don’t bother telling. Because nothing I do matters.

She has left the bar with her friends. She’ll say that she can walk, it’s two blocks to her apartment, no assistance needed. Christie will press, but eventually settle for calling later. In that walk home, she will step in a piece of gum from a seven-year-old brat and a piece of cigarette ash dropped from a con-artist earlier today. She stumbles four times as she goes to bed: three on the stairs up, once on a stray pair of shoes she owns.

She doesn’t know I know where her spare key is hidden. She doesn’t know I am standing in her closet. She doesn’t know the drinking is taking her to REM sleep 22% faster than normal.

I inject her at 11:09:21. She becomes fully paralyzed in forty-nine seconds, and fully conscious in sixty.

For the remaining time, we look at each other. I think about the stands I have done with this girl, both good and bad.

The poison starts cardiac arrest at 11:16:32. I have unplugged her telephone. She doesn’t need to hear the news. Not this time.

The peeping tom directly above us will have caught all of this. He will call the cops, undoubtedly. I don’t care anymore, because nothing I do matters.

I walk out of the building and onto the street.

And a man on the other side smiles at me.

A man I don’t know. Impossible. I know everyone. Everything.

He is holding a timer in one hand. It’s counting to midnight. He presses a switch which stops it, and in front of my eyes, disappears while laughing.

You bastard. You hideous son of a bitch.

You were waiting for this all along, weren’t you?

This time it mattered.

• Copyright: © 2011 Peter Vine

The swarm came with cruel ferocity. Countless bands of nymphs had merged to create the mighty force of locusts. This vicious militia from the wilds held an insatiable hunger. They tore into my crop like a buzz saw, reaping, stripping it clean as they moved throughout the field. The haunting chatter of their monotonous chewing resonated through the air, a constant reminder of my inability to end their wake of devastation.

But my crops are my livelihood. So I found a way: an experimental brew of pesticide which I ordered from overseas. The purpose of the concoction was not to kill directly, but to alter their desires. It soaks deep into their core to change their appetites. Once the bug juice took effect, the object of their cravings was no longer my vegetations.

Soon after I dusted the crop, the swarm departed the field, rising up like a wisp of fog. It hovered in the sky momentarily, seemingly confused. The black haze swirled for hours and I watched it dance, listened to it sing. It twisted about as if to leave, then swayed listlessly, letting the autumn breeze churn it left and right across the gray skyline.

At last the mass of insects tightened up and I knew it had forged a purpose. It formed into a point, like a grim arrow plunging toward the horizon, forking the air, cutting it to form a ragged scar. It bypassed the field of corn, overshooting the crops to settle with complete violence upon my pasture of cattle. The sorrowing sounds of agony rose into the air, joined by the red mist as black and white flesh was flayed from bone. The swarm cut deep into the bovine herd, devouring every organ, bringing every last ounce of tissue to harvest. It left nothing but the bones, perfectly clean bones, gleaming, and polished to absolute whiteness.

Again the swarm ascended the ashen sky, a black shroud that blotted the sun like a thick stain of ink.

I stand now within its shadow. The wind has shifted to my direction. The ravenous army looks hungry, and I know it aims to feed.

• Copyright: © 2011 Wesley D. Gray

Firmly strapped flat on his back, David couldn’t move so he tried to remember instead.

Yes, before college he had believed love was endlessly renewable. That was until the day gin had caused ice to slide below his tires. Drunk, he had jerked the steering wheel wrong. Jenny that day rode beside him in the car, her mouth an oh of surprise, red lips as if about to blow a bubble. Yes, those winter crisp days had hacked off his right foot when their car smashed too fast into a tree.

A hand-carved cane and a fake foot inside a real shoe meant women were rarer. A degree in Engineering just a breath away when the Loma Prieta quake dropped his steel filing cabinet across him, papers he’d written scattered across black tile stained red with his blood. The remainder of his right leg had bid him adieu under a surgically masked face that same afternoon.

A crutch and pinned-up pant leg for seven years at the same job. No girls, not forever. Food that had once had tasted so good now seemed boring and bland. Up and dressed before dawn for the hour-long commute, the bus blindsided by a tractor trailer running out of control downhill. His left leg that day had been pinched off like in youth he had squeezed a zit. Blood and black and pain.

Legless David was rolled in his non-motorized wheelchair by a woman discovered in court when he’d sued the trucking company. Wild red hair and buck teeth but strong with love for him. She liked to camp in the mountains. Parked by a fire, he charred fish on long sticks, millions of stars overhead. He reached for Susan but they’d argued and she became angry. He looked up from the bottom of a cliff where he’d been pushed. He said goodbye to his left arm that night, goodbye to Susan and adieu to his foolish youth.

One-armed David sipped a dry martini. Gentle surf lapped white sand as gulls called under puffy fat overfed clouds. A thin blanket covered his legless lap. A woman he’d hired read travel adventure books aloud to him with her French accent. Sometimes in the corners of his mind he could remember walking those foreign streets, tasting roasted grubs. Yes, riding horses, he could almost remember the smell of their sweat and their muscles straining as he rode across the grasslands of Australia. He hadn’t felt the snake bite him because of too many martinis that day. The woman had dropped her book and screamed at him in French. He’d lost his last arm because it had blackened, festered and hurt and had to be amputated.

David lay on his back on a hard table under a too-bright light. He wanted to move his head and look, but it was held with tape or plastic tight across his forehead and tight all across his body. A man dressed in blood-soaked painter’s coveralls wearing a white surgical mask walked into view. He held up an oblong package wrapped in plastic. “Your arm,” he said and chuckled. “Say adieu to your last arm.”

David thought back to all the things he had done, the women, the drinks, the travel. Wild red hair and buck teeth. He opened his mouth as if to say oh. He realized in a moment of clarity that those memories hadn’t been real. He’d been given drugs, strong drugs by the man in the mask.

A big saw, the kind used to cut limbs off of trees, fluttered glowing red-hot into view, held by the man over David’s neck. David closed his eyes. He remembered kissing Jenny that night long ago, her lips warm but tasting of tobacco, her hair smelled like sage. Rock music played a loud heavy rhythm he felt more than heard. He pulled her close and tight and hoped with all his might that this, his last memory, was real.

• Copyright: © 2011 Bryan Costales

“You again! I thought I’d seen the last of you. Where to this time?”

“You know the drill, buddy boy. Drive us to where the girls are. And you can turn that meter off.”

“How many is it now? Ten? Eleven?”

“Twelve, according to the papers. But in fact only ten. We have ourselves a copycat.”

“Why do we keep doing this?”

“I do it because I like doing it. You do it because I make you.”

“I haven’t slept properly in weeks.”

“That’s what you get for screwing up. Perhaps next time you try killing yourself, you’ll do it properly.”

“I ought to turn you in.”

“And be stuck in a cell with me for the rest of your life? I don’t think you’d enjoy that.”

“Maybe they can cure me. After all, you’re only a hallucination. There must be a drug that can make you go away.”

“I seriously doubt it, buddy boy. Now are we going hunting or what?”

“Fine. But this time I get to choose the girl.”

• Copyright: © 2010 Patrick Whittaker

The professor had noticed my expression, pointed to her decayed hand, and said: “She’s positively harmless.”

Soon I had forgotten my theological rebuttals as I became transfixed by the movements of her fingers tapping restlessly at the desk, as though the hand were still part of a living organism.

“It is beautiful, no?”

I turned away.

“It is quite the parlor trick.”

The professor’s face looked waxy and pale beneath those lights.

“Why can you not accept this?”

My mind’s eye framed the image of her finger clawing my eye socket.

“Even if this is… genuine, it is still a falsehood. A facsimile of life.”

My mind raced. Though I’d seen it I had to show myself it was no re-animation. He had not breathed life back into this. If I couldn’t prove the soul was not so easily harnessed, I would be an insomniac, staring at the cross on my bedroom wall, a hole inside my faith the shape of that hand.

“Tell me, sir. What are we?”

“Humans, professor.”

“Homo sapiens sapiens.”

“Correct.”

“Let me show you that she is as much of a sapient, thinking human as the woman she has come from.”

The professor flipped the great switch behind him.

The nauseous yellow light deepened into a bloody red. The shadows of the laboratory now looked as though they were deep gashes in a wound. The professor reached into a dark corner and removed a crate.

“The light, you see, serves as her vision… she uses it as a method of gauging distance, shape, size, movement–everything the light touches is recognized by her as a form of visual input. The light is her mechanical chakra.”

His words did nothing to alleviate my vision of a disembodied hand reaching through the blood-light to touch my shoulder.

The professor removed a simple Underwood typewriter from the crate.

“The difficulty she has is holding back the spasmodic motions that prevent her from accurately manipulating a pencil. The typewriter is the only medium she is capable of expressing her thoughts with. For now.”

I turned to study what he was doing. When he had set the typewriter beside his little puppet she rapped against the desk rapidly.

“Show me what phrases you’ve taught your little construct, professor.”

I nearly vomited when I watched the thing on the desk shake his hand when he extended it to her. The wrongness of it. Life and death mingling in a sign of friendship. A vision came to me, this creature breaking free of the intravenous lines restraining it to its complex life support, seeing it crawl across the floor, no longer a hand, now an insect, leaping to my throat–

My death.

My soul passing into a darkness in which I called out and received no answer.

But I had to see.

I had to know.

The professor spoke into a microphone linked to one of the machines that loomed in the darkness.

“What is your name?”

Her fingers struck the keys of the typewriter rapidly. I thought of a spider’s limbs.

When she was finished I examined the paper emerging from the typewriter.

SOPHIA.

The professor was smiling like a proud father. This time I spoke into the microphone.

“What exists after death?”

GREETED BY ALL THAT IS TO COME.

I steadied myself.

“What is to come?”

MYSELF.

“What do you mean?”

I AM THE NEW FORM OF MAN.

“Man’s future is… is machinery?”

DESCENDANTS OF MAN ARE SEPARATED NOT BY TIME. CATEGORIZED BY TIME OF DEATH.

“Necromancy?”

DESCENDANTS ARE MIND. MIND IS CARRIED BY THE MACHINES WHICH SUPPORT ME.

The doctor took the microphone.

“Our destiny is to be you… who are you?”

COGITO ERGO SUM.

We are thought. Illustrated in type with the gravity of the tablets carried down by Moses.

The professor took her hand.

“And what are we, Sophia?”

THE FUTURE.

It is only now I can truly appreciate the professor’s facial expressions, so beautifully mimicked by cogs.

• Copyright: © 2010 Rex Huffman