MicroHorror

Once, I found a severed cat’s paw lying by a clump of sagebrush in the forest I liked to play in behind my house. The fur was a soft peach color; it belonged to my mom’s cat, Oscar. I hunkered down, getting close, but not touching it. My mom would say it was coyotes–sometimes you heard their howls at night–but I wondered. After a while, I stood, shivered, and left.

There weren’t a lot of kids to play with in my neighborhood so I spent a lot of time in those woods. I’d wander around, exploring, waiting for the older kids who lived down the street to come crashing through the brush with their dad’s tools so we could work on the tree house; I was too scared to climb the trees on my own; I didn’t like the greasy way they felt. But most the time, I was alone and I collected bottles, and strange half-buried machine parts, and torn matchbooks with withered leftover matches still in them like bent fingers. The older boys and I liked to burn little piles of branches and paper scraps; it was forbidden and exciting. Once I lit a fire and the older boys weren’t there and the fire leaped up onto one of the sage bushes and the smoke was splashed acid in my eyes and I ran to the backyard and slipped in the wet grass as I filled a bucket from the faucet and ran back but it wasn’t enough water. My dad saw me through the window and came outside and he followed me and stamped out the fire with his big bear-claw feet. I was grounded and forbidden from hanging out with the older boys down the street ever again. You could have burned the neighborhood and the whole goddamned forest down, my father’s sour-cloud breath yelled in my face; a part of me wished I had.

I used to find things. I found a turtle shell once and picked it up, excited at my find, until I peered in at the shriveled, melting scream inside; I tossed it to the dust, revolted. I explored the woods all the way to the road, a lonely black stripe that stunk like baking machines. The trees were thicker on the other side, more tangled–wild. I saw a bottle over there I wanted for my collection and dashed across the blacktop to get it, but I felt like I was being watched and dashed back. I kept returning to the road, though; there was something about the woods, coniferous, never changing, never dying, tight and twisted. Sometimes I’d hear a voice calling me, as if from a great distance, choking deep within all those tangled branches.

Once, I watched a yellow-haired mutt strolling down the road, basking with his uplifted head in the bland summer sun. I watched him trot confidently past where I stood; I watched the branch creep out of the shadows like a snake and strike. The mutt yelped once, and was gone. I stood, frozen in place, fascinated, listening to wet spluttering sounds and crunching snaps. After a while, the sounds stopped; I shivered, and left.

I kept thinking how easily the sagebrush burned that one day; how exciting it was to watch the flames dance, to watch the branches shrivel and blacken. I kept thinking how those branches cracked, and sputtered, and whined.

Hey, birdy, birdy. Pretty little birdy. I see you, sitting in your cage. My, you’re an odd one, aren’t you? Funny-looking cage, too. Pink on the outside, red on the inside. Why’s your cage on the floor anyway?

I’m so tired. And a little bit on edge. Just going to sit here for a minute. Hope you don’t mind.

Whistle a tune for me, won’t you? Help calm my nerves. I like music. Soothes.

Do you know what’s going on outside? The sky got yellow, just like your feathers. And people got angry. Not at the sky, mind you. No, don’t know why they’re so upset. But they’re mad. Real mad.

I was out to lunch with my friend Margie. Everything was nice. Club sandwiches are nice. Then all of a sudden she starts coughing, just as the coffee comes. I laughed about that. Coffee and coughing. Coughing on the coffee. Pretty birdy, birdy.

Then she just collapsed. Sank into her chair. I didn’t know what to do. But a minute later she just pops right back. Only now she’s real upset with me, and talking nonsense. Growling!

She even snapped at me. Like a turtle! Tried to bite me, I think. You wouldn’t do that, would you, birdy? No, you’re a nice pretty birdy. Besides, looks like you got plenty to eat there in your cage. The heart’s mostly gone, but there’s plenty of lung. Do you like the lungs? People lungs look funny.

My, it’s getting tough to breathe. And I’m so, so tired. Just going to lay down here for a minute. Whistle me a tune? Nice little birdy. Pretty birdy, birdy.

It was exactly a month ago that I started down the path of damnation.

I was in a seafood restaurant, and my waiter had an odd accent–almost Eastern European, but not quite–so I asked him where he was from, and he said, “Hell.” Then, before I could respond, he said, “Well, not Hell proper, but the surrounding county. Hell’s ’burbs.”

So I said, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Exactly,” he said. “What the Hell, indeed. See, I’m not quite Satan, but I’m more than a demon. Instead of the Prince of Darkness, think the Earl of Darkness.”

“Is that so?” I said sarcastically, deciding this had to be some weird routine to get tips.

“It is so,” he said a bit bitterly, “and I can prove it. Would you like me to prove it?”

“Oh yes, certainly,” I said, once again in a sarcastic tone. Not many people can claim that one phrase ruined their whole life, but I can, and that phrase was “Oh yes, certainly.” If only I’d said, “No, thanks.”

“Well, to start off, unlike Satan I can’t tempt you with sin, but I can casually discuss sin. For example, if you’re an alcoholic, I can’t place a bottle in front of you, but I can mention that I love a good whiskey sour. You’re not an alcoholic, though. You’re a jealous and wrathful man, and I know that if I tell you that your best friend in college, Dan, slept with your then girlfriend, you won’t be able to control your anger. Unlike Satan I can’t put Dan in front of you, or incite your anger in any direct way, but I can casually discuss your prior cuckolding just like we are now.”

Two weeks later, Dan called to say that he was in town and ask if he could spend the night. Angrily, I agreed, and when he showed up, I questioned him. Sure enough, the waiter had been right, and the next thing I knew I was punching Dan on my kitchen floor, getting blood all over the tiles.

“Unlike Satan,” the Earl of Darkness said as I tasted the wine, “I can’t posses someone’s body in its entirety, but I can posses specific body parts. Like, say, someone’s hands.”

As I’m punching Dan two weeks later, I lose control of my fists, and although all my anger’s gone, I can’t stop punching. My fists keep going no matter how much I try to stop them. Then they open, clasp onto Dan’s neck, and squeeze. I’m crying, screaming, trying to pull my hands back, but I can’t. They stay there, squeezing, until Dan’s dead.

“I can’t strike anyone dead,” he tells me as he brings out the bread rolls, “but I can strike them injured.”

A week after I’m arrested and charged with second-degree murder, as the bailiff leads me into court, my legs give out completely. There’s a series of loud cracking sounds, and when I look down, I see why everyone’s gasping: my legs are snapped in all sorts of angles, more bent than a pair of pretzels. Later, the doctors tell me I have over twenty-two breaks. They also tell me that they have no idea how something like this could happen. I do.

“Finally, I can’t damn you to Hell for eternity, but I can damn you to Hell for thirty-seven years, give or take a month,” he explains as he removes my plate.

At the time, I’d thought it was all pretty hilarious, and by the following day I’d practically forgotten about my weird waiter.

Now, though, in the prison hospital ward, with shattered legs and full-length casts, I remember it all very clearly. I’m not sure yet how much time I’ll be facing for this murder, but that’s not really the time I’m worried about serving. I’m much more worried about the thirty-seven years waiting for me when I die.

Angelina knelt on the kitchen floor, the carving knife in her hand. The names her mother called her fought for a front row seat in Angelina’s brain—Lardo, Laggard, Lollygagger, as if her mother was one to talk. The fat slob. Angelina stared at the body, like an onlooker at a crime scene, waiting for her mother to awaken. A Beatles song played on the radio.

Mother Mary comes to me…

“She’s comin’ all right, bitch.” She’d never called her mother that, not to her face, not until now.

“Bitch!”

Angelina’s stomach tightened. Her breath hissed through clenched teeth.

“Twenty-six years you kept me in this house.” The words fell like tiny spit grenades on her mother’s bruised face. “Twenty-six years of tellin’ me how ugly I was, twenty-six years of makin’ your problems mine, twenty-six years of puttin’ me down. Well no more—bitch.”

Angelina sat on her heels, placed her hands over her ears, and rocked back and forth, waiting. She forced her breathing to slow. Her mother’s words echoed through Angelina’s brain. She lowered her hands to allow the words to escape. They didn’t. She rocked faster.

“You told me I was evil. I guess you was right. Did you see it in my eyes? Did you? Right before that skillet rearranged your ugly face—bitch?”

Angelina raised the knife over her head with both hands. Her lips parted, her eyes widened. The rage overtaking her, Angelina rocked back one last time before driving the knife into her mother’s forehead. She yanked the blade back and plunged it into the bloodied body—again, and again, and again—but her mother’s voice wouldn’t stop.

Ivan Straussnic sat alone in his tent. His back ached and his hands were sore. He stared into the tarnished mirror that was perched upon the old dressing table in front of him. He barely recognized the aged man that stared back at him. The wind had been howling outside for days and in the last hour since he had returned to his tent after another pain-riddled day, Ivan had already gotten through more than the recommended dosage of his painkillers, washed down by half a bottle of bourbon. He had reached his nirvana–a state of near oblivion where his mind was silent at last. The voices all receded with the last drops of sanity and reason.

Ivan lit the small carriage lantern upon the dresser. It sparked and crackled before the flame settled within. The weak glow struggled to push back the darkness and shadow. Ivan reached for the small sponge pad that lay upon the dresser beside the large tub of egg-white greasepaint. He pushed the sponge in and then daubed it upon his cheeks and forehead. The tent was filled with the sound of the howling wind and the flapping and rustling of fabric as the tents canvas walls billowed in and out, as if the tent itself were the lung of some huge wretched beast.

He continued to spread the thick creamy paste across his face, delicately covering every crevice and wrinkle. He gently smoothed the imperfections and leaned in close to the mirror to touch up around his eyes and lips. He was oblivious to the chill that bit at his skin and made his breath stream from his mouth and nostrils like tendrils of smoke from an extinguished match.

When he was finished, Ivan poured himself another glass of bourbon and downed it in one motion. He stared at himself in the mirror and this time felt more at ease with the figure that stared back.

“You’re a good man, Ivan,” he said to his reflection. His eyes moved to a small wooden box which sat by the mirror. He grabbed it with both hands and tentatively drew it to him. With delicate fingertips he undid the small latch and opened its lid. Inside lay a small red rubber ball. He picked it up and squeezing it to reveal an opening. He pushed it to his nose. Once again he looked at himself in the mirror and this time even managed a weak smile.

“Time to make them laugh.”

Ivan stood up and put on his oversized plaid jacket. He walked over to a large traveling chest which sat in the corner of the room. He lifted its heavy wooden lid to reveal various pieces of brightly colored costume and wigs. Amongst the costumes lay the lifeless body of a young girl. Her pale naked flesh appeared luminescent in the dark. Her hands and ankles were red raw where they were fastened with wire rope as if she had at some point struggled in vain to free herself. Ivan bent down and placed a gentle kiss upon the girl’s cheek.

“I’ll be back soon,” he whispered before closing the chest lid. He blew out the lantern and, lifting his head high, he left his tent.

In the near distance the lights of the big top were blinding. Bright torches and sparklers all guided families towards fresh cotton candy and popcorn, and the evening’s entertainment. The thrill of the circus, with trapeze and acrobat, and every child’s favorite: the clown.

Deep-set in darkness of an attic, high above the living spaces, within lofty ashes and lined in sinister webbing, rests the haunted pane. The child, though warned not to near it, is gripped by luring wonder; he climbs and crawls through dusty enclosures.

He approaches the dark form, and removes the moldy covering. Beneath lies the surface, in pale light shimmering. He glimpses his reflection, a twisted glimmer in the eyes. And beyond the portal’s frame looms a mirror world of grotesqueness.

The child gazes at the crystal, unblinking. He places open hand flat to the surface. It’s cold beneath his skin, smooth like ice, but dry. The image mimics the gesture, and two boys sit staring, hands pressed together. The surface grows warmer, and a hint of movement quivers between the palms. The eyes of the child gape wide, but lids of the reflected flutter, and a smile curls on its face.

A mirror hand strikes, latching onto wrist, pulling desperately and heaving. The child is lifted from dusty beams like a javelin to the mark. There is no crash, no shattered shards to tear at flesh. Instead, a smooth transition, and the boy passes easily, as if falling through an open door.

Now in murk and gloom, he touches a grimy surface. Moisture chills and mildew fills the air. He scans for the reflection but it’s not to be seen–just the backside of a mirror within its frame.

Beyond lies the attic of his home, and in that tunnel of dust and boards, he glimpses sight of scurried movement; his mirror image crawls like a worm through dirt. The child lunges to the portal, but the way is shut. Then again, it’s just a mirror–a prison of reflective glass.

“Go on; tell us the story about the family of hillbilly cannibals again–please!”

John groaned. “Not again! How many times have you heard it already?”

“Please.” The two children looked on with big eyes and expectant faces. John sighed with resignation.

“Sit down, then. Just once more, eh?”

The children took their places and John began.

“There was an English man backpacking through Australia who was hitching rides wherever he could. One day he ended up getting a ride in the back of a beat-up old station wagon. The next thing he knew he got bashed on the head, tied up and taken to an old shack somewhere in the Outback.”

The children had heard the tale before, but sat in silence, entranced.

“When he came round, he found that he was chained to an old metal bedstead. Solid iron it was, far too heavy for the man to move.”

The tension was getting too much for the children and they began to fidget, knowing the next part of the story well.

“That night a hillbilly, a mean, dirty old fellow, chopped the fellow’s foot right off! The man screamed and screamed like you wouldn’t believe, but it didn’t put the hillbilly off one bit. In fact he went and chopped off the other foot too! An old hag who lived in the shack wrapped his stumps in rotten old rags to stop the bleeding. Meanwhile the two feet were dropped in a pot of boiling water and left there till they were soft and tender, tender enough to eat!”

The children’s eyes were like saucers by now and the elder of the two, a girl of about ten, put a hand to her mouth.

“They didn’t?” she said.

“They did,” said John, “every last bit was eaten! They even threw the bones to their mangy dog!”

“What happened next?” asked the girl.

John was getting into his stride now as the story neared its climax.

“The hillbillies began to be a bit kinder to the English chap. Because he couldn’t run away without feet, they untied him. And every now and again they would even throw him some scraps of food. But none of that mattered to him; he missed his family and his legs hurt like you couldn’t imagine. He cried himself to sleep most nights. And then, about a month after they first captured him, the head hillbilly tied him up again. This time he chopped off a whole leg! You’ve never heard screaming like it, I promise you. That leg lasted the family about six weeks. Can you guess what happened next?”

“They chopped off his other leg?” whispered the girl.

“That’s right,” said John. “And they told him there and then, they were going to eat him bit by bit, feeding the whole family, until he was all gone!”

The girl looked at John in his wheelchair. “When is Daddy going to take your arm, then?”

“Next week, I think,” said John, maneuvering his wheelchair to the barred window.

“Goody gumdrops!” shouted the children in unison.

The man scampers across the tiled floor, a sea of white and black squares. He dives forward as a massive, lumbering, brown staff comes thumping down. He looks over his shoulder; his pupils reflect a behemoth terror.

He runs clumsily, his naked body a streak of white as he crosses one of the vast black squares. His foot falls into a pile of soft mush and he stops short of his goal. Legs trembling, knees locking, his eyes flick down and he sees himself, or a being like him, pulverized into the tile, blood seeping into the cracks around it.

He turns fully to face the creature. He falls to his knees, exhausted, and cries out in defeat as the leg cuts through the air and crushes him. His bones crack and splinter and his brain is nothing but porridge on the tile.

“Ew, Grandpa, that was a big one,” Billy says. He watches as his grandfather scrapes the people carcasses off of the tiling. He dumps both of them into the garbage and laughs.

“It sure was. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he actually understood that he stepped in a pool made out of one of his own.”

“Do you think it’s possible?” Billy says, his bigger antenna lifting upward as he becomes perplexed. “Did he recognize his friend?”

“No. People, humans, whatever you want to call them, they’re just plain stupid.” Billy’s grandfather goes to the fridge and pops it open. He pulls out a beer and turns back to Billy. “Though, I did hear a rumor that if we were to have a nuclear holocaust, people would be the only thing that survived.”

Billy looks at his grandfather. For a moment he quakes with nervousness. “Do you think there will ever be a nuclear holocaust, Grandpa?”

“No, Billy, I don’t think there will be,” Billy’s grandfather says.