MicroHorror

One of the filthy lowlife tenants in bedsit hell–13 Chichester Street–kept using the bath on her unhappy landing, and not cleaning it after him. Three bathrooms, one on each floor: hers the unlucky, mucky one.

She hated bathing at the best of times. No central heating, and water only lukewarm. Sink not big enough to wash her long lank hair in. Forced to do it kneeling in the tub, shivering in cold silence, unless cold enough to make her teeth chatter. Not on speaking terms with her boyfriend–her cellmate. Hated him sometimes, and herself all the time. To wash her hair she’d dip her head in the tepid water, out of her depth; her boyfriend shallow, she’d wallow in self-pity.

Naked and cold. Barely remembering joy of bath time back at her childhood home. Sharing the froth of Matey bubble bath with her little brother. Her legs left red and chapped, exposed in knee-length socks and her sixties mini-gymslip. Almost worth it–bath time, good clean family fun.

The mystery tenant, dirty devil. made the ordeal of water torture even worse. Hard to shift the filth of the bastard–who must work irregular shifts, because she never caught him out. For as long as she could keep her eyes open, was never aware of bathroom door opening or closing (no lock) nor the sound of water roaring, no splash, no gurgle.

The Arabs who shared her floor never seemed to wash at all (not showing, though)–or work at all, never working up a dirty sweat to leave the old cracked bath in such a disgusting state.

She had lived at No. 13 for weeks, not years. Knew none of her neighbors well, let alone love them–in biblical sense. Fancied one of the Arabs, though, who floated around in long, crisp white gowns, no smears, no sweat, no nasty smell. (Did he wash himself like a cat?) Clean. Clean. Surely not him leaving bath in such a mess.

She loved her partner. Well, she did before they moved to this godforsaken place. Made her ill: the thought of sex in the cold, damp bedsit. Sagging bed groaning in protest. Sex cold and over quickly–listening out for intruder in bathroom.

Last night of her life. Alone and drunk. Her lover had done a bunk. So, pissed off, she stripped off to wash away his disgusting seed seeping from her unclean cunt. Ignored the mess of short and curly hairs clinging with foam to the bath. She filled it and got in. Sharing tub with scum of the earth. Tidemark blacker and higher than ever. Moon full tonight.

Sinking into depression and water deeper than usual; dipping head under, both mouths swallowing the filth–surfacing gagging, being sick in the bath. Tried to envisage the creep that shed so much of his fur. Dreamt of a creature that was strong and powerful, and fearless as it growled and grunted. Its mighty leg muscles pumping–heart thumping. Thought she heard him pounding up the stairs as she lay helpless, head spinning. Imagined him jumping on top of her, water rising–displaced, forced over side of tub on to sweating lino. Imagined him jumping her bones, baring them with teeth, flooding her cunt with liquid blackness. Seemed she was to be disappointed, though.

Was all alone in the cold bath swimming with a film of filth: a horror story. What could be more frightening than boredom? Picked up a razor blade. Bit her lips, as it bit into her wrists. Thought she heard a howling when she threw the towel in: couldn’t be sure. Better sorry than safe, could take no more. Doing something positive at last. Gritting her teeth and biting the silver bullet, pulling the plug on life. Consciousness ebbing away. Hair clogging–dirty, secret dreams not going straight down the drain.

She had been warned, but now it was too late. Joss ran deep into the forest, her tears blinding her. She heard the old man panting close behind her; she arched her back to escape his filthy claws. From out of the gloom, low hanging branches slapped at her face, taunting her efforts to escape the man that called himself her father. She heard him stumble but she knew better than to trust that he was finished. His words echoed through the darkness. “I told you to shut up. Now it’s too late.”

The trees closed around her as she ran. Diving behind a fallen oak, she covered her mouth with her hands to quiet the sucking gasps that threatened to give away her away. The old man had always been dangerous, but her mother had protected her from the worst of his behavior. Her mother wasn’t here now. She wasn’t anywhere. As she cowered beneath the log, Joss remembered.

This morning Joss and her mom visited a friend that lived down the road. Arriving home they both noticed her father’s puke-green pickup in the drive and they grew quiet. Crashing sounds emanated from the house. Mom told Joss to go to the barn and wait for her.

“Go on now. I’ll be out to get you soon.”

Joss hid in the barn and waited until the small hours of the morning, but her mother never returned. Finally she crept out of the barn. Just as she was edging toward the house, she heard her father’s gravelly voice.

“There you are…”

“Where’s Mom?” her voice quivered.

“Shut up,” he said. “She can’t protect you any more.”

“What have you done, you bastard?” she wailed in fear. Through her tears she saw his reaction and knew that she must run. The forest trail was her only hope.

Now she carefully peered out from behind the old tree. A twig snapped and Joss turned her head, staring into the silver eyes of her father. His teeth were bared and as she backed away from him, he howled in triumph as the ground disappeared beneath her feet. Her screams echoed off the walls of the old well and when she landed on the bottom, both of her legs were broken. And beside her she saw the face of her mother, barely recognizable, eyes staring sightlessly.

The werewolf walked away from the hidden well in the forest, grinning at the sounds of the screams coming from within it.

“What did the doctor say?” asked Ruth.

“He seemed to think it was benign.”

“Thank God for that.”

“I’d like a second opinion, though. Would you take a look?”

“I’m no doctor, but…”

“Ooooh!” said Ruth in wonder.

From Beryl’s shoulder grew a perfectly horrid little red demon, stubby horns, goatee beard. It eyeballed Ruth.

“I’m not a bleedin’ freak show,” it said in a low, ratchet voice.

Ruth jumped back, terrified. “Does it often do that?”

“Not until now,” said Beryl.

“You’ll have to have it cut off,” said Ruth.

“Over her dead body!” warned the demon.

Big Bear, Pony and Jack sat motionless on the toy chest with their backs against the rain-streaked window. Every so often an intrusion of lightning from outside threw their bodies into silhouette. An unspoken fear rippled between them: their family of four might, before the night was out, dwindle down to three.

Eventually, Pony simply had to break the agonizing silence. “Big Bear, was it really that bad?”

Big Bear grunted in his wise, old way. “It was bad, Pony. But Mother has brought me back many times. She can bring Little Bear back, too.” He looked down and touched the set of thick black stitches across his furred belly, reminiscing.

“Nope. Too much stuffing lost,” Jack interjected with his trademark burst of brief, cynical dialogue. Jack spoke like Jack popped out of his box–quick and to the point. But Big Bear knew that for all his cynicism, Jack spoke the truth: Mia, Mother’s daughter, had gotten too carried away with playing Toy Hospital this time. Little Bear had been left as barely more than flat, shapeless material, cut wide open with her synthetic stuffing strewn all over the lawn. Big Bear and Jack, or Mia’s “nurses”, had witnessed the whole ordeal. After Father had yelled at Mia for the mess, she had run inside crying with Big Bear and Jack in her arms, leaving Little Bear and his stuffing out until the rain came. By then, Jack believed it was too late.

However, the bedroom door suddenly opened and the toys hushed as Mother walked in with her arm around a whimpering Mia’s shoulder. In Mia’s arms was Little Bear.

The little toy looked discolored and misshapen; her bear belly bulged tight around the fresh stitches and she seemed lumpier than before. Her left arm had also come off during Mia’s game and had been reattached with clean brown stitches that stood out against her dirtied, honey-brown body. Mother did the best she could, thought Big Bear.

Once Mia was asleep and her nightlight filled the room with a hot, orange glow, Pony finally called out “Little Bear!”

“Quiet!” hissed Jack.

Big Bear put a heavy but loving paw on Pony’s wooden nose, pleading with his shiny, black button eyes to be silent.

But it was then that Little Bear rolled out of Mia’s grasp and sat on the edge of the mattress.

“Little Bear!” Pony cried again, her tiny springs creaking as she rocked happily.

Little Bear was silent. She reached down and pulled at the fresh new stitches on her belly, plucking them away one at a time.

The toys were horrified. “Little Bear, enough of that!” Big Bear whispered urgently. “Mother fixed you; leave her work alone!”

But the little honey-colored bear did not stop. She plucked awkwardly until dirty white stuffing spewed forth, bright in the glow of the nightlight.

“Big Bear, go down there,” urged Jack with horror and disgust. “Make her stop!”

Suddenly, lightning flashed and illuminated a tiny metallic object that Little Bear pulled out of her stomach: a safety pin. She put it down between her legs and reached back into her stomach cavity, pulling stuffing out as she dug deeper. With a grunt, their little companion heaved a larger metallic instrument out from inside of her. It was Mother’s scissors. No wonder Little Bear had looked so lumpy and misshapen before.

The toys watched in silent as she gently pushed the stuffing back into her stomach and closed it off awkwardly with the safety pin. Big Bear and Jack stayed in horrified silence. Pony rocked hard as she whimpered and whined to herself.

Little Bear then picked up the scissors and returned to her place in Mia’s arms.

“Little Bear!” Big Bear finally called out as he found his voice. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The little toy held the scissors up, just as a ray of lighting made their sleek, metallic form gleam.

“I want to see what’s inside her,” she replied.

The interviewer was weary. He’d been sitting across from the prisoner for an hour, his notepad sitting before him, his ears taking in every sordid detail of the prisoner’s deeds. A growl of hunger came from his belly, followed quickly by another. The prisoner didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were set on fame.

“This is goin’ to make the newspaper, right?” the prisoner said. He leaned forward, beady eyes glimmering. “I ain’t tellin’ you this for my health.”

“It’ll make the paper. Continue.”

The prisoner sat back, grinning. “I had all six of ’em rounded up in the front room. One guy tried to get tough, but he settled down after I threatened to shoot his old lady. He let me tie him up, then I shot the bitch anyway.” The prisoner laughed uproariously. “Then–”

The interviewer raised his hand. “Enough,” he said. He sighed. He felt as if his soul had been beaten. His stomach rumbled again. “No more.”

The prisoner look surprised. “That’s all you need?”

“That’s more than enough,” the interviewer said. “You are definitely a killer.” He rose to his feet abruptly, grabbing the prisoner’s arm and snatching him onto the table. Bones cracked like dry kindling beneath the interviewer’s grip. The prisoner screamed as the interviewer’s mouth opened wide… wider… then wider still. As if his jaws were on a hinge, the interviewer’s eyes disappeared behind his head and the prisoner saw nothing but rows of yellow teeth surrounding a blackened chasm.

A black tongue darted from the maw, wrapped around the prisoner’s neck, and snatched his head into the interviewer’s throat. The jaws snapped shut, and after a moment of thrashing struggles, the prisoner lay still, his body an empty vessel. His stomach no longer growling, the interviewer dropped the corpse to the floor, seemingly boneless.

The interviewer walked outside. The man was waiting for him.

“You get him?” the man said.

“Yes.”

“Deputy give you any trouble getting in?”

“I tied him up, no troubles.”

“Conner believed you were a newspaper man?”

“He bought it. He loved tellin’ me all about what he’s done. Loved every disgusting minute of it.” The interviewer’s head was hung low. He was walking slowly.

The man watched him. “Stop feelin’ bad for these people. They don’t deserve pity.”

“I hate this,” the interviewer said, “I hate being near these people and I hate what I have to do to–”

“We’ve talked about this before. I explained it the night I found you in that ditch. I told you what it meant to be like me, and you agreed. You said you didn’t want to die, remember?”

“I remember.”

“You lost your soul that night,” the man said, “so you need to feed on souls if you want to keep on livin’, simple as that. Be happy we choose to feed on people like him.” He jerked a thumb at the jail where the prisoner’s corpse lay metaphysically eviscerated. “That’s the price we have to pay.”

The interviewer was shaking his head slowly. “I don’t know if I want to pay it anymore.”

The man stared at him, squinting. The sun, burnt orange with sunset, simmered in the distance like the anger in the man’s eyes. “I knew you were too damn weak for this. I should have left you in that goddamned ditch.” The man looked away. The interviewer could feel the frustration seeping from the man’s skin, but it could not be helped. Each day, the thought of being left to die in that ditch seemed a more preferable fate than the abominable existence he now lived.

“I think you should have, too.”

After a silent moment, the man said, “Now’s not the time for this. The prison train leaves Albuquerque in five hours, and we don’t want to miss it. We’re going to be hungry again soon.”

I stood outside Susanne’s door with the rain falling around me, rubbing the stitches around my head. They were still bleeding slightly. After ringing her doorbell, I looked at my dress. It was nice and baggy. My parka sheltered my head from the rain. I was still looking at myself when the door opened.

“Lee Ann!” Susanne said. Her eyes were so bright, so happy. It was infectious. I smiled, careful not to tear my stitches. She had given me exactly what I needed. “Come in,” she said, stepping back as I walked inside. I heard the door close behind me. “I wasn’t expecting you. Is everything okay?”

Draping my parka over my arms, I stepped into the shadows, self-conscious about my stitches. I turned to her. “I wanted to surprise you.” My voice was raspy. She looked at me curiously as she pulled her blond hair into a ponytail. I pointed to my throat. “Comin’ down with something.”

“Seems like everyone is,” she said, “Make yourself at home. Let me get that for you.”

By the time I realized what was happening, my parka was in her hands. My arms–my muscular, hairy arms–lay exposed to the room’s soft lighting. I silently cursed myself for not shaving them. She was staring at them in horror, confusion.

I had to think quickly. “I just wanted to meet you,” I said. Only after the words passed my lips did I realize I had forgotten to alter my voice. The masculine baritone of my words echoed in the place.

That was when she ran. I tore Lee Ann’s face from my own, throwing it and the hair attached to it to the floor where it flopped and lay still like a dead fish. There was no point in wearing it anymore. I was taking a knife from the kitchen when I heard her shut and lock the bathroom door.

Her fiancé, Dave, came home an hour later. I was sitting on the couch when he walked in. Water dripped from him. He looked at me and smiled. “Hey, babe!” he said, “It’s really shittin’ potatoes out there, ain’t it?”

I nodded and smiled, thanking him secretly for that. It was just what I needed. He was a nice man, though not terribly perceptive. I looked back at the photograph in my hand as he disappeared into the kitchen. It was a photograph of him. I had found it in Susanne’s purse. He looked just like his picture, and I had been anxious to meet him. The next photograph was a picture of Dave and another man, a tall, lean man. They were standing next to a boat, holding up a gigantic fish. This tall man looked friendly, jovial. As I twisted my fingers through my bloody blond hair, I decided I had to meet the fellow.

It was regretful that people had to die in order to get what I needed, but no matter how friendly the request, it was not the sort of thing one gave up willingly. Ultimately, it was of no consequence to me. These people had their entire lives to know how it feels when someone they loved lit up simply because of their presence, to feel needed, to feel loved. Now it was my turn. The ruses never last long, but they don’t have to. They last long enough to give me what I need.

I picked up my knife and peeled Susanne’s face from mine. As I walked to the kitchen, I wondered if the tall, jovial man in the photograph would appreciate a late-night visit from his old friend Dave. As I came up behind him, I thought of the acquaintances the tall man might have, the shining faces in his photo albums. Delightful friends, family, loved ones. I would find out in time, as I had so many times before.

The well was deep, and he knew he was suffering. He didn’t want to push him. He didn’t want any of this. Today was supposed to be fun.

Charlie ran along his secret trail, jumping logs and pushing away branches. Soon, the brush would clear, and he would almost be home. If he wasn’t back by dinner his parents would kill him.

A storm approached.

“Mom, we’re going apple picking.” The words haunted him. His mother warned him to stay on their property. Be home for dinner. Be careful.

He passed the orchard and met Danny who lived up the road. He lied to his mom, because she didn’t like Danny, or his parents, and thought the lot of them were below contempt. Now his only choice was to lie again. The truth was too terrible to tell.

Wild wind disoriented him as he sprinted through the darkening forest. Lungs burning, he stopped to catch his breath. Poplar leaves turned white, then green. Heavy pine branches creaked in anticipation of the storm. Low thunder rumbled through him.

“Charlie! You can’t leave me here.” Charlie looked and saw no one. He was hearing a voice on the wind, a freak of the storm. Scared, he started running again.

They warned him to keep away from the Donaldsons’. It was old, abandoned. His parents said it was unsafe. Danny said it was fun. He had been there. He brought other kids there and had fun with them, too.

Curious, Charlie had to see for himself. Once there, they explored cautiously. Although no one lived within, Charlie was still frightened of ghosts. Afraid that old man Donaldson could be there, eager to catch lost boys trespassing. He knew the stories.

The house looked familiar to Charlie, similar to his own house, only this one was empty, and white paint faded and peeled. The cracked windows revealed only blackness and silence, and reminded Charlie of loss.

The house frightened him, but he would never tell this to Danny. Charlie was much younger than Danny was, so he tried to act brave around him.

“Time for a game,” Danny said. Hide and seek. As Charlie counted, his eyes pressed shut. Danny disappeared. Charlie called his name but received no answer. Soon after, he felt uneasy. Something was about to happen.

“Come on, Danny. This is stupid. I know you’re hiding from me. You’re not going to scare me.” He moved by the side of the barn, slowly, keeping an eye on the corner of the building in case Danny leaped from behind.

He opened the barn door to smell dry hay and lost time. Dull light streamed from outside and made visible beams of dust. Through this haze, he could see someone standing at the back of the barn. It could be Danny, but it was hard to see. Something covered his face. He looked horrible. Before this grotesque lay the abyss, an ancient looking well that penetrated the barn floor.

“Charlie” said a terrible voice, one that he was unwilling to ascribe to Danny. “I told you we’d have fun.” It held a shovel. A burlap sack with two holes covered its face. Charlie saw its eyes.

It was Danny.

Terror overcame Charlie, and he scanned the room for a weapon. Against the wall, an axe handle. He instinctually attacked and Danny hit him with the shovel. The shot crushed his shoulder and sent knives through Charlie’s left side. Blindly, he swung the axe handle and made contact. Another hit, then he shoved the thing wearing the mask. The fighting stopped. Danny lay like a twisted scarecrow at the bottom of the well.

Charlie ignored the strained pleas emanating from the darkness and ran from the barn. He couldn’t help Danny. He didn’t want to help him. He kept running, pushing those thoughts from his mind. He had to be home for dinner. First, he had to pick some apples. If he didn’t he would be in big trouble.

“Nothing cain’t live if’n it ain’t got a heart.” Rusty looked at the snowman and then at her coonhound, Wooly Bear. Wooly Bear rolled on her back in the snow and waited for a tummy rub. She was treated to a tummy rub and a hunting knife through her throat. Rusty ignored the hurt entreaty in the dog’s glazing eyes as she slit open the animal’s abdomen and reached up under the ribs for the still beating heart.

“You can live now,” Rusty told the snowman as she scooped snow over Wooly Bear’s corpse and washed her hands clean. “You be walking about tomorrow.”

As she trudged back through the drifts of snow, to the warmth of the family cabin, Rusty sensed a presence behind her, in the darkness, amongst the trees. She turned to see the snowman staring at her through coal-black eyes. “Well, don’t that beat all. You’s alive an’ walking.”

A hole appeared beneath the carrot nose and grew larger and deeper. Rusty peered in. At the bottom of the pit something a deep, hot, crimson pulsed rhythmically. Rusty leaned closer. “Well, don’t that beat all.”

“Musta gone this way. Here’s the tracks. Goddammit! Ain’t I told her enough? Git home afore dark. I’ve half a mind to give them a whipping, both. Where the hell’s them dumb bitches?” A mournful howl answered his question, and Henry Niails thrashed his way through heaped drifts to the scene.

Rusty lay arched backwards over a mound of bloodied snow, a carrot clutched in her hand. She was sliced from neck to navel, a ragged gash that did nothing to hide the broken ribs and missing heart. Niails sank to his knees in the snow, overcome by the horror of what he was seeing.

Something pushed against his hand and Wooly Bear gazed up into his face, her muzzle and coat congealed with blood. As he reached for her the dog rolled onto her back, revealing a fresh scar along her belly.

“The hospital has, of course, been closed for many years now.”

I pondered the irony in my guide’s words. The term “hospital” implied a place where the sick were cared for and, hopefully, cured. St. Jude’s had been, at least in its latter days, a place of incarceration, where the mentally ill awaited death’s merciful release and often waited, and suffered, for a very long time.

“Are there ghosts?” I asked.

He smiled. “Undoubtedly, but you needn’t be concerned. Ghosts can’t hurt you.”

He led me on, down long, dark, stone-flagged corridors, with iron-gated cells at intervals on either side.

Above my head, set in the ceiling, I saw a large wooden pulley. “They used to use that pulley to raise the dead from the Pit,” he said, just as I stepped not on stone, but into nothingness. I slid down a stone chute and fell into a windowless space with no exit but the hole through which I had entered, now high overhead.

“This is where they kept the maddest of the mad,” said my guide from above. “You’ll be one soon enough. Like I said: ghosts can’t hurt you, but they can lead you to places that can.”

He picked up the pen which he had placed to the right of the paper, and started to write:

Things I No Longer Wish to Remember:

Everyone laughing when I wet myself in assembly.
Losing my money down a drain when it fell from my pocket when I ran for a bus.
The day my father hit my mother while I was eating tea.
Everyone laughing when I wet myself in the dinner queue.
Having to wear grey shorts to school for two days after my father set fire to my black ones.
My father hitting me after I wet the bed.
My first girlfriend dumping me.
Being dragged home after running away.
My mother’s face when I told her my exam results.
My father’s fist when my mother told him my exam results.
Finding my second girlfriend in bed with Thomas Chapman.
Hitting my father after he hit my mother while I was eating dinner.
My mother hitting me for hitting my father.
Finding my third girlfriend in bed with Thomas Chapman.
Hitting Thomas Chapman, and my third girlfriend.
My mother’s face on the day my father was found dead in the gutter.
My father’s funeral.
My wedding day.
My mother’s funeral.
Finding my wife in bed with Lee Hendicks.
Missing my wife’s funeral.
My first day in prison.
My second day in prison.
The next three and half thousand days.
My last day in prison.
My first day back in the world.
Today.

He put down the pen, picked up the knife and set about removing the offending memories.