MicroHorror

“Pick up the hammer!” the voices demanded.

“No,” Phil replied.

“You must pick up the hammer!” the voices repeated.

“I WILL NOT!”

Six months ago the voices began speaking to him, demanding he pick up the hammer inside his desk. He knew what they wanted, but he didn’t want to do it. In the beginning he heard them once a week, whispering softly inside his head. Phil did his best to ignore them but it was becoming harder and harder. Now they shouted instead of whispered.

He kept quiet about his problem. No one would have believed him anyway. People would assume he was crazy and lock him away. He wasn’t crazy, though. Phil didn’t simply imagine them. He knew they were there and he knew who they were. They were a vast collection of demons sent forth to torment him. Why they chose him, he didn’t know.

“Pick up the hammer!” the voices insisted.

“NEVER!” he shouted, grateful no one was around to hear him.

“Oh, we think that you will,” they laughed, “because if you do not we will torment you for eternity. You shall never escape us, not even in death. We will haunt you forever! Now pick up the hammer.”

A thousand voices then shrieked inside his head. The noise pierced Phil’s soul like a dagger. Over and over they screamed, bringing him to his knees. He rolled around on the ground and beat his head onto the wooden floor. He wanted to die from the unbearable pain. The screaming voices ceased after a time but the pain stayed with him for a long time.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Phil wailed.

“Because we can!” they replied, laughing.

“I can’t!”

“Do it and we will go away.”

“Do you promise?” Phil asked, daring to hope.

“Yes. Now do it!” they ordered.

Phil rose shakily and reluctantly walked to his desk. He slowly opened his drawer. It scratched against the wood with a hiss. The hammer lay exactly where he had left it many months ago. The metal winked at him as if it was greeting an old friend. He reached down and clasped the handle. It was a simple wooden hammer with a metal claw top, but it held power within it. Phil could feel it.

“Good!” The voices purred.

Phil could hear their glee.

“Now go,” they said.

Phil left his apartment and headed to a house several blocks away. The silence within told him it was empty. Walking slowly but deliberately, Phil went to the back door. Surprisingly, he found it unlocked. He crept inside and waited inside the hallway bathroom for the opportune time. Thankfully, the voices were silent.

After an hour he heard the front door open. Footsteps shuffled down the hall. Phil’s body tensed as he raised the hammer high above his head. A man entered into the hallway on his way to the bathroom. Without hesitation Phil plunged the face of the hammer into the man’s skull. His victim reeled backward against the opposite wall, squealing in pain.

Phil yanked the hammer up and struck again. The man fell to the ground, blood gurgling from his lips. At the third strike, the hammer face became stuck in the man’s skull. Phil had to wiggle it back and forth to free it. He brought the hammer to the side and smashed the man’s nose, crumpling the cartilage. He knew the man was long dead, but Phil wouldn’t stop. He kept smashing until nothing remained but bloody pulp. Panting, Phil finally stopped and caught his reflection in the mirror. There were bits of bone, flesh and blood splattered across his face.

“Excellent!” the voices chimed. “Now, we have more for you to do.”
“NO!” Phil whined. “You said you would go away.”

Throaty chuckles filled his head.

“We lied! We will never leave you! Now kill the woman!” they commanded

Phil raised his hammer and struck his mother.