MicroHorror

In Tom’s nightmare, shelves clattered and pickle jars smashed on the cellar floor. Bricks shifted and plaster pattered down. The wall cracked open and a black-bound parcel wriggled out.

Tom woke, staggered from his bed, anxiety twisting his guts. Outside rain sprinkled the window, the sky a gray-blue watery blur. He traced the track of raindrops slithering down the glass. He should have tried harder, maybe if he took his pills, saw Doctor Biers again, he might get back on track.

He pulled on yesterday’s clothes and socks, greasy and clinging. He remembered when clothes smelt sweet, fresh from the line, fluffed and lovingly folded everything in its place. He shuffled downstairs.

The kitchen was cold but still managed a rancid air. Dirty crockery and pans covered every surface, tilting and sliding in slow declines towards the littered floor. Moldering food trailed counter edges like cat sick.

Where had all this crap come from? He shuffled along crooked paths, hemmed by cardboard boxes, chocolate wrappers, lager cans and chip papers. Something scurried away.

Maurice would have hated this mess.

In Tom’s head, the nightmare reran. The black parcel in the cellar stood up. Manicured fingernails tore through plastic sheeting and flexing bones burst the bindings. Big brother Maurice, untidily skeletal, would ball the plastic sheet and mop the floor. Soon he would be finished, the cellar neat as a pin, and Maurice would come up the stairs.

Tom shivered. He remembered the tidying, the beatings, and the fear.

Sweeping newspapers from a chair Tom slumped down, ducked beneath the table and from the shadows retrieved a treasure, an unopened can that had slipped from his drunken grasp the previous night. The can’s silver eye blinked at him and the ring-pull cracked with a joyous psst-chuck! He swigged amber liquid, brewery clean, washing the crud from his mouth, a breakfast of sorts. His mood lifted.

She might like some.

Down in the cellar Maurice howled, twisted and then exploded into dust.

He found a tumbler, wiped it as best he could, and glugged the remaining lager into it. With delicate precision, he removed a tiny hair that clung to the rim. He grabbed a metal tray from behind the fridge and placed the glass at its centre. He draped a gray handkerchief over his elbow, waiter-like, and hoisted the tray and made his way back upstairs.

On the landing, he turned towards the master bedroom. Outside her door, he felt an air of waiting, the presence of sacred things. The carpet felt thick beneath his feet, faint feelings of comfort and security stirred, memories of Christmas morning excitement, bursting breathless into her scented room, jumping on the bed, warm hugs and kisses and then presents.

He pushed the door open. It felt peaceful in the soft lamplight, the curtains closed against the weather, clothes folded neatly on a blanket box at the foot of the bed, a clock’s slow tick, the counterpane on the bed, smoothed and neatly folded, molding the form beneath.

“Wakey-wakey, your butler has brought you a drink.” He pirouetted beside the bed, lifting aside the uneaten cake and cold scummy tea, displacing them with this new, meaner offering.

“Come on, mum, you have to get something inside you.”

He fussed with the bedclothes, tried to brush the stain from the pillow. He bent, not breathing, to kiss his mother’s skull. Flakes of desiccated flesh and hairs caught his bristled chin, detaching as his lips brushed her head, exposing another patch of bone.

“You’re looking good today!”