MicroHorror

“Guests are always surprised when they meet Mother’s collection. You see, she has these dolls which are… different.”

“Dolls?” said the policeman, sitting up, and letting his pencil drop.

Leaning back in my armchair, I clasped my hands behind my neck and smiled as I thought how little police know about life… and food

As I thought about food, my stomach rumbled and salivary glands worked overtime. Oh, yes, Mother always produced a meal to be savored, devoured and remembered–one reason why I was still single at forty-five and living at home.

The Guest House might be in the hills, by a lake, a long way from main roads, but we had enough visitors to cater for our needs.

“Nothing really, only they are unusual coming from Africa. I only mentioned them because I remember the fat one you say is missing…”

“Richard Swail, sir,” said the policeman.

“That’s right, nice man, very friendly. Joked a lot, ate a lot, and drank even more, but loved the dolls.”

“No problems, then, yet he has vanished. Disappeared into the proverbial thin air.”

Easing myself out of the armchair, I walked across to a decanter sitting on a silver tray with some cut glass tumblers. Pouring out some of my favorite Bowmore whisky I closed my eyes and sniffed deeply, letting the tangy smell waft up my nostrils.

I took a sip, rolled it round my mouth, savoring the taste as the expensive malt sent its fiery sensation down my throat as I swallowed. Smell and taste: what a combination, even more so when applied to food.

I eyed the dark oak door to my right and smiled briefly, knowing what sat in silence in the other room. Pity Mother wasn’t present, she’d be proud of the way I was handling the intruder into our privileged life.

The policeman consulted his notes, then stared at me, hostility obvious.

“We know his last call on his mobile was after breakfast from here, driving straight to his office. Seems to have vanished, his car with him.”

I poured myself another whisky, walked to the oak door and listened. I thought I heard rustling from within. My stomach rumbled, and a glance at my watch confirmed it was time to eat again.

How lucky I was, having such a brilliant cook as my mother, and weren’t we lucky in having…

“Can I look ’round the house, sir?” asked the policeman, interrupting my thoughts.

“Why not go in there first?” I stood aside and let the policeman enter and smiled as he caught sight of the occupants in the dimly lit room.

The floor was bare dark wood, and the only furniture was a long settee, with four sitting figures.

Each was about four feet tall, made of crudely carved wood, with shrunken heads that had gaping mouths still full of teeth that had been chiseled to points. Wisps of hair still adorned the heads, and colorful blanket-type clothing covered the bodies.

The policeman’s face had gone white, and beads of sweat appeared. I could smell his fear and see his terror.

“Bloody ’ell,” he whispered, “those heads look real.”

“They are,” I said. “Taken from enemies during battles and treated to make them shrink and not rot.”

“Do your guests meet them?”

“Oh, yes. Gives them quite a shock.”

I watched him walk towards the far wall, and smiled as four shrunken heads turned and eyes, now blazing with life, stared at his back.

Quietly leaving the room, I locked the doors. Time to let Mother know that fresh joints would soon be ready for cooking. Her African servants were most efficient butchers

I wandered into the kitchen and thought about the mouthwatering meal she would cook with her subtle choice of herbs and spices. I had already decided on the wine when a short scream momentarily disturbed my reverie.

• Copyright: © 2010 Brian Lux