MicroHorror

“Man, that thing’s really scary.”

Jose looked up at Carl, who was staring at the brick wall on the side of the road. The writhing, flesh-colored body of a worm was painted on it, small black hairs sprouting all over it, entering one painted black hole and exiting into another. “That thing’s everywhere,” he said shortly, as he went back to his work on his car. He had little patience for Carl’s panic attacks, now more than ever. One of his car’s tires had blown up, and he had to work fast so they could get going as soon as possible.

Carl shivered. “Where do you think its head is?”

“I don’t know,” Jose said, “and I don’t care. Dude, what’s wrong with you? You’ve been jumpy as hell–”

“Wouldn’t you be, after what happened?” Carl said. “We killed that girl–”

“So?” Jose snapped. “No one saw us. Besides, it wasn’t our fault we hit her. She just appeared out of nowhere–”

“But I can’t forget the look on her face,” Carl said. “Her eyes. It was as if she was looking right through us and she was going to let us pay–”

“How the hell is she going to do that now? She’s dead. I checked.”

Jose got up and returned his things back to the car. He climbed back into the driver’s seat. “Nothing’s going to happen,” he said as they drove along the road. “Even the cops won’t get us. We’ll be fine–”

Carl gasped suddenly, startling Jose out of his tirade.

“There it is again! It really is freaky, man.”

Jose glanced out the window, and true enough, a few meters away, he could see the worm, still painted on the same brick wall that lined the road. “I told you, Carl. It’s everywhere. Kids these days have a lot of time on their hands.”

Carl exclaimed a few seconds later, “There it is again!” His voice lowered to a whisper. “Jose. This is crazy, but maybe it’s… following us?”

Jose said nothing. He had to admit that he had never seen these drawings of that worm this close together before, and he had passed through this route hundreds of times now. Maybe–

“Don’t be stupid,” he managed to snap at Carl, and at himself. “It’s nothing. Now shut up, I mean it.”

Carl obeyed, but even so, Jose still noticed the paintings of the worm throughout their drive: not only on the wall lining the road, but also on a bridge they drove past, and once, on a billboard, painted over an actress advertising a new line of men’s underwear.

He dropped Carl off at his apartment, and headed to his flat himself. He was already inside the elevator, on the way to his floor, when his cell phone rang.

It was Carl. “What, man?” Jose shouted, exasperated. “Seriously, you–”

“Jose, the head, the head–! It’s–”

Carl uttered a single, choked sort of cry, and the line went dead. Dead–it was an ominous word, Jose thought suddenly, feeling a chill that seemed to creep under his skin. He let out a sigh of relief when the elevator chimed and the doors slid open.

Then he stopped in his tracks, staring at the walls around him.

For on them were hundreds of paintings of the worm, entering one black hole and exiting another in endless succession. He ran all the way to his flat, and went straight to his bedroom, locking the door behind him. He backed against his bed, shivering violently.

A sharp pang of pain made him cry out and turn around. He realized, too late, that on the headboard of his bed was painted the face of a worm, its scarlet eyes glaring at him. When he started to run, the painting moved–the worm opened its mouth, revealing a full set of large, and incredibly sharp, teeth.

He did not even have time to scream.