MicroHorror

Erik collapsed onto his bed. “Welcome Week” rituals were fun, but between the partying until two in the morning, and waking up three hours later to go on “elephant walks,” he was starting to feel the worse for wear. Luckily, tonight had been “graduation.” It was an end to the rituals, and he looked forward to finally getting some sleep. The stories told by the seniors had hardly registered. After drinking from the ceremonial keg, and receiving his nickname, “Stains” (short for Shit-Stains), the elders had told the history of Baldwin Hall. It was built at the turn of the twentieth century, and had served as a halfway house for soldiers returning from the First World War. Legend had it, too, that several of the men had committed suicide here. For obvious reasons, it was never shared which rooms this was supposed to have happened in. Lesson over, the girls of Bronte House arrived, and the revelry commenced.

***

The room was almost pitch dark though the curtains were wide open to the moonless night. Something had woken Stains from his drunken stupor. There was a rhythmic creaking, coming from just over his head. It sounded vaguely like the tire swing his folks had up at the lake house. He rubbed his eyes. Back and forth, wearing at the rustic beams above the sound continued. He knew before he saw what it had to be. Stains wasn’t afraid of ghosts, though. What could something that by definition had no physical mass do to a solid human being?

The soldier was young, easily the same age as him, if not younger. It was hard to make out details, but could see the lump of a tongue protruding between the lips, and the slightly darker outline in his fatigues where the man had voided upon death. The apparition’s ashen face turned awkwardly on its broken neck and opened coal-black eyes to stare at him, and Stains (né Erik) saw.

***

His name was Daniel Ste-Rose. He had been conscripted just as he was readying to go away to school. Now he was in the trenches, with his new friends, Fox, Hammer, and Red–all that was left of a group that had gone through basic training together.

One night, they were over the top, charging in the dark and the mud towards the enemy trenches when the gas came. Choked screams filled the air. Daniel dove flat, and shoved his handkerchief into his pants as he’d been taught. Fear-piss came quickly and he clapped the stinking, soaked rag to his face and drew a shallow breath. He was angry as well as afraid now, and charged the position. To his left a grenade went off. It was far enough away that he was thrown off his feet, but one screaming chip of metal found its mark between his eyebrows. His face was swimming with blood, and each breath was an
agony.

He resolved to die a hero and charged with all the strength he had left. He came upon a group of man-shapes and opened fire. The trigger jammed, and he thrust the bayonet again and again. His ears were deafened from the blast of the grenade, or he would have heard the cries of, “DANNY! DANNY! NO!” When the smoke cleared, he saw the remains of Fox and Hammer at his feet.

The soldier never spoke again. He screamed once, then simply collapsed to his knees, and went to sleep. Later, when he arrived at the halfway house, he didn’t even spend one night. He simply removed his belt and hanged himself.

***

Stains sat in shocked silence, tears streaming down his face. He hadn’t just seen; he’d been there. But now, because he could see, he felt the other presences arriving–each with their story to tell. A hundred lives, and a hundred deaths to show him.

Erik loosened his belt, and apologized just once to the waiting dead.