MicroHorror

Edna and Ralph were cozy in the back of his father’s baby-blue Ford Fairlane. Slowly, the car began to rock. Their rhythm seemed to harmonize with the very sounds of nature all around them. Night birds courted among the lush canopy of trees, singing away the last faint rays of light. The golden-rimmed clouds parted, revealing the perfect orb of the full rising moon. An unearthly howl filled the forest then, silencing all. The teenage lovers, lost in the perfect solipsism of young lust, heard nothing but their own haggard breath, moving faster and faster. It took the squeal of preternatural claws rending the metal flesh of the hardtop to jolt them from their…

***

“Carl, this isn’t about werewolves, is it? They’ve been done to death. And teenagers? Next they’ll be meeting up with Laurel and Hardy. This is 3-D we’re launching here. Three-god-damned-D. You’re proposing we waste the single most exciting revolution in moviemaking on the same old shit that we’ve been turning out year after year?”

“People like werewolves, Mr. Anderson.” Carl flushed purple, but had already moved the sheaf of papers to the bottom of a rather impressive stack.

“People liked Nixon at one point, Carl.”

“Point taken, Mr. Anderson. Perhaps we could try something a little different.”

“Yes, different. Now we’re talking.” The portly film exec leaned back in his padded chair. He lit another cigarette from the end of the one he was finishing, and took a drag. “Go ahead, Carl. Wow me.”

***

The new young master of the house arrived early in the day. The stately manor house had been a bequest of his recently departed Uncle Chesterton. Putting aside the bizarrely hostile behavior of the locals, including the rough young gent who’d shown him to the gate, he felt a kinship to the place. There was something in the air here that called to his blood.

It was only later that night, as he was making his way toward the lower chambers, that he got his first inkling of something amiss. All was silent, which was odd, as the house was draughty, and should’ve been a haven for mice and rats.

The chamber at the bottom of the spiraling staircase was shut tight. Alvin put his shoulder to it, and grudgingly, it gave. Upon spying the large oblong box in the corner…

***

“Vampires, huh? That’s different, Carl? You think any self-respecting teenager is going to strap blue and red glasses to his head to sit through… Listen, listen closely, Carl–that sound you’re hearing is Bela Lugosi spinning in his grave and the son-of-a-bitch isn’t even dead yet. And again with the “silent,” we’re making talkies here, Carl. Jesus.”

Flustered, Carl drew in a deep breath, and started muttering. It was so low, it sounded like buzzing.

“What was that, Carl?” The exec was fuming. The meeting was a bust.

The scrawny writer pushed up Coke-bottle glasses and cleared his throat. “I said I’ve got one more.”

“Well, let’s hear it.”

***

The moon shone coldly with pale white light. The silence of the desert filled the air with ominous foreboding. In a far-off corner of a crypt, the dust began to stir…

***

“I swear to God, Carl, if it’s fucking mummies, I’ll garrote you with that stupid purple necktie you’re wearing. You’re supposed to be a writing genius, Carl. You’re a HACK!”

Carl was murmuring/buzzing again, but Anderson took no notice. “Why on earth do I pay you? You’re worthless–what’s more… you’re fired. Get out of my sight.”

At this, Carl’s face split in two, and released the monstrous fly-thing that had been using him as a shell. Pincers like scimitars clicked in front of its mouth. Shaking off blood from its wings, it launched itself into the air, and sped toward Anderson. His last thought before his head was snipped from his body was, “Now that’s what I wanted to see.”