MicroHorror

“Lights out,” Larry announced, surveying the converted warehouse. Forty cots covered the floor, each one occupied by a huddled form. The building was a sea of mismatched clothes and ragged blankets.

He flipped the light switch, dousing the sallow fluorescents and consuming the room in darkness. There were a few random mutters, but they subsided and the sounds of deep breathing and light snoring soon took their place. Industrial-sized heaters hummed in the background, their soft red glow invisible from the doorway.

Larry stepped outside and lit a cigarette. He’d started the Homeless House, as it had come to be called, almost two years ago–the best way he could think of to help those less fortunate than himself. In the beginning he’d had sponsors–several local businesses that had wanted their names in the paper. But over time they’d dropped off–like a one night stand, they got their publicity and moved on. Not wanting to close the House, Larry had to find another way to finance it before he went broke and his wife threw him out on the street. Wouldn’t that be ironic, he thought.

He took a long drag and stared down the street. Abandoned buildings lined the road on both sides, giant football players ready to charge each other at the snap of the ball. Larry wondered–as he did every night–why he didn’t just shut the House down and let the homeless fend for themselves. He was keeping them out of the cold, but at what price?

A tall silvery shadow slid out of the darkness beside him. The figure coalesced in the moonlight into a well dressed man with long black hair. Larry ignored him and took another drag. The man pressed something into Larry’s trembling hand and gave him a conspirator’s smile. The pointed tips of his canines caught the moonlight, reflecting it like twin beacons.

The man entered the shelter, locking the door behind him. Larry stuffed the crumpled bills into his pocket and shuddered. He snubbed out his cigarette, then plodded up the street.