MicroHorror

I’d passed the shop several times before. What made me stop now, peering through the grime-streaked glass at the grinning, wide-eyed faces beyond, I do not know, but presently the bell tinkled, the street sounds dimmed, and the door closed softly behind me.

The shop was larger than I expected. Puppets had been crowded near the front, hung up or propped in little groups where they jostled for attention from the strangers outside. Beyond them, rows of shelves stretched into the gloom.

Down one of these rows I walked, looking about me with a sort of inane glee. On every side slumped lifeless little figures, their legs dangling, their heads cocked coyly to one side.

I picked one up: a particolored Punchinello with brass buttons and tassels. I squeezed his body, I waved his arms and legs, made him pirouette and kick the air. Finally, I made him take a bow, and sat him back on the shelf.

I saw the longing in the eyes of the others and smiled. “Pick me! Pick me!” they seemed to say, dead hands struggling to rise. Each was given its chance at life.

This had been going on for some time when something brushed my nose. It was dark here, and I stood still and waited. Again it brushed my nose. Soft little shoes. I looked up and saw one of the puppets seated before me. Its feet swung back and forth, like a hideous child’s; its head nodded softly, its chest heaved in minute, jerking breaths beneath the fabric.

I looked at my hands, which rested by my sides…

I never passed the shop again. I no longer know if it exists. Though sometimes, when I look about me, I come upon figures, slumped in curbs, hanging from windowsills and propped in doorways, writhing with a movement that is not mine. Horror seizes me then, as it did in the shop, and I flee through endless streets where it seems that the eyes of a thousand thousand dead things regard me. But then I recall that dead things attract rats, and I recall also the black sleek shape that darted away as I screamed, leaving the puppet lifeless once more.