MicroHorror

He woke up suddenly, T-shirt stuck to his back with sweat, his heart still pounding–a remnant of a bad dream. His eyes struggled to make out black shapes in the dark room. Everything looked unfamiliar–the pile of clothes carelessly thrown over the chair loomed large now, appearing more like the figure of a hulking man. He thought he saw it move for just a moment, but quickly realized it was just the night air rustling his wife’s dress, waving it in the breeze.

When had he opened the window?

He shivered now and moved to close the window, being careful not to wake his wife as he slid out from under the covers and got to his feet. The night air was icy, carrying the smell of snow. Leaning his head out of the window, he took a deep breath and then closed it soundlessly. Maybe he would find a winter wonderland in the morning and he could take Lisa sledding.

He tiptoed back to bed and climbed in. The bed was still warm where he had been sleeping. He lay back and closed his eyes, but a restlessness stopped any sleep from coming. His dream wouldn’t shake free from his mind–images of the farmhouse he was renovating with his wife, sounds of chainsaws and hammers. In his dream, he had been hanging drywall, until he heard his wife screaming. He had chased her voice through the house, but could never seem to find her.

He opened his eyes again and exhaled. The bad dream had to be a result of all his stress. He was working too hard, that was all. The new house, his new job at the college, married only five months, it was all catching up with him. He would take the upcoming weekend off, he promised himself. Rest. If the weather warmed, maybe fish the lake behind their house. He would drink beer and Lisa would read one of her books.

He rolled over and felt for his wife. Once his hands found her silky nightgown, he pulled her closer to him, nuzzling her neck.

But she didn’t respond. Normally, she would reach over and pat his leg, murmuring sleepily “love you” and nestling into his arms. Now she felt limp and, well, wrong.

“Lisa,” he whispered in her ear.

The silence sent a chill down his spine.

He reached over and shook her shoulder, not noticing how cold her skin felt.

“Lisa? Wake up!” His voice was growing more panicked by the second. He shook her violently, begging her to open her eyes. Afraid she wasn’t breathing, he fumbled for the phone on his nightstand, but knocked it to the floor, along with a book and his reading glasses. The phone’s dial tone cut into the stillness of the bedroom.

He switched on a lamp.

In the light, he could now see his wife’s twisted body lying lifeless in his bed. Her skin was pale, a blue color he had never seen before. And her eyes were locked in a stare. He leaned in closer, his heart stopped in his throat. Blood was streaking down her face, coloring her hair and staining the sheets beneath her. There was so much blood, he almost couldn’t tell where it was coming from.

He felt as if he were going to be sick and stood up from the bed. In the weak light of the bedside lamp, he could see more blood painted over the room. Blood was spattered on their headboard and the ceiling. Their wedding photo, framed above the bed, was dotted with red. On the window sash were two crimson handprints. He looked down and saw that he too was covered.

It was only then that he noticed the blood-covered nail gun neatly put away in the corner of the room.

And he remembered the loud popping of the nail gun as it had run through his dreams.