MicroHorror

Caroline had only popped around for a coffee and a chat with her sister Kelly. And on receiving no answer at the front door, she’d gone and had a gawp through the window. That was when she’d seen her sister sprawled upon the living-room carpet with her skull wide open. Kelly had ceased to be twenty-two years old the moment she’d run out of blood. She’d now and forever be referred to by how long she had been dead. Poor girl, she’s been dead, etc. The camera clicked and its flashes threw white fireworks into the room as the photographer captured the grim scene from every attainable angle. Detective Morris sniffed and watched as the forensics man dusted the outside of the window. Morris was on the inside and staring as the fingerprints bloomed upon the surface of the glass. The fingerprints were strange, in the fact that there were no ridges or whorls to be seen. Just fingertip-shaped smudges, lots of them, along with blank palm-prints. It had been the same oddity at the scenes of five other murders. Forensics reckoned that as many as nine different sets of gloved hands had been pressed up against the glass. So, what did that mean?

That the act of murder had become a spectator sport? That a hoard of fucked-up freaks were playing Peeping-Toms, whilst a show-off killer showcased his depraved skills? An even worse thought that occurred to him was what if they were all taking turns at being the killer whilst the others watched? That scenario wasn’t even worth thinking about. 

Morris got home. He didn’t need to shout out that he was home. His wife had packed up and fucked off long ago, and they’d never had any kids. He closed the curtains in the lounge. He was struck hard from behind and everything went dark. Morris regained consciousness to find himself still in the lounge. He was bound to a chair and gagged. A squat man stood before him. The man was dressed in coveralls. His face was slack, his eyes vacant. At school he’d probably been teased for being backwards and nicknamed Retard. He came up close to Morris. His words were dummy-slow and his breath was vile.

“The dead. They like to see people die. They like to see lots of people die.” The simpleton went and opened the curtains. A dozen white misshapen faces malingered at the window. Two dozen sets of fingers stroked at the glass impatiently. The simpleton walked around to the back of Morris so as not to obstruct the show for the watchers. He raised the claw-hammer.