MicroHorror

“I love you,” the old woman said.

Her son lifted his head. In the hospital room, he’d grown so accustomed to the bleating and beeping of machinery that the leathery voice of the old woman sounded odd, like a song sung loudly in a quiet library. He shifted in his chair.

“I’m sorry. What did you say, Ma?”

“You heard me.” Her lips moved slowly, as if the voice was coming from some other body.

The man put aside his book and leaned forward. Her brown eyes were clear. Her white hair was a bird’s nest, but not as noticeable against the pure white of her pillow.

“I love you, so I won’t leave you my secrets.”

He sighed. She was talking nonsense again.

Or at least, he hoped that she was.

“When you go home tonight, I want you to make sure you keep Dad’s gun on your bedside. Anyone comes knocking late, then you know what to do.”

“That sounds like one of your secrets,” he said condescendingly. “Isn’t it time to stop telling fortunes, Ma?”

“Hmph,” she sniffled. “Not like there’s much remaining to tell. You have always been my favorite, Carl. So you do this for Ma,” she said, reaching out to stroke his hair with her papery fingers. “And you’ll make me happy.”

She lapsed again into sleep, and after an hour more, he left the room.

The hospital parking lot was well lit but nearly empty. He couldn’t help the compulsion to look over his shoulder. He felt that he was being watched.

He showered and got into bed a little past midnight. It was windy outside, and the tree branches scratched at his window.

He heard a knocking sound.

At first, he thought that it might be the attic. But then he wasn’t sure. Convincing himself that maybe it was something else outside, he closed his eyes.

As he turned in bed, he saw a figure in the doorway of his room.

A woman. She was young. Her face was oddly familiar.

He sat up. She made a keening sound. A hiss.

The gun lay on the bedside table.

He shot her.

His hands trembled as he stood over the body. He’d have to bury it out back before dawn.

He dressed, and tucked the gun into his belt. There were four more bullets just in case more of her ilk came calling.

He got the call the next morning that Ma had passed away in the night.

She’d never been wrong about anything.