MicroHorror

In a last-ditch attempt to save their marriage, Porter and Sylvia decided to take an autumn road trip from Philadelphia to a cozy bed and breakfast in upstate New York. But soon enough, tempers ran hot inside the tin can of their VW Bug, and Syl tossed the GPS from the window, somewhere along Route 87.

Furiously following a crinkled map while Syl stared silently out the window, Porter realized that some things just weren’t meant to be. So when they came upon the burnt red farmhouse somewhere outside of Buffalo, Porter already had his speech planned. He knew the speech would be the easy part; the hard part would be ridding his life of all aspects in which this vile woman at his side had become a part. Then a grubby hand slapped the windshield. Syl screamed.

“Where y’all from?” the farmer asked. He was long and lanky, face like a cracked desert. As he wiped his hands down the front of his soiled overalls, he craned and squinted through the glass at the limping lovebirds. Porter unrolled his window.

“Philly,” he said. “Do you have a room for the night?”

“Yeah, we got a room,” said the farmer. “We got golf too. See the sign over yonder?”

Porter followed the farmer’s gnarled finger to a worn sign at the end of the secluded driveway that read: McCree’s Bed and Golf.

“We got breakfast too,” said the farmer, snapping off a piece of chewing tobacco. “But the old bitch was too lazy to paint it on the sign. You know what I mean, fella?”

Then he leaned on the door and flashed a brown smile. Syl tugged at Porter’s sleeve.

“I don’t like this place,” she said.

Porter pulled her fingers from his sleeve and winked at the farmer.

“We’ll take it. Is there time to swat a few golf balls before dark?”

Porter and Syl followed the farmer up the squeaky staircase to their room on the second floor. Despite the general mustiness of the place, there was something to be said about rustic charm. Porter grinned as he flopped his bag onto the bed. Syl slapped him.

“You are such as asshole, Porter. As soon as we get back to Philly, we’re getting a divorce.”

“That sounds fine, baby,” he said, unfazed. He unpacked while Syl huffed and stomped around the room.

“Where did that creepy farmer go? And where is his wife? I need to find the bathroom.”

Suddenly finding a moment’s peace, Porter stretched out on the bed. Just as he began to drift, someone shook his foot.

“Get on up,” said the farmer. “I got the golf all set up for ye. You can smack a good one before supper.”

Porter, groggy, followed the farmer down the stairs.

“Where’s Syl?” he asked.

“She’s waiting on ye. She’s been waiting on ye for a little while.”

Behind the farmhouse was a rectangular tract of razed land that was bordered by bright maples. In the rays of the dying sun, they looked like giant sticks of pink cotton candy. Porter, slowly absorbing the scenery, felt a twinge of true happiness. Then the farmer pressed a scythe into Porter’s palm.

“Gotta use this,” he said. “Make sure your aim is true, though.”

Porter marched over to the edge of the driving range. Syl’s head protruded from a hole in the ground, her neck collared by a patch of artificial turf. The ball-gag kept her from speaking, but her eyes said plenty.

“I slapped my bitch ’bout two hundred yards,” said the farmer. “You hit better’n that and you get the night for free.”

Porter lined up the scythe. Forgetting his prepared speech from earlier, he simply said, “Goodbye, baby.”

Then, with a mighty swing, he lopped her head clean off. It careened to the right, finally crashing down into a rose bush.

“Damn, boy! You hooked it! Looks like you’re paying.”

• Copyright: © 2009 Mel Bosworth