MicroHorror

I woke up a few minutes ago, alone in the master bedroom of our mansion by the sea, sweating and trembling and cringing like a little boy, curled up in a fetal position in a corner of our king-size bed. Something horrific happened last night, but I blacked out. Can’t recall a bloody thing. My name’s Jack Hunter (a.k.a. Jacob Horowitz), the CEO of a cutting-edge consulting firm.

My wife Carole is the loveliest lady on this planet. My son Eric’s away at college, majoring in political science and pre-law at Harvard. My daughter Julia is a straight-A premed student at Yale.

Last night, Carole and I celebrated our silver wedding anniversary. But something bad happened. And now, I’m alone in our bed in our Manhattan Beach house in Brooklyn. Where’s my wife Carole?

The room is dark. Is it still the middle of the night? I stumble out of bed. My legs are wobbly and my breath reeks of Johnnie Walker Red. I trudge through the thick darkness and turn on the lights. Carole is not here. Perhaps she is in the bathroom down the hall or downstairs in the kitchen.

My frenzied eyes dart and flit across the room, stop, and gaze at the flowing white curtain covering the bay window. Then they sail around the room, landing on the family picture on the night table. I see a man and woman in their twenties and two toddlers, a boy and a girl, smiling generously at an unknown photographer. I don’t recognize the couple or the children. Who are they? Why do I have a family picture of strangers in my bedroom?

My mind drifts and I stagger to the white curtain. Looking behind the curtain, I discover black shades that cover the window. When I peek behind the shades, a fiery blast of sunlight assaults me.

I rush away and notice a six-foot mirror covered in black cloth. In my religion, when a loved one dies, the mourner sits shiva for a week. During this period, we cover the mirrors in the house. Has someone died?

Like a feeble old man, I totter to our bed and see it. There’s blood on the bed and on my hands too.

“Carole!” I cry out. “Carole, are you okay?”

I flounder and reel toward the door. But I drift back to the bed and lie down. I gaze at the family picture that looks strangely familiar. Who are they? Who am I? What year is it?

I fall asleep and dream two dreams. In the first dream, I’m driving on an old country road in Maine late at night. Carole is sitting between little Eric and Julia in the back. We’re heading to Ogunquit, Maine for our summer vacation. Suddenly, a car comes out of nowhere and crashes into us.

The first dream merges with the second one. Carole and I are in our Brooklyn home. We’re drunk and angry with each other. The anger turns to rage and we get physical. I grab a knife and… I’m back in my room and awake.

The truth lies beyond the bedroom door. I must search for Carole in every room, alcove, or hallway of our labyrinthine mansion. If someone has hurt her (us), I will hunt him down.

I will find Carole. And later, I will call Eric and Julia. But who am I? Am I guilty of a heinous crime?

Listen. Can you hear someone crying out there? Listen to the ghostly shrieks. I must go.