MicroHorror

Dale felt a sharp pain in his left thigh. He stood up and began feeling his leg for clues to the origin of the pain. Maybe too much time on the tennis court the day before or perhaps he had some type of infection. He had recently returned from a trip to Nigeria. God only knows what kind of diseases lurked there.

And then there was that old peddler he accidentally ran into with his Jeep. Tattered rags for clothes. He was disgusting. He had demanded an apology for being knocked down by a foreigner. Dale had laughed in his face. Imagine him, Dale Tuffin, Jr., stooping so low as to apologize to some vagrant. Who cares that the old windbag screamed at him and whined a series of loud curses. But just to be safe, he had himself checked out when he returned to the States.

Seating himself in a plush, imported chair, Dale continued with his book. Such was his life of ease that he could easily afford many hours to reading. His father’s real estate dealings had skyrocketed lately leaving his children to bask in wealth. His father had never really pushed work on his two sons, preferring to let them find their own direction. And although nineteen years had passed in Dale’s life with no real skills or talent surfacing, he did not worry. He would someday inherit over seventy million dollars along with his brother. Who needed to work?

Twenty minutes passed before Dale realized that the pain in his leg had all but completely vanished. Now he could plan eighteen holes of golf tomorrow.

Putting his book down, Dale reached for the pen and notebook of paper he had left on the end table. He needed to make a note to call the country club and line up his buddies for the game. His hand landed squarely on the notepad but the pen was gone!

That’s weird; he could have sworn he left the pen on the table. But not to worry, he’d get another one.

Come to think of it, he had been misplacing quite a few things lately. Nothing of any real importance though, but things he needed nonetheless.

The day before, he lost his new Van Halen CD in his ’Vette. He was nearly swerving off the road looking for it. And that was when the back spasm hit him. Sheer agony that almost made him have an accident.

Then he had misplaced his lighter. Then his brush, his favorite brush.

Was someone playing a joke on him? Was someone taking his things when he wasn’t looking? But how could they sneak in and out of rooms without being seen?

He quickly found a new pen.

Seating himself back in the library, he wrote his notes on the next day’s activities.

And then the pain hit him. A dull, slicing pain. It felt like someone was jabbing him with a knife. No, like a shoe or something. It actually felt like there was a shoe being shoved up his butt.

The room filled with his cries. Realizing he was alone in the house increased his anxiety. And since it was Friday, the help had the day off. No one would hear him.

He scanned the room. He noticed that his book was now gone as well!

The phone! Call for help, call his father, call anybody! But a twist of his head revealed more insanity… his phone was gone!

“This is crazy,” Dale cried. “What the hell’s going on?”

Another jolt of unbelievable pain hit his ankle. And then another racked his stomach. He fell to the floor. As the threshold of his pain increased he noticed something that provided insight to his impending death.

Not more than five feet from his sprawled body, the impossible crept towards him. Seeking to join their companions within Dale’s body, his book and the telephone inched their way towards their new home.