MicroHorror

The children sat in a tight circle, their shoulders touching all around. They were obedient; Professor Layne had to give them that much at least. “Now, children,” his voice crackled as he spoke, “why don’t you tell me what happened to Mrs. Widecuff.” He put a finger in his collar and pulled slightly to give himself more breathing room. He could feel the sweat on the collar.

“She died,” one of the children said, a blond little girl named Wilma, the leader.

“I know that,” he said, then caught his patience and lowered his voice. “I want to know how she died.” In his mind, he ran the figures in his head. Nine children. Three armed police. Two concerned social workers. One sociology professor with a sweaty collar. Adults versus children, how could they lose?

Wilma smiled at him, as if she could read his thoughts, exactly like she could read his thoughts. “She just stopped breathing, stopped taking air into her lungs. Mrs. Widecuff said people need air to live. She was right.”

The calmness that the little girl used made gooseflesh run up Layne’s spine. His forehead burned with panic. Sweat began to sting his eyes and he blinked it out as he responded. “People don’t just stop breathing. Something had to…” There was a loud crash from behind him, and Layne turned to see one of the police sprawled on the ground. The other two clasped at their throats, desperately trying to force air in, but unable. The social workers were turning blue. Layne wiped the sweat out of his eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

Wilma came to him and pulled on his arm and waved him to her. When he leaned over to her, she whispered softly. Her breath was cold on his cheek. Her fingers were hot on the back of his neck. “Why not?”

Layne felt dizzy, and a moment later, he collapsed.