MicroHorror

He is a suspicious-looking man, his eyes black with no whites. He is wearing a hat, sunglasses and a black slicker on a dry, hot summer night. He is carrying a ratty, oversized suitcase and shakes in an uncontrolled fit.

He steps out from the shadows and onto the street.

He is arrested twenty minutes later.

The cops seize the man’s suitcase with much difficulty; for such a rat of a man he sure puts up quite a scrap for his luggage. The cops beat the man half to death before they are finally able to pry the case from his grappling, crooked little fingers. Inside of the case are more fingers, 612 to be exact, rooted from their owners’ palms.

The cops bark questions into the strange man’s face. Spittle collects and slides down his cheeks. Never an answer. Never a flinch. Just a smile. Just a strange, wicked smile.

Finally, the man opens his mouth, but not to speak. He wants them to look inside. They slowly move toward the strange man, their curiosity getting the best of them. The man’s tongue has been ripped from its root leaving only the scars to prove it. The man begins to laugh with a strange and frightening cackle formed by the absence of his tongue. The cops back away in horror.

They will never know the answers to their questions.

And neither will you.