MicroHorror

He wakes with a start; it must still be night for it is pitch dark and he can’t see a thing in his room–he doesn’t usually wake up in the night; strange, that, because he hates the dark. He’s hot. He’s not usually hot because he has all of the windows open at night; he likes the fresh air in his room. He hears creaking and he goes to sit up.

BANG

His damn head has struck something–he sees stars as he falls back to his pillow in the darkness. He is frightened and he fumbles for his bedside lamp.

BANG CRASH WALLOP

What the Dickens is occurring? His bed has smashed asunder and he is laid in the debris–he can feel it around him. He tries to sit up but he can’t… something is holding him down. Wait–it is the ceiling; the ceiling has come crashing down onto him–he must escape. He rolls over and squirms towards where he thinks the door should be–he still can’t see anything; it is too dark. By fortune he has chosen the right direction. He begins to cry, however; the door is nigh on seven feet and his room is nearly less than one now–it opens inwards. He is doomed. He scratches furiously at the ceiling as if it were a coffin lid for an undead… the man from upstairs should come running–he seems a good sort.

He sat upright in bed; he could hear scratching on the floor—rats, I would wager.

AAAAAAGH!

He dives under his covers–then he dares another peep. His ceiling, it is twice the height as before–and it is light; he hates the light, it burns into his pale skin and the height gives him vertigo. What should he do? He can’t… he dares not move from under the covers. He does eventually dare an arm, however, and he bangs down onto the floor with his fist; someone new moved into the flat only yesterday and they are bound to hear him… they would help, to be sure…

I wouldn’t count on it…

–I’m sorry, sir; your child was stillborn–
–Sorry, Mister Blake; your son died in birth–
–Your newborn daughter died in my arms minutes after she was born–
–I’m so sorry, Bill–

She’s a good midwife; she delivers fit and healthy babies.

The Lord stood waiting on the dark plateau; his faithful servant sat close by tending a small fire. The early morning chill wind blew easily through his thin linen shirt–but he felt no cold. He could hear the screams of the innocent as they were slaughtered in their beds. He waited… he waited…

In the distance he could see a lone figure walking towards him with the unmistakable swagger of The Dandy. He felt the balance of his pistol and knew his aim would be true… but for him that was not the question this morn. The bloodied fiend stopped twenty paces from his foot.

He taunted The Lord; The Lord stood unwavering and seeing his enemy for the first time since he had created him from the darkness of his mind. He looked to the foul fellow and leveled his pistol; The Poet the same. The moments exchanged between them, The Lord waiting for his God-given pain.

The shot of The Dandy took him in the left shoulder. He took but a short time to compose himself, blood soaking into his apparel. He aimed true; his shot split his enemy’s skull asunder–to die like a man was to be his only honour. The Lord pushed his hand through his mane and beckoned his man shall follow…

…His lad rotted…. alone and without redemption.

It seemed that the venue was perfect: a disused colliery yard, which had once felt the heavy footfall of a thousand men as they reluctantly made their way towards the mineshaft at the beginning of their shift. They, the miners, would say “Who needs Hell when we’ve got this place?” Nevertheless, their Hell was only underground–come the union movement.

The headstocks looked down onto the minors as they crouched below in the darkness waiting– they had been ignored for too long. Whereas the miners had been well rewarded for their toil at the coalface, the minors were not paid well for their Sisyphean labour.

Looking upward their preternatural eyes could see a sturdy fellow with raven hair looking out for them from the top of the headstocks. He was quite well known hereabouts; his name was Nusi. He usually worked the doors at the nightclubs in Market Town; tonight, however, he was to look out for Marshal as he addressed the minors–or rather his comrades, as he preferred to say.

They had waited too long and they were feeling unsettled; Marshal was not yet with them. Not before time, a tall man with straggly grey hair stepped onto a makeshift rostrum to the front of the minors; he raised his hand to silence them. They became immediately silent and Marshal began his speech.

“Comrades,” he bellowed, “we are able to be together tonight because the majors are amused elsewhere– they watch and gamble on our brothers as they fight each other to the death in a warehouse not too far from here.”

“Shame on them,” said one. His comrades agreed. Marshal raised his hand and once more the throng was silent.

“It may be that our brothers have the right idea and that death is a far better option than our eternal damnation whilst we work the nightshift in their factories for a pittance–and for what?” He paused in the silence and then raised his voice for effect. “Doesn’t anyone have the answer? It’s simple really: we work for our soul to be made as black as the coalface a kilometre below our very boots.”

Nusi’s ears pricked as he heard muffled voices to the north, coming from the cover of the thick plantations that used to supply the pit props that had held up the roof for the coalface workers. He could hear their dogs snuffling and restrained behind their leather muzzles. He flicked open his cigarette lighter and allowed the flame to burn into the still night air. He held it up at arms length for a moment–its kind was returned from down below. He felt useless from his lofty perch; he saw Marshal being ushered into a car, which was parked behind the pithead baths. There was mayhem below; the minors did not know which route of escape to take–they had come from the north themselves; fearing discovery if they should take a more public route. Nusi ran towards the steel steps that would take him to their midst. They were getting closer; there voices silenced by their laboured breathing as they negotiated the higher ground of the spoil heaps half a mile from the colliery land. He grabbed hold of the handrail and swung himself down the first landing; he landed heavily and stumbled against something in the darkness. A rusted can was sent going and he heard it come to rest at the next landing–he could smell petrol. He leaned over the rail to see Marshal’s car beneath and slowly headed for the gate–two of his henchmen guarded his exit. He jumped the next few steps and lifted up the petrol can.

He took out his handkerchief and stuffed it into the top. He took his lighter and lit the clean cotton.

He smiled as Marshal’s car became an inferno and he could hear the great man scream.

He could join the others now–the fight had only just begun.

Geoffrey looked out of his room window and down onto the Field Mill stadium. To the right of the newly built football stadium, bathed in blankets of security lighting, stood the usual retail warehouses and fast food outlets, which are always bedfellows of the Travel Motels nowadays. Lately he found himself to be staying in Travel Motels more often whilst touring colleges and universities – it saves on expenses. He didn’t really have a problem with the motels because they were clean and he knew his way around their familiar corridors and was able to find his room without any difficulty. His only regret was that they didn’t have a restaurant and he had to eat out, which he found inconvenient when he wanted to stay longer in his room and read.

“I recommend Toffs, Professor,” said the girl at the desk. “It’s quite expensive but I’m told the food is very good.”

He thanked the girl and made his way out into the brightly lit car park–there was a chill in the air and he pulled up the collar of his jacket. The car park was empty, save for a couple of cars and a lorry. He noticed a row of derelict houses running alongside a dark alley, which runs up towards the football ground.

Geoffrey turned the engine and his car purred to life. As he went to pull away he noticed movement in his headlights–there was a scuffle of sorts occurring. He leapt from his car in anger to go to the aid of a frail looking bag lady whom was in the fierce grasp of a swarthy fellow. The man shouted, “Please will you stop!” even though it was he that pummelled into the ribs of the crone.

Geoffrey grabbed his umbrella and made to stop the attack. “Let her go!” He yelled as he ran towards them. The man turned to flee in sight of the charge–for the professor was upward of thirteen stone without an ounce of fat on his muscular frame. The prof tripped slightly and stumbled to his knees. When he righted himself they were both gone. As he was about to return to his car to get his phone to call the police, he noticed movement in the corner of his eye. He saw the attacker step back into the shadows. He was not quick to his toes and he was soon on him and had him roughly by the scruff.

“You’ll regret helping her,” shouted the man as he wriggled for his freedom. “You mark my words.”

The man was unscrupulous and sent a heel into the shins. The prof let go in his agony and the man scampered over a wall and was gone.

Geoffrey limped back into reception for help. A different girl was behind the desk and she smiled strangely as he approached.

“Would you like me to visit you in your room when my shift ends?” She said to his utter horror, for he wasn’t one for the ladies even given an appropriate invitation.

“I would not, young lady,” he retorted firmly. “And I shall report you to your manager in the morning.”

“…My… my… manager? What?” said the girl in obvious bewilderment.

Geoffrey shook his head in his bewilderment. He remembered that he had left his car unlocked and stepped gingerly outside to lock it – still shaking his head.

“Damn!” He ejaculated; he could see someone sitting in the driver’s seat. His anger drove him on despite his better judgement and he made to the car. He pulled open the door and grabbed for the intruder. The intruder didn’t pull away; he fell heavily into the Geoffrey’s hands. He let go and the figure dropped from the car. Geoffrey gasped and nearly went into a paroxysm. It was the swarthy fellow and he was without a doubt dead–-his eyes bulged in their sockets.