MicroHorror

What are you two doing down here?

You know no students are allowed down in the boiler room. Move along, both of you. C’mon. What’s the holdup?

You want to know about my arm? I lost it about three years ago. Here in the school, actually.

No, I could never quit working here, no matter what happened; I enjoy it too much. I’ll admit to tensing up a little every time I clean the boys’ bathroom on the third floor, though.

Well, if you really want to know…

I was cleaning after school, doing all the usual things I’m supposed to do: sweeping, mopping, emptying wastebaskets. I’d been drinking coffee all afternoon and had to use the facilities. Once I got inside the boys’ bathroom I saw that the first stall was occupied by someone. A kid. This kinda surprised me since it was starting to get dark out.

How’d I know it was a kid? Easy: his legs didn’t reach the floor. As I sidled up to use the adjacent urinal, I could see him kicking his legs back and forth.

I went about my business, then zipped up and stepped over to the sink to wash my hands.

As I looked in the mirror, I noticed the kid standing behind me and looking up at me with a very serious expression. He looked like he was a first or second grader.

I gave him a reassuring smile and he just stood there and kept staring. I got a good look at him then. Not what I’d call a cute kid. He had unruly dark hair sticking up all over, and milky blue eyes. It was his overbite that made me feel bad for the kid and sort of dislike him at the same time. I pulled a paper towel from the dispenser and dried my hands as the kid stepped up to the sink.

Then I reached for a tissue but the box was empty. I went into the stall that the kid had just come out of, intending to use a few squares of toilet paper to blow my nose.

The first thing I noticed is that the kid hadn’t flushed. Now, I’m not squeamish. In my years working here I’ve had to clean up all kinds of nasty messes. I impulsively reached out my hand to flush the toilet and then stopped.

Inside the bowl was the biggest… Well, I don’t want to gross you guys out, but there was no way the contents of the bowl had come out of that little kid. A six-foot-five, three-hundred-pound biker, maybe, but not a kid.

I depressed the handle, afraid the toilet would clog and overflow, but the high water pressure took care of business. I turned to leave the stall.

The little kid was standing behind me, looking all serious. I jokingly asked if he had produced the gut-busting deposit that I had just flushed away. He nodded.

I started to laugh and the kid took two steps forward, crowding into the stall with me and closing the door behind him. The last thing I wanted was to have someone walking in on that! I told the kid that he had to let me out first if he needed to go to the bathroom again.

Then the kid opened his mouth, but not to say anything.

That overbite hid the longest, sharpest set of teeth I’d ever seen. The kid’s jaws unhinged like a piranha’s. With teeth like those, I realized the mess in the bowl probably had come from him. I stood there trying to imagine what his digestive system looked like, and for that matter, what this so-called “kid” really was.

Right about this time the little guy lunged at me. I automatically stuck my arm out to push him away and…

Oops! There’s the bell. You better hustle to your next class unless you both want tardy slips.

Besides, you’ve already figured out what happened next, right?

I was on a hilltop, resting peacefully beneath the stars when my brother Ronnie rode up hard from the direction of the home place. Four midnight-black stallions trailed behind the one Ronnie sat astride. Realizing I was meant to fill one of the saddles, I stretched and stood.

“Violet’s been abducted by outlaws,” my brother announced.

“Outlaws?” I repeated stupidly. My head swam.

“A gang—bandits.”

Ronnie sounded impatient. “Shake off the cobwebs, Luke. Tonight we ride.”

“Who’s we?” I asked as I swung a leg over the closest horse.

“Pa and Uncle Garret.” Ronnie paused. “And Ma.”

“Ma’s coming?” I asked incredulously.

“You think she’s just going to lay around waiting for us to go rescue Violet? She’ll likely send more outlaws to the vultures than any of us.”

My brother and I followed the floating moon to where our father and mother were waiting together. The moonlight made obvious their righteous anger.

“Boys,” Pa said, nodding at each of us. We were no longer boys but old habits die hard.

“I ’spect you know what we gotta do when we catch up with them,” Pa spoke calmly as he climbed into the saddle of his chosen mount.

“No survivors,” Ma rasped. She’d had a battle with throat cancer; the more obstinate party had won. “We mow them down like wheat.”

“It’ll be all right, Ma,” Ronnie reassured her. “We know what needs to be done.”

“We’ll need to ride swiftly to save her,” Pa said, ending further discussion.

We raced through the night, our horses chewing up the distance with ease.

Twelve miles later we crested a hill and paused to survey our surroundings. The hilly country began to taper off and beyond us, to the west, stood the Badlands.

A lone figure waited at the bottom of the hill. Uncle Garret. He’d faced off against rustlers near here and I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d picked this spot to meet us.

“You can see the smoke from their campfire not more than two miles from here,” Uncle Garret said without preamble.

We rode silently toward the smoke. The moon lit the stage from high above as we surrounded the outlaws’ camp.

Since no one had been at the home place when they had snatched Violet, the outlaws didn’t see fit to set up a watch. It wouldn’t have helped them anyway. We galloped down on the encampment from all sides.

Half their number were dead by our hand before they realized they were under attack. Men scurried and staggered, shooting blindly into the night. Some of our enemies cursed in anger, others screamed in fear. I bore down on a giant of a man as he stumbled through the brush. I leaped from the saddle and knocked him sprawling into the dust. He howled in terror and died with his right hand clutching not his six-shooter, but his heart.

By the time the echoes of their cries had faded into the night, we had done Ma proud. The outlaws were all dead.

Our eyes turned to Violet, who stood speechless and trembling in the center of the carnage. As we watched, she doggedly gathered food and supplies from throughout the camp. Then she selected the two best horses, loading one with supplies and saddling the other. She set the rest free. Violet surveyed the scene one final time and then silently rode away.

We all watched her go, thankful that she would be returning to the home place without us. I wanted to call out to her, but I knew it would be futile. She’d be by to see me soon enough, probably with some flowers. And what a story she’d have to tell.

As for the rest of us, we went our separate ways. I glanced at the sky. Still an hour or two before dawn. Soon I’d be back in my hilltop grave, once again resting peacefully beneath the stars.

A quack! That’s what he called me. I couldn’t believe it. He said chiropractors were phonies, that what we did was no different from a schoolboy cracking his knuckles. Said we lied and fleeced folks for the money.

Not true, I replied. Chiropractic medicine can alleviate all kinds of aches and pains and my customers never complain again.

Bull, he said, right in my face. So close I could see myself reflected in his eyes.

I’ll prove it, I offered. First visit’s free. He smiled. So did I.

He stretched out and I cracked his neck. I did it hard, as a special favor. He’ll never complain again.

The psychologist the police made me talk to says I suffer from acute social anxiety and that my actions were the result of intermittent explosive disorder. Whatever that is.

Boy, was that guy a quack.

A quack! That’s what he called me. I couldn’t believe it…

“Hello?”

“Rosie, it’s me.”

“Where you callin’ from, you creep?”

“The phone booth on the corner below your building.”

“Drop dead, you cheatin’ bastard.”

“Hey! You drove me to it.”

“Don’t you dare try an’ pin this on me, you lowlife.”

“Cow.”

“What did you just call me?”

“Clean the wax out of your big jug ears, you fat cow.”

“You’re a dirty backstabbing liar. A pathetic little inbred weasel.”

“Your words can’t hurt me.”

“You don’t think so? Listen close; I’m gonna yell something out my window. We’ll see what you think then, jackass. HEY, EVERYBODY! THAT WHITE SUPREMACIST PEDOPHILE RAPIST RIGHT THERE IS MAKING THREATENING CALLS TO MY LITTLE GIRL!”

She pointed, and on the crowded street, fifty pairs of angry eyes turned and settled on the man in the phone booth. He was still holding the receiver in shock when the mob opened the door and dragged him out.

“Can you tell us what happened here, sir?” Detective Kane asked the man wearing the stained cook’s apron.

“I’ll certainly try,” the man replied. He took a deep breath and began to speak.

I awoke (the man said) and followed a hooded figure cloaked in black down a foggy corridor that had no floor. That’s how I perceived it as we walked. Everything was weakly illuminated in flickering green flames.

“Will I recognize it?” I asked.

“Perhaps,” the hooded figure replied noncommittally. “More likely it will recognize you.”

“I lost it just now. That is, I had just gotten rid of it when I suddenly woke up here…” I explained, but the dark figure appeared to be ignoring me.

We approached an astonishing expanse of severed limbs. They seemed to sprout from the nonexistent floor. Shadows flitted about restlessly. I saw fields of beckoning fingers, frantically waving hands and entire arms. I saw mismatched feet and complete legs kicking aimlessly into the air. I stepped gingerly, avoiding ears, and gazed at countless eyes, each seeming to stare back at me accusingly.

Feeling uncomfortable and off-balance, I closed my eyes to steady myself. That’s when I became aware of the sounds. Lonely whimpers and painful groans echoed throughout the endless expanse of billowing green haze. They seemed to come from the limbs themselves. I shivered, despite my best intentions not to.

I found myself inexplicably drawn forward. The hooded one had fallen in behind me, allowing me to take the lead. I stopped abruptly.

“It found you,” he said, gesturing with a gnarled red hand.

Surprised, I looked around but saw nothing that looked like my hand anywhere on the ephemeral floor. Then I realized my hand was once again attached to my arm as if it were never gone.

I grinned then at the hooded one, tears sliding down my cheeks. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat, then gave up and sobbed openly.

My companion snorted with contempt and turned away.

“I’m sorry, this is just so strange,” I managed to say.

“These things happen, although your situation seems to happen less frequently as the ages pass.”

“What do you mean?”

“Most souls make a stop here to retrieve parts that were lost involuntarily; to disease or in accidents, for instance,” the hooded one replied. “But you voluntarily separated yourself from your appendage.”

“I had a problem,” I admitted. “My compulsion to steal cost me my wife, my job and even my home. Down at the shelter, someone gave me a Bible. I read a passage in the book of Matthew. I don’t recall the exact verse, but it said something like ‘If your right hand serves as a trap to ensnare you in sin, cut it off and cast it from you.’ I volunteered for kitchen duty tonight and as soon as I could, I slipped away with the biggest knife I could find.”

“And you severed the offending appendage in a foolish attempt at redemption,” the hooded figure chided me.

His words surprised and stung me.

“Your understanding of the Afterlife is misguided and rudimentary at best. Your foolish actions have determined your fate.” The hooded figure pointed a menacing finger at me. “You are condemned to eternity working in Hell’s Soup Kitchen!”

I knew my heart was pure and I cried out to the Angels of Heaven to save me. No sooner had I done so than I woke up here. I saw that I was back in the kitchen of the shelter, my hand was restored, and somehow, many of the appendages I had seen in that Other Place had miraculously come back with me.

And that’s all I know.

“Can you believe this guy?” Detective Kane murmured.

“What a bloodbath!” Detective Williams replied. “This lunatic obviously went crazy and started slicing anyone who crossed his path into pieces.”

Kane turned to the man in the bloodstained cook’s apron. “You have the right to remain silent…”

Halloween Contest Winners Announced
Muriel Adams, staff writer, Springfield Tribune

Gene Johansen and family won First Place in the
Springfield Community Association’s Annual Halloween
Home Decorating Contest. The judges particularly
enjoyed the “witch crashing into a tree” display.
Second Place went to Helen Nielsen for her marvelous
array of carved jack-o-lanterns. Third place went to
a surprised Kevin Kuper, for the creative “freshly dug
grave” setting in his back yard. All the winners will
be honored at the Springfield Senior Center this
Friday, with the exception of Maddie Kuper, who,
according to Kevin, is out of town visiting relatives.

I was excited.

For the first time in weeks I had a chance to sit down at the computer and write a scary story. I leaned back and waited for inspiration to strike.

A movement outside caught my attention. I turned in time to see a silver disc hovering above the woods behind my house. Something dropped from the craft and landed in my back yard. It was my dog Furatu. I hurried outside, pausing just long enough to grab the rifle leaning behind the door.

In my driveway, I knelt and squeezed off two carefully aimed rounds into a couple of zombies who had wandered too close to the property line. Their heads exploded like water balloons and I was on the move again before their bodies had toppled.

Furatu lay on his side about thirty yards away. I stooped to pick up the rope attached to the drain spout, tied a loop around my waist and went to retrieve my dog.

I lifted Furatu’s remains and discovered they were dry and hollow thanks to those pesky aliens. I tucked him under one arm and turned back to the house–which had predictably disappeared. I closed my eyes and followed the rope with my free hand, ignoring the
ominous slithering sound that trailed me.

Once safely inside, I carried Furatu downstairs. My twin brother screamed and raged from his cell, throwing his shoulder into the heavy wooden door as I passed. I ignored him. I chose a different door, reached out and pulled a string. The forty-watt bulb barely pushed away the shadows. I opened the lid of the deep freeze and placed Furatu inside, right beside Mother. I smiled sadly at both of them as I closed the lid. On impulse I moved to the southeast corner of the room, knelt and felt for the metal ring. The trap door creaked upward and a musty odor invaded my nostrils. I grabbed a flashlight from a nearby shelf and lowered myself into the dank chamber. The beam of light pierced the darkness, illuminating the Amontillado. I mentally reminded myself to grab a bottle on the way back up. First things first, however.

I stooped and inched my way down a dripping passage until I came to the reinforced steel circle set in the stone floor at the end of tunnel. It serves as a hybrid manhole cover and bank vault door. I pressed one ear to the cover and listened. I staggered quickly to my feet after only a few seconds. My ears burned and I wiped at the blood which now poured from my nose. That’s a door that should never, ever be opened.

I hurried back toward the wine cellar–forgetting the Amontillado–and climbed back up the ladder. I discarded the flashlight, closed the trapdoor and pulled the string, leaving the room in darkness.

My twin brother continued to rave as I passed his cell and I felt a twinge of guilt. One of us must be the “Evil Twin” in the equation, and it certainly isn’t me. Best that he stay locked up.

Upstairs I peeled off my bloody T-shirt and tossed it onto the pile. The laundry gnomes would take care of the laundry while I slept. As long as they got their customary sacrificial sock, they served obediently. I shrugged into a black dress shirt that had once
belonged to a priest who was famous for conducting exorcisms. Or maybe it had belonged to a serial killer. I don’t remember anymore.

Back in my little office where I do my writing, the computer waited patiently. I was surprised that it had grown dark outside. The sound of chains rattling echoed from the attic. Something groaned mournfully and slowly descended the creaking stairs.

I stared at the computer screen.

Nothing.

I sighed resignedly and pushed my chair back again.

No scary stories today. Too many distractions. I’ll have to try again later and hope that inspiration strikes.

The accused was cast into the dark shed to face “The Test.” Inside, the soot-covered donkey awaited her touch. If the hag emerged with palms darkened, it would be deemed a sign of guilt and she would be consigned to the guillotine. If she emerged with clean hands, she would be condemned anyway.

They would say, “Her refusal to touch the donkey proves the witch’s guilt.”

So to the guillotine an innocent went, confused and fearful until the blade fell.

That night in a barn stall, no one saw the silhouette of a donkey make a fearful transformation into that of a hag. She soundlessly left the barn, disappearing forever into the darkness.

The babysitter’s cell phone buzzed, announcing a new text message.

It was from “Unknown Number”: HAV U CHKD TH CHLDRN?

She quickly texted back: WHO R U?

There was a long pause. She munched popcorn and waited.

Her cell phone buzzed: IM UPSTRS.

The babysitter’s fingers flew over her keypad: OMG! OMG! Yet she stayed where she was, eager to see the next text.

There was another long pause. Someone uttered an exasperated cry and something clattered against a wall upstairs. Footfalls rapidly descended the stairs.

“Screw this texting crap!” shouted the killer as he approached. He gripped a knife in one hand and held out a rotary phone in the other. “Take this! We’re doing this the old-fashioned way!”

Felix dashed downstairs, grabbed his briefcase and hurried for the door.

Maggie gazed out the window above the kitchen sink as she wiped a skillet with a dishrag.

“Gotta run or I’ll be late,” he called over his shoulder.

Maggie was still standing at the sink, wiping the same skillet when Felix returned home from work.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, noticing her red wrinkled hands. The water was ice cold. Maggie gritted her teeth helplessly. She trembled violently. Her pupils had clouded over, a milky white.

Without thinking, Felix looked out the kitchen window… and it caught him too.