MicroHorror

Gary stood at the cliff’s edge watching the roiling waves of surf explode against the jutting rocks far below. He thought of Marjean and her smug new boyfriend. He pictured the cold look on Bitterman’s face when he’d announced Gary’s dismissal from the firm. He considered all his debts and misfortunes and sobbed.

He didn’t see the old man approaching until they were side by side. The newcomer was bent and withered with age.

“Thinking about jumping?” the old man rasped.

Gary nodded reluctantly.

“Let me show you how it’s done,” the elder said. Then he spread his arms and fell.

For a moment there I felt like I could’ve killed my son. That’s how angry and helpless I felt.

I didn’t see the accident happen; I’d been pruning the lilac bushes. He’d probably been daydreaming when he pushed the lawnmower over his baby sister’s hand. The spinning blades had severed it right off. I wondered how much of it had made it into the clippings bag intact.

“Stop gawking and call 911!” I shrieked so hard my voice cracked. I wrapped my thumb and forefinger around Marnie’s wrist as tight as I could. Kenton took one look at the blood and crumpled on the lawn. Marnie howled in my arms. The trees loomed over us and vindictively waved their branches at the spectacle.

I wanted to make a tourniquet with my shoelace but had no idea how I’d manage the feat without Marnie bleeding to death. At that moment a guy in a rusty black pickup skidded to a halt in the alley behind us. He threw open the passenger door.

“Get in! I’ll take you to the hospital!”

I didn’t recognize the guy, but we were six blocks from the nearest hospital and I realized it’d be quicker than waiting for an ambulance that hadn’t even been called yet.

I looked at my son. Kenton had partially recovered and was crawling toward the house. I ran to the pickup and jumped in, never taking my hand off Marnie’s wrist. She had quieted but looked deathly pale. He slammed the door and ran back around to the driver’s side.

“You got your wallet, man?” the stranger asked, as he floored the accelerator. Confused, I nodded. Then I realized they’d ask for my ID at the ER.

He spun the wheel and the truck sped up the street–away from the hospital.

“What the hell!” I shouted. “My little girl needs to get to the emergency room!”

“Not before you pay me for the ride.” The driver stared straight ahead.

“Christ, man! Are you nuts?”

“Don’t piss me off or we might just keep on drivin’.”

“I can’t let go of her wrist! She’s barely hanging on as it is!”

“I’ll stop at the first ATM I see.”

I thought about trying to jump from the vehicle but realized the stranger behind the wheel had me at a massive disadvantage. I couldn’t gamble with my daughter’s life. My tongue almost stuck to the roof of my mouth as I finally asked, “How much do you want?”

He glanced my way and sneered. “How much do you got?”

Maggie looked up from her book and realized the girls were gone. She scanned the empty beach and threw a panicky look toward her sedan. She saw no one.

They were here a moment ago. Maggie glanced at her book and flushed. She’d been so absorbed in it that she’d lost track of time.

If the girls had gotten bored… Maggie spun in the direction of the surf. She broke into an awkward jog. The sun glared down at her snidely. The sand grasped at her feet and slowed her progress to the universal speed of nightmares. The surf hurled itself toward her spouting indecipherable insults and then retreated with derisive laughter.

“Lindy! Lila!” she screamed. Only the gulls cried in mocking response.

They’ll charge me with criminal negligence. Something bobbed in the surf twenty yards out. Maggie lost sight of it behind a cresting wave. She splashed in deeper and broke into a doggy paddle. Her arthritis wouldn’t let her do more.

“Lindy!” Maggie called again. She choked on a mouthful of saltwater and began to flail. She’d gone further out than she had intended and felt disoriented. Maggie paddled on doggedly. “Lila!” Sorrow overwhelmed her. She’d lost her darling grandbabies. If they find us all later, at least they’ll know I tried. I tried…

Maggie held onto this thought as she sank and the undertow swept her away.

The girls returned to where Maggie had left her book and looked around, perplexed.

“Where’s Grandma?” Lila wondered.

“I dunno.” Lindy responded. “I told her we had to go use the potty.”

Lindy and Lila sat together in the sand and played as the sun descended. At last it sank completely into the water and it too was swept away. Later, when it started getting colder, the sisters crawled into the back seat of Grandma’s sedan and waited for her to return.

Schadenfreude (shahd-n-froi-duh): Satisfaction or pleasure felt at someone else’s misfortune.

Azrael could almost respect Pharaoh. After all, he’d stood up to The Boss despite everything they’d thrown at him and his people. No small feat for a mortal.

This all boiled down to a turf war between two astoundingly stubborn leaders. The Boss had said, “Let My people, the Israelites, go.” The pharaoh had responded, “Screw you, pal. I don’t answer to you.” In The Boss’s opinion, Pharaoh was smalltime and needed to be sent a message.

A hulking figure enveloped in darkness, Azrael scuffed his enormous booted foot along the lip of the simmering volcano. His face glowed orange as he gazed down, remembering.

One after another, the toughest hit men within the Organization had been called upon to unleash plagues upon the Egyptians. Yet when it came to releasing the Israelites from slavery Pharaoh never yielded.

The Boss was getting pretty ticked at Pharaoh’s ongoing resistance. He sent a message to Galgaliel, the angel who governs the wheel of the sun.

“Issues with the Egyptians. Make it dark,” the message read. Galgaliel shifted the gears into neutral half a world away. Then he kicked back and waited. Pharaoh and the Egyptians settled in and waited too. So did the Israelites. Everyone knew something big was brewing.

The Boss sent the human mouthpieces, Moses and Aaron, out with a message for the Israelites’ ears only. The gist of it was this: “Perform the ritual of Pesach. Mark your doorposts with the blood from the sacrificed lamb to show your loyalty. Your efforts will be recognized and rewarded.”

Azrael had a pretty good idea what was coming next so when The Boss summoned him, he was prepared.

“You know about our issues with Pharaoh,” The Boss began. Azrael nodded.

“He’s insulted Me and everyone within the Organization.”

Azrael kept his lips pressed tightly together and said nothing.

“It’s time to end this. We’re going to make him an offer he can’t refuse.”

Azrael only nodded and waited. The Boss revealed His divine plan.

***

Just a few minutes before his midnight run, Azrael, known to humanity as the Angel of Death, unfolded his mighty wings and soared out over the mouth of the volcano. The Egyptians and Israelites alike called it Thera. Azrael called it fortuitous. The toxic vapors and incinerating heat would have shaken the resolve of a lesser angel. But Azrael was no lightweight, and he angled his enormous frame closer to the center of the crater. As the Angel of Death, his enormous body was covered with eyes beyond number. One for every living human being on earth. Azrael blinks your soul-eye and your time is up.

Azrael folded his wings and plummeted into the searing heat of Thera’s hellish core. The appointed time was now just seconds away. Azrael took a deep breath, clenched his fists and grinned. Through the poisonous scalding fumes he fell, holy adrenaline coursing through his veins. Deeper… deeper…

You’ll blink before I do, the Angel of Death thought, thinking of his targets.

Embedded in his massive palms were arranged the soul-eyes of every first-born son in Egypt. Azrael pushed the limits of his endurance. At the moment midnight struck, The Boss whispered the go-ahead to Azrael and he shot his arms out in front of him as he fell.

Aimed toward the volcano’s molten core, Azrael opened his palms and–

A multitude of soul-eyes blinked in unison.

From Egypt an ear-shattering cry of agony and despair erupted, unlike anything ever heard before or since.

The Egyptian first-born thrashed, withered and died in one fell swoop: Azrael’s.

The loyal Israelite first-born were spared. The Boss had won. End of story. Write it in a Book.

Azrael unfolded his smoldering wings and beat them furiously, flying upward as fast as he was able. He’d done his duty. Azrael felt simultaneous rushes of exaltation and exultation vying for supremacy within him.

God, he loved his job.

“I’m scared you’re going to leave me when we’re older,” my wife admits. She’s restless beneath the covers.

“I’m scared you’ll try to kill me someday to keep that from happening,” I respond. She doesn’t say anything. The breeze hisses at us from the window.

“Better check on the boy,” my wife suggests. I fumble with the covers and trudge across the hall. The boy developed a sudden rash earlier in the day. Angry red welts still cover two thirds of his body. Toxic shock is heavy on our minds.

The boy has put a small tent up in his room and has chosen to sleep in it. I get down on all fours and crawl inside. For a moment I am convinced the boy is not breathing. I hold my own breath until I hear the air whistling out through his nose. I begin backing out of the tent. For just a moment I think I see a face through the back window. Not inside the room, but peering in from outside. I squint into the darkness but see only the leaves of the shrubbery bobbing in the breeze.

Back in bed, my wife brings up nightmares. She has dreamed of a cemetery where an angry man in shades of gray sprints toward her. “Bitch!” he growls at her before disappearing behind a tree. Then he’s back where he started, sprinting toward her again.

I counter with an old dream. An old man follows me from room to room in a funeral parlor. “Hello… hello… hello…” he drones. I duck into a darkened room to elude him and am dismayed to find myself staring into an open casket at the shriveled crabapple face of an old hag. I am convinced that she will open her eyes and scream in my face any moment. Driven by a maddening terror, I punch the corpse’s face until I wake up.

My wife stares at the ceiling and doesn’t speak. I crack my knuckles one by one. Lightning flashes in the distance. No thunder yet. I ask my wife if she smells anything funny. Something is burning my nose: an unpleasant blend of bleach and patchouli.

“Did you rinse the bathtub?” she asks. I toss the covers aside. In the bathroom, I run hot water down the drain, an hour after I should have. The drain still runs slow.

“I used half a bottle of clog remover,” I complain when I’m back in the bedroom. “And it’s still doing it.”

“Better check on the boy,” my wife suggests.

Back inside the tent I touch the boy’s cheek and he immediately sits up, rubs his eyes and stares at me suspiciously. I back out of the tent again.

I detour to the side door to check the lock. It’s been left open–a rare occurrence. I immediately remedy the situation and stand on the landing, gazing speculatively down the stairs into the darkened basement. Suppose someone had slipped into the house and was now crouched in the laundry room, biding their time?

I plod through the kitchen, creak down the hall and grunt into bed. I’ve decided against exploring the basement, at least for now. Lightning illuminates the room and thunder growls in the night. I try to crack my knuckles again but only get results from two. I grind my teeth instead. My wife tosses and turns.

“Better check on the boy,” she suggests again. I’m halfway out of bed before she’s finished. The boy is still breathing. Outside are only shrubs. I back out of the tent. The side door is still locked.

I collapse on top of the covers this time. Deep breathing from the shape beneath the covers means that my wife has abandoned me. Now it’s just me, alone against the night.

I grind my teeth and listen to the rain.

When night falls and darkness descends, nightmares hold sway over captive sleepers. A bored teenager sneaks out to meet a man she just met online. A drunken lout beats and berates his wife while neighbors turn up their televisions in ambivalence and denial. A lonely old man scrawls a note and swallows a fistful of pills. A skinny woman craving a fix shivers on a street corner and waits for someone… anyone. Thieves smash car windows on side streets, grabbing stereos to pawn. Lies are told. Blood is spilled. Sirens wail.

Then the first light of dawn kisses the horizon and daylight approaches.

Soon the real trouble will begin.

Judith carefully unwrapped the package her daughter had sent. It was a copy of a current bestselling book, along with a handwritten note. It read:

“Mother,
I love you very much and think it is time for you to have this book.
Love always, Rebecca.”

Judith sighed. Had it come to this? The world had certainly changed, and not for the better. Judith could remember a time when people took vacations; actually traveled to beautiful destinations around the world. Now the retired and the elderly were left only with insidiously cheerful books like the one her daughter had just given her.

Resignedly, Judith settled into her favorite chair and slowly turned the pages. Despite herself, she marveled at the gorgeous color photographs of manmade wonders like the Eiffel Tower, the Leaning Tower of Pisa and Mount Rushmore. The more natural beauty on display in the pictures of Niagara Falls, the Sahara Desert and Mount Everest took her breath away.

Judith took her time, soaking in each page. It was her own personal tour of the wonders of the world. Her spirits sank as she neared the last page. At last she steeled her nerves and turned to the back of the book. The pill was there, just as she knew it would be. Judith used a fingernail to break the foil and peel it back. She chewed the gritty white tablet and thumbed through the book again, looking for her favorite scene.

Judith felt her heart racing as she settled on a lovely panorama of a lush green jungle somewhere in South America. Where was this? Brazil? Ecuador? Judith tried to read the inscription but her vision blurred. She imagined herself in the scene. Paradise. Judith’s muscles contracted and her body shook. Her eyes rolled back and she slumped sideways in her chair. Judith’s heart ceased its ragged bucking. Her body relaxed itself, lungs exhaling in a long peculiar rattle, her favorite recliner ruined by the voiding of her bowels.

Her wrinkled hands relaxed their grip on the latest bestseller. Three Hundred Beautiful Places to See Before You Die fell softly to the dusty carpet.

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…