MicroHorror

“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!”