MicroHorror

2 months later…
he turns over onto his right side
opening his eyes and sees
the profile of his wife’s face
lying peacefully next to him
he knows it’s impossible
she having left this world from this very bed
but he takes in the wonder of it
the finely wrought lips
the delicately closed eyelids
the whorls in her ear
the image of her in repose–so real–so convincing
he wants to believe
and lifting himself on elbow
he sees Eileen’s face resolve into what really is
hidden from the melancholy of his haunted mind
the rumpled distorted shape
the pillowcase of crumpled linen.

Early morning…
onboard the 6 am train to New York
in passing he spots a lone figure
blue overalls, red shirt
colors optically clashing
standing in a mist-shrouded field
waving at the lumbering train
somewhere outside of Rhinebeck.
Rolling past Croton-on-Hudson
he notes one of the many lighthouses
in sentinel on the Hudson river
he notices the solitary figure at the base
the blue overalls and the red shirt
waving at the journeying train
a disturbance at the rear of his brain
pushes forward.
…in Yonkers a garishly graffitied wall
against it and nearly lost in the riot of colors
the unsettlingly familiar figure
grotesquely grinning ear-to-ear and waving.
About to enter the New York underground
he zeros in on a newspaper across the aisle
!!! TRAIN WRECK !!!
the impossible date
the train hurls into the dark into a curve when…

A darkened room…
an open casket
a reposed body
a blackened mirror on the inside lid
a burning tapered candle at the end

the grieving husband alone
staring into the depths of the blackened veil

the face of the deceased reflected in the angled glass
gradually dissolving and replaced by a duplicate image

a pulsating movement below the closed eyelids
the eyelashes flutter faintly
the eyes hesitantly begin to open
and from the parting lips
an unearthly sound…

Stranded in Albany, New York, late one evening, the city was mired in fog, the Capitol across the street practically invisible, defined only by a stone stairway leaching out onto Washington Avenue, diffuse impressions of light here and there.

And then, majestically, suspended high above the fog, a magnificent tower, lit from inside, a tiny figure animating one of the apertures. The figure appeared to wave down toward me, the lone occupant of the street, but I’m sure it was my imagination.

A speeding cab interrupted my observation, and as apparently there were no buses at this advanced hour, I jumped to the curb and hailed the cab. I remember as I was entering the lonely sound of a horse clip-clopping over cobble.

Years later…

Another visit to Albany under more fortunate circumstances. I found myself once again across from the State Capitol; the very spot. I was shocked to discover the building was no longer crowned with the glorious tower. What had happened? After making inquires, I was further surprised that the structure never had a tower. It was clear the local people didn’t know what I was talking about.

By chance and interested enough, I came across a book detailing the history of Albany’s Capitol. It disclosed a design for the tower that was intended but never built, depicted in postcards of the era, apparently confidence in its construction being that strong. So what was it I saw that evening poking out of the fog?

And who, or what, was the sole occupant waving?

imagine a man in the compartment of a Euro train
alone but for one other passenger

and imagine the other passenger slumping over
falling to the floor
and as the train lurches into a curve of track
blood spills from the seat
dripping on the malignantly wounded passenger

rushing to his assistance
the man immediately discovers that the passenger
is perforated with stab wounds
just barely breathing

he will signal for help
but the bleeding man admonishes him to stop
he is done for, the passenger explains
his only concern this kind man offering to help
after all, how will it look to the authorities
the two of them alone in the compartment
perhaps on the entire train so late in the evening
the passenger most likely dead
by the time the next station is reached

the situation overwhelms the man
without the passenger to corroborate events
who would believe that another assailant
an unknown third party
was responsible for this atrocity

there was only one thing to do
the passenger suggested
throw his body from the moving train
and most imperatively
before they reached the station
he would hate to die
knowing that he had condemned an innocent man
for a crime he did not commit

after the initial shock of the idea
and much protest–surely there was another way
the deed was sickeningly done
the man fleeing the train
as it rolled to a stop
losing himself in the city beyond

he was shocked
first thing next morning
when he read a newspaper account of a man
who had been attacked and severely knifed aboard a train
thrown from the speeding train apparently for dead

miraculously, the old man would survive
and equally important, could identify without any doubt
the perpetrator of this heinous crime
going into a lengthy detailed description of the culprit
giving with frightening effect a most vivid portrait
of this very man reading the newspaper

with an ever-present look over his shoulder
the man suddenly led the life of a fugitive
which was unbearable in itself
but what really bothered him over the days
as he moved from place to place, city to city
was that he was becoming increasingly unsure
that his perception of events was entirely accurate

perhaps the victim’s account was the reality…

When the drifter came upon the scarecrow,
he recognized a kindred spirit,
and so liberated the straw man
from the very field where it was crucified,
making it his soul companion on his travels.

Their first encounter was with a peddler,
his ancient truck overladen with sundry wares,
and when they asked him for a lift,
he nodded affirmatively but the scarecrow had to stay.
Outraged, the drifter tore him from the cab,
striking him in the head with a found rock–striking him again.
The dark liquid transfixed the drifter,
pulsing rhythmically out of the staved-in head,
like crude oil seeping back into the earth,
as no doubt the scarecrow was fascinated.

The second encounter was in a tavern
for much needed food and refreshment.
The proprietor noticed immediately
a mouse peeping out of the straw man’s blank eye socket,
and ordered the rodent-infested scarecrow removed at once.
Outraged again at this affront to his friend,
the drifter lashed out,
crowning one patron with a near-full flagon of lager,
spearing another with unerring accuracy in the heart with a meat fork,
making a fine mess of things–many injured, some fatally,
before he was finally subdued.

The most horrible thing the crowd noted
was the vacant look in the drifter’s eyes,
coupled to the bits of straw that stuffed his shirtsleeves,
and the locked grimace of his mouth.
Meanwhile, his companion was suddenly animated
by the appearance of a field mouse,
dangling its tail from the stitched-open,
permanent smile of the scarecrow.