MicroHorror

“Go on!” the tiny creature said. “Just… think of a happy thought. Any happy little thought!”

“Are you sure?” the child asked, looking down at the beautiful, gossamer-winged figure which had alighted on his windowsill. “Are you sure it’ll work?”

“Absolutely! Just hold on to your happy thought, and it will lift you up, up into the skies… above the clouds, above the trees, and higher than any bird has ever flown!”

“I don’t know if I have any thoughts that are that happy,” the child said doubtfully.

“Well, flying can be a happy thought all by itself,” the creature said. “Wouldn’t that make you happy? To leave this boring old room in this boring old house, to soar away and leave all your problems behind? Isn’t that a happy thought?”

“I guess…”

“Guess, nothing!” the little figure said. “Take it from me… I fly all the time, and there‘s nothing like it. I’ve got two legs but I barely use them.”

“Well… okay!” the child said, with the sudden decisiveness of his age. “I’ll try it.”

So saying, he climbed up onto the dresser directly beneath the window and looked out… out, but not down. Once he was soaring miles above the ground, he wouldn’t be afraid of anything, but until then, a glance at the four stories of space which separated him from the ground would have defeated him.

“Hooray!” the tiny figure said. “Now, remember… hold that happy thought!”

“Right.”

“Now, one… two… three, and GO!”

At the last word, the dear, sweet little boy launched himself through the window and out into space. His triumphant whoop barely had time to turn into a cry of terror before he hit.

No matter what anybody tries to tell you, the imp thought as it flew away laughing, the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world that pixies and things are fair to behold and that demons of temptation are all ugly.

“Excuse me,” the man said to the bank teller, a little embarrassedly. “I’ve just been through your drive-up window, and… well…”

When he paused, she prompted, “I’m sorry; was there a problem?”

“Sort of,” he said. “I made my deposit without trouble, but when I got the receipt back… well, maybe you should see for yourself.”

He laid the slip of paper down on the counter. The teller looked at it, and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t see the problem.”

“You don’t see anything… unusual there?” the man asked.

“No… see, that’s the transaction amount, and that’s your current balance,” the clerk said, pointing to the items with her pen.

“Yes, I understand that,” he said. “I mean this.”

He jabbed his finger down on the slip of paper, pointing to the line of text printed neatly on the bottom of the receipt, the line which read “YOU HAVE 3 DAYS LEFT TO LIVE.”

“Uh… that’s… odd,” the clerk said.

“You don’t say,” he replied, wryly. “Look, I know how these things work… I realize the window teller doesn’t type these up by hand. Obviously, someone’s been messing with your software. I’m not, you know, hypersensitive or sue-happy or anything like that, but I thought you should know about this before somebody sees it and takes it the wrong way.”

“Right, right,” she said. “Let me go tell my manager. You wanna hold on a second?”

“Well, I’m kind of on my way to work,” the man said.

“It’ll just take a second,” the clerk said, and disappeared into the back office. She came back less than a minute later, looking crushingly apologetic.

“I’m very sorry…” she began, but he cut her off.

“Look, I told you, I’m not upset,” he said.

“Sir, I’m very sorry,” she said again, but with added firmness. “But the manager says it’s not a mistake. You have three days to live.”

The man blinked. He blinked again. He waited for the punch line, and was disappointed.

“Excuse me?” he said, finally.

“You have… three days… to live,” the teller told him, enunciating the individual parts of the sentence distinctly.

“I’m being threatened by my bank now?” he said, chuckling. “What, is this for a TV show or something?”

“No, sir, you’re not being threatened and you’re not on TV,” she said. “You have three days to live. Now, I’m very sorry, but there is a line forming behind you, so if there’s nothing else…”

“‘If there’s nothing else?’” the man repeated. “Look, I’m sure the producer or whatever’s expecting me to throw a fit or something… they’ll probably just edit creatively to make me look like an idiot… but I’ve got to sign a waiver before they can do anything, and I am in a bit of a hurry, so…”

He gave a sort of “Can we wrap this up?” gesture.

“Sir, I’ve just told you, this isn’t for a TV show,” the clerk said. “Now, if there is nothing else…”

“What, you want me to play along a little bit longer?” the man said. He laughed. “Okay. ‘I demand to speak to your manager.’”

“Fine,” she said, rolling her eyes. “If you’ll just step aside, I’ll get him.”

The manager came out, looking a little harassed but oozing obsequiousness.

“Sir, I’m afraid this isn’t a joke, and it’s also not anything I can help you with. It’s simply been decided… though, I should point out that it’s three business days,” the manager said, smiling magnanimously. “So you do have the whole weekend to look forward to. That is something, isn‘t it?”

“Do I?” the man said, laughing. “Look, I appreciate a joke as much as the next man, but seriously, enough is enough. Point me to the camera, I’ll look shocked and then laugh and wave, or whatever you want. Let’s just get on with it.”

“Sir, I understand that it’s kind of grim,” the manager said. “But please, try to understand…”

“No, seriously… where is the camera?”

His bedroom would have been better, but the bathroom had one thing his bedroom door lacked: a lock. Hell, he couldn’t even close the bedroom door without his mom getting on his frigging case. It was a little dangerous keeping the magazine in the back of the cabinet under the sink where she could find it if she ever bothered to look, but it would have been worse carrying it back and forth all the time.

He knew the pages by heart. He probably wouldn’t need to look at it at all, but he’d had it for so long it had become both relic and scripture to him. It was part of the ritual now. It flipped open to the center almost of its own accord, and there she was, waiting for him. He’d jerked himself off to every picture in the book, but only for a little variety. This was the one he kept coming back to. She was a goddess, an angel, a vision. She was everything that his life lacked. Just looking at her, he knew that she knew how to treat a man… and he was sure he knew how to treat a woman like her.

“Geoffrey!” his mother called, just as he was getting going.

Christ, what a mood killer. He ignored her, focused on the task at hand. Classy girl like this deserved his full attention, didn’t she?

“Geoffrey!”

“I’m in here, ma,” he yelled back.

“You’re in there again?” she asked, still just as loud even though she was right outside the door now.

“I’m just going to the bathroom.”

“Maybe you’re not getting enough fiber.”

What the hell was he supposed to say to that? He didn’t say anything. He focused on the girl in the picture, the angel, his angel. He was so close… so close… he wanted to slow down and take his time, really enjoy it, but fat chance of that. He would have given anything for his mother to just go away… or better, if he could go away. Far, far away… somewhere where he could get a little God-damned privacy… somewhere where people would understand that a growing boy… a man… has needs.

People like the one in the centerfold.

The angel.

His angel.

He was so close… almost there…

“I said, maybe you’re not getting enough fiber,” his mother repeated.

She didn’t get a reply.

“Geoffrey?” his mother yelled shrilly. “Geoffrey, you answer me!”

Silence, within and without.

“Geoffrey… open this door!”

…and then…

“Geoffrey!”

…and a bit later…

“Geoffrey?”

When she finally made up her mind and popped the lock, the bathroom was empty… or at least devoid of human life. The magazine lay on the floor, face down and open to the centerfold.

She reached for it tentatively, like she thought it was going to bite her. She couldn’t bring herself to pick it up; she only flipped it over.

Her blood ran cold.

She watched them trudging across the empty lot, climbing over the old wooden fence into the small plot of pasture land on the edge of town. Most years, it had held cattle until well into the fall, but the past few years it had lain fallow. Next year, it would be developed, with a cul-de-sac and a bunch of new homes. She knew that she would miss the picturesque view over her back fence, once it simply looked out onto somebody else’s back yard… but her loss would be nothing compared to that of the children.

For them, the pasture was a playtime paradise, a fantasy kingdom with stands of trees to serve as elven forests and bushes to be fairy circles, concrete feeding troughs for pagan altars and monoliths, huge woodpiles to serve as sleeping giants or evil strongholds, and drainage ditches that could be roaring rivers or troll tunnels. It was really only a few acres, but it could be as big as a child’s imagination.

She envied them, they with a whole afternoon of adventuring ahead of them while she was stuck with the housework and the gardening. Well, the gardening she didn’t mind so much… but she envied those who could be so young and free as to take a plot of empty, supposedly worthless land and turn it into a world of excitement and wonder.

“Hi, Mrs. Letheridge!” the middle child, the girl Jessie, called out to her, seeing her watching them.

“Hi, yourselves!” she called out. “So, where are you lot off to today? Fighting the goblins again?”

“Adam found a dragon,” Jessie said.

“You going to slay it, then?” she asked them, smiling.

“No, it’s only a baby,” Adam, the youngest of the three, said. “I asked mom if I could take some food for it, but she only gave us these apples. I don’t know if dragons like apples.”

“I expect you’d prefer to feed it some chocolate bars,” she said with a wink.

“I think the dragon would like that a lot,” Billy said.

“I don’t know if dragons like…” Adam began, but he hushed up at a look from his sister.

“I’ll just go and get you some, then,” she said. She hurried inside and got some from the bowl she kept in the kitchen, then returned to the children by the fence. “Now, you be sure to let me know how the dragon likes these… and, well, no need to tell your mother, is there?”

She watched them stomping happily through the tall grass towards the trees on the hill, then remembered that she had a load of laundry in that was probably about done. After she’d transferred it to the dryer and started the next load, she sat down to grab a few minutes resting and catch up on a bit of her reading before she headed back into the yard.

As soon as she did, she spied Adam’s sandy-haired head bobbing its way across the pasture land. She immediately felt that there was something badly wrong, and not just because the youngest child was on his own. As he came closer, she could tell that he was limping badly… though moving faster than he had on his way.

“Adam!” she cried. He jumped, but then turned slightly and made a beeline towards her.

“Are you hurt?” she asked as he drew close. “Where’s Billy and Jessie?”

He just looked at her. He looked like he was going to cry, but couldn’t. He had bloody scratches on his face and hands.

“What happened?” she asked him, picturing the children lying at the bottom of a ditch with broken bones, or trapped under a wood pile that shifted when they tried to climb it.

“Dragons… really don’t like apples and chocolate bars,” he said.

“There’s ants on my bagel again,” Pam said from her space, three cubicles down.

“What?” I asked, not very interested. It’s not that the work on my screen was all that compelling, but I got paid a bonus for every record I processed. I wondered that Pam let herself get distracted so easily, even with the office almost empty.

“Ants!” she repeated, louder, prompting me to look at the Styrofoam plate in her hand. Either her bagel had some unusually active poppy seeds, or she was right… it was positively crawling with the little buggers. “There’s fucking ants on my bagel again. That’s the third time this week! They just sprayed the place over the weekend. How could there be ants again already… and how do they keep finding the food on my desk so fast?”

“Heh, maybe they live in the wall of your cubicle,” I said.

“Ick, don’t even joke about that!”

“It’s no joke, Pam,” I said, though it had been, and a weak one at that. But now I was thinking. “Ants are a fairly intelligent bunch, collectively. They’ve been known to react to changing circumstances. A colony that loses a lot of its workers has been observed to spontaneously raid other colonies, even those belonging to other species, and start taking slaves. That’s not instinctive behavior for ants.”

“Yeah, don’t ants normally just kill other species of ants?”

“That’s what makes it strange,” I said. “We’ve always assumed that was hard-wired instinct, but it appears to be a choice. There’s even ’super-colonies’ that have formed where nests belonging to different types of ants have actually formed alliances with each other, setting definite boundaries between their territories and even exhibiting some simple forms of cooperation. Some of these super-colonies cover many hundreds of square miles.”

Pam shuddered.

“You know the weirdest things,” she said.

“That’s because I think about the weirdest things,” I said. “But think about it: ants coexisting in human space is a fact of life, but we still do everything in our power to stamp them out, both literally and with poison sprays and traps. Since we’ll never be 100% successful, each attempt is just going to make another generation that’s smarter and harder to kill.”

“That sounds like the set-up of some kind of bad horror movie,” Pam said. “You’re the one always saying evolution doesn’t happen overnight.”

“Evolution of genes doesn’t… though natural selection would ensure the survivors are the toughest and fittest… and smartest… so what about evolution of ideas?” I said. “Humanity’s big advantage has always been that we don’t need to wait for evolution in order to adapt. If somebody does something stupid and dies, the rest of us can learn from it. If somebody comes up with something smart and survives a dangerous situation, the rest of us can learn from it. We use language to pass on our successful ‘adaptations’ the same way as genes, but it can happen from day to day instead of generation to generation.”

“Ants don’t have language, though,” she said.

“They do… a chemical one,” I said. “So, what if over the course of decades of living in an office, successive generations of tougher and tougher ants have also learned more complex survival strategies? They’d have to make nests out of sight, but in places where they can move around unseen… and still have access to food supplies. The cubicle walls would be ideal, inasmuch as they form a network connecting many desks, any of which may contain candy, pastries, or other sugar-rich items at any given time. The ants in each set of cubes would be one colony. ”

“The rumor floating around is that if people keep finding ants, they’re not going to allow us to have food in the office any more,” Pam said. “So, what are your hidden ’super ants’ supposed to eat then? I suppose they’ll just starve, then.”

I looked at her.

“I think I’ll bring two bagels tomorrow,” she said.

Every night, the nurse comes in and draws some of my blood.

Sometime later, maybe minutes, maybe hours, she comes back in and replaces it with… something else.

I never see her face. I call her “the nurse” because her outfit reminds me of one, though there’s no insignia on it. At first she was nothing more than a slim shadow gliding into my room, through the door that I don’t remember being open, while my limbs lay like leaden weights at my side and my voice shrank back inside my throat. I remember the first time.

“Who is this woman coming into my bedroom?” was my first wild thought, and then “Oh, never mind, it’s just a nurse,” when I saw the thin slats of moonlight falling on her white uniform and her distinctive peaked hat.

Panic returned when I realized that nurse or not, she had come into my house… and into my bedroom… and I found that I couldn’t move to resist or even ask why she was gripping my arm with her hand like an icy vise and jabbing a needle like an ice pick into my insensible arm and drawing out my bright red blood. How can so much vitality come out of one person and leave them alive?

It was a nightmare. Of course it was. Night terrors, nocturnal paralysis and an overactive imagination… but then she came back, the hypodermic tube now full of something shiny black and viscous and oily that burned as it went into my veins… and still when it was over and I lay shaking I told myself it was a dream.

It happened again the next night, and the next. Not exactly the same. There’s little differences in her movements that tell me it’s not a simple replay of memory. I slept with the lights on, but it only compounded my terror. I closed my eyes at her approach to keep from seeing, the most freedom that’s allowed to me, and whimpered until she was done, then lay there eyes cemented shut until morning.

I put in a burglar alarm. I put a chain on my bedroom door, and then a deadbolt. Every night, the door is unbarred and opened. It doesn’t open. Nobody opens it. I simply look over, and it’s open, and she’s gliding through it on her modest heels that never make a sound. If I don’t look, maybe she won’t… but she does. Every night.

At first I tell no one, but sooner or later, you have to tell someone. My friends–the few true friends who stick by me–agree to stay up with me, but they unaccountably fall asleep moments before her arrival. Afterwards, they swear up and down on a stack of Bibles that they stayed awake and it was I who fell asleep… sometimes I wonder if they’re not… but no, that way lies paranoia… paranoia and madness.

I am not mad.

I know I am not mad.

But it’s clear my friends are no help to me. This is bigger than them. Bigger than anybody. Somebody wants my blood. For what? I don’t know, but they want it quite badly or why go to all this trouble for it? I think about this. It begins to consume my waking moments, replacing for a time the visions of the nurse and the evil hypodermic with its vile contents. It’s a welcome respite, but a temporary one, for I have no answers and can only meditate in circles so long.

But my meditations were not in vain, for through them I happened upon a solution. And now I lie in bed, awaiting my nightly visitation. Will she notice my treachery immediately? Will the difference be apparent even as she makes her nightly withdrawal? If so, how will she react? I can’t dwell on that. One way or another, my suffering ends tonight… for I have outsmarted my tormentors.

I have poisoned the well!

I will sleep easily after tonight.