MicroHorror

I had a wife. A kid. A house. Two cars. A job. A mortgage. Then I lost my job. Had to sell a car. The house would be lost next. Maybe the wife too. And the kid, who also didn’t respect me.

It was bad.

Then one day, it happened. And, like that, the slates were cleaned. No wife. No kid. No mortgage. No need to work. Just me. And the house. Free and clear. For half a second, though it was wrong, I felt liberated.

Then those who were left fought each other for what was left on the shelves that still stood. When that was over, they did worse. Then no one even felt human anymore.

We did this to ourselves.

I have a new car now. I splurged. Took a Ferrari right off the lot. Also there’s this knife. And the hunger, which eats you alive. It doesn’t help that there’s no one. For miles and miles. Just rubble. Burnt skies. Black earth. Blackened corpses. Dead animals. The smell.

The horrible smell that stays in your nose.

I drive. Looking for others. But mostly for food. A bag of crackers. Of chips. Of those orange candies you get at Halloween. A can of corn. Anything.

I come up over a hill. See a gas station. The tank is full, but I park anyway. Convenience Center, the sign says. I go in. Scan shelves. See maps. Oil cans. Plastic plates. Napkins. Salt and pepper shakers. Yeah, real convenient, I think. If you were going to a picnic. And actually had food to bring.

I laugh out loud at my joke–and it startles me.

I turn to go. Then there’s another noise. Not my laugh. Not my stomach. I creep toward the bathroom. Touch the knife through my pocket. Turn the corner. See a young man, crouched next to the toilet. His grubby hands digging into a can of food. About to eat.

“Please,” I say.

“No, he says. “I’m soooo hungry.”

I notice his chubby belly. His chubby face. “Please, me too,” I say.

“No,” he says. “Up the way. There has to be something there.”

“Where,” I say. “There is no up the way.”

“No,” he says and turns away. Like I’m nothing.

I lunge. Grab for the can. Touch it. Nearly get it. But he yanks back–hard. And it flies. Lands on the floor. Spins. Out comes water. And the stringy green beans. The kind you’d never eat before it happened.

Before we did this to ourselves.

I almost cry. But bend down anyway to share the meal. He sticks out his leg. Trips me. I fall. Nearly crack my head on the hard floor. I look up. He has put his face down. Has begun to suck the beans from the floor.

Like some disgusting animal.

Before I can think about it, I pull the knife and pounce. Stick it in his fat gut. His fat back. His fat neck. “Please,” he begs.

But it’s too late.

I slide down the wall. Watch him whimper. Watch him bleed. Him die. Red stains the floor. Mixes with the dirt there. With the water from the can. And the beans, now useless. A silent moment passes where I don’t know what to do. I look again. See the color leave his face. See his body freeze and seem to crack like an old photograph.

I get weak. Close my eyes.

The hunger wakes me. Tears at me. Makes me hear it. I go to him. Stick my knife in him. Start cutting. I think a fire would help. Would make this go down easier. But it would bring others, I think. And then they would know.

I gag as I peel off a layer of skin. But the hunger. I put it in my mouth. Close my eyes. Chew.

I had a wife. Had a kid. A house. Two cars. A job. A mortgage…

• Copyright: © 2009 A.M. Fontana

I feel a chill and think, that kid, he left the door open again. What–are we trying to heat the outside?! The lights dim and my stomach gurgles and turns. I lurch sideways and slam against the wall. Slide down it. There’s a sharp pain in my arm and I look down, see jagged skin and blood. My hand loosens and something black and heavy slips from it.

Clunk clunk, it goes.

There’s a scream and I think, damn, Carol, so loud! My wife’s hands cover her mouth and she stares at what appears to be–no, what is a human. This person, who I don’t know, twitches and kicks on my kitchen floor.

“He got bit,” says the kid. Did he say bit, I think. He must have meant hit. That poor man. What? How…

“I know,” says Carol. “Hurry–get the gun. Wait–stay away from it!” It, I think.

Odd.

There’s a weird, earthy groan and the stranger stops moving.

The kid, my son, John, that’s his name, grabs the I-guess-it’s-a-gun and backs away. He stands next to his mother, who clutches our youngest… G-G-Gillian. Gillian–that’s her name. Gillian is sucking her thumb again though I told Carol she is too old for that. Time and again. I look at them. Want to ask them what’s happening, but more chills come. Then convulsions. Then blinding pain.

The lights flicker and I close my eyes to stop it.

Blackness. And a throbbing sound, which might be my pumping heart. I don’t know. The blackness is oozy–like blood. But also like…

“You have to do it,” says Carol.

“I know, Ma,” says the son, with that indecisive quiver of his. Just do it, damnit, I want to say to him. How did he get to be so insecure?! We raised him right. Gave him everything.

Though, with work, I wasn’t always there.

Work. Shit, I think. Did I leave that damn folder at work? I have to finish that proposal. I’ll get right on it, Bill. On your desk, Monday morning. Promise. Who is crying? What is this red stuff in my hand? There was something. I-I-I… work. Yes. Goddamnit, Bill, I said Monday!

Shit–did I say that out loud?

Bang.

So loud. And more screams. Also, pain in my shoulder now. The throbbing slows though and the blackness too. It’s like tar. Like something is hardening in me. That’s it!

But that doesn’t even make sense.

“You missed, John.” Missed. Always missing the mark, son. In baseball. In track. With grades. Missing you. I ain’t missing you at all. I love that song. Wish you were here. A beach. Swimming in the waves. Oh, Cancun–that was fun. Back when we were like a family. I don’t know what we are now. Shit. That friggin’ proposal. P-P-P-pop. That’s what people in Michigan call soda.

So thirsty. So…

“It has to be in the head, John.”

“I know, Ma!” Owww, the yelling. Stop it, you two. Always arguing. And who left that damn door open? It’s fucking freezing in here. Okay, fine, C-C-C… I know. I know. One for the swear jar.

Now I’m arguing.

“Quick, before he changes.” Changes? Changes. The times they are… What is wrong with my eyes? Like a haze. A gray haze. And floating blood droplets. I just want to reach out. Grab the droplets. Eat them.

I’m trying, Ma! The gun–”

“Wait.”

“What?”

“We love you, Paul,” says the wife. “Say it.”

“I love you, Daddy.” That’s the girl. Girl. G-G-G…

“John.”

“What, Ma?”

“Say it.”

“Okay, okay–I love you, Dad.”

Love. Dad. D-D-D-daddy. Who’s your daddy? Who? Who? Where does he learn these things? What’s his name again? The son’s name? J-J-John. That’s it! So cold. Wife. C-C-C. Daughter. G-G-G… thumb. Hungry. So hungry. For meat. No not meat. Like meat. Like like… flesh.

That’s it!

“Hurry, John, he’s–”

Bang.

• Copyright: © 2009 A.M. Fontana

They called him the Victorville Vampire and the Ghoul. He was in fact a child killer, a sadist, a masochist, and a cannibal. With his gray visage, his neat way of dress, and sad eyes, you wouldn’t know any of this by looking at him, though.

You’d just think he was another lonely old man in the city.

Perhaps he looked sad because, as his lawyer later recounted at trial, he had a rough life, had been unloved by his parents, had been beaten by the nuns at school, had been prodded, pushed and mocked by classmates, had been demoralized by an unfaithful wife.

Until he cracked.

By the time they caught him, he had killed four–and was haunting a nearby schoolhouse, with a pocketful of candy, seeking a fifth.

Alfred Smalls was his name.

Legend had it that the first time they tried to electrocute him, the system short circuited as if Satan himself wanted to keep him around longer–to torment others, to make them question their very idea of humanity. Also, according to legend, after they fixed the circuit breaker, and pulled the lever again, he shook violently, yet had a smile that remained on his face even after the doctor pronounced him dead.

It was as if his punishment was, ironically, a joy to him.

What was verifiable was that he left a last statement, neatly written on a piece of paper provided to him by the jailer. The warden took the unsigned letter, read it and, in disgust, ripped it up and threw it out. After the execution, he said he had never seen such filthy words in all his life, and that no one should ever read them. As he recounted this to reporters, the warden thought with some foreboding of the odd sense of defiance and sickening pride in Alfred Smalls’ words.

It was like this monster believed his horrible deeds were, somehow, a gift to the society that ultimately purged him.

It was also true that, several years later, this warden inexplicably walked into traffic one afternoon–and died on the street. His wife, from whom he had become estranged, said she was not surprised he had done this, as it seemed he had lost faith over the years.

It had started, she said, back in 1973.

Back in ’73, meanwhile, unbeknownst to anyone, the jailer, possessing a sense of loyalty to all men, even the worst ones, retrieved Alfred Smalls’ letter from the garbage, taped it together, and put it in the bottom desk drawer at home without ever reading it.

This jailer eventually died a lonely death. He was found on his dirty recliner, surrounded by empty booze bottles. As he had no one, his chair and other belongings, having no intrinsic value, were packed up and shipped to the dump. The movers noted with curiosity that he had, strangely, ripped pages of his Bible into little pieces and scattered them about.

One day, a young boy, being chased by his schoolmates, climbed under a fence, and hid behind a refuse pile. There, as he quietly listened to the jeers dissipate, he was able to catch his breath. He then looked around and came across an upended desk. Haphazardly, he began opening drawers.

Out fell a letter, preserved in clear tape like a bug in amber, which he picked up and read.

While the boy knew the words in this letter were bad, and that he could never show anybody his find, he nonetheless put it in his pocket and took it home, where he hid it in a shoebox, next to his favorite pocketknife.

On bad days, when others picked on him most, when his parents argued and fought and threw things like he wasn’t even there, and he felt like being through with it all, he would take the letter out–and read it again.

Then he would think with a smile, someday, I too will have my vengeance…

• Copyright: © 2009 A.M. Fontana

The noise never came in the daytime. Or was it that daytime sounds–like traffic and the homeless men who had recently encamped outside his apartment complex–obscured it? Anyway, every night for weeks, he heard it. And in the same way. He would be about to drift off and then it was there. Then he would be wide awake, trying to figure out if he was hearing what he thought he was hearing, or if it was just a dream. After several minutes, during which he could be sure he was awake, however, he would see that it was real, all right.

The sound was like a hum, he thought, but there was something else there. Like chattering. It had a metallic quality to it too, yet it also sounded… insectoid, if that was even a word.

Sometimes, when he collected his mail, and saw another resident, he would ask them if they heard it. But they always said no. Then they’d grab their mail and dodder off down the hallway, as if in a hurry.

One Monday, he ran into Don, the apartment manager, and asked him. Don said he hadn’t heard anything, which wasn’t unexpected. But something unexpected did happen. As he looked at Don, who had begun to say that it might be the nearby power plant, Don appeared to flash green. It was not the bright green of grass, though, but mottled and earthy–a disgusting color. Then, in the time it took for him to register this, Don was his pasty self again.

Feeling confused, he now doddered off with his mail.

That night, it was louder and, whereas before the point of origin was vague, it now came from a distinct spot outside his window. He turned on his stomach, stuck two fingers into the blades of his metal blinds and peered out toward the homeless encampment.

He saw a faint green glow emanating from what appeared to be a lantern. He then squinted as he could not believe it. There, where the bums usually drank, and sometimes fought, were three humanoid figures, as they could not be called human. The glow, he realized, was not from the light that one of them held, which was white, but from the reflection of the light off of them–these three things with beastly, elongated heads!

He also knew that the sound he’d been hearing was their speech.

He froze like that until he realized that the things had stopped talking, and the noise had stopped too, and that they were looking up toward where he lay in his room, looking at them.

Their eyes, yellow and shiny, seemed to glare back.

His fingers slipped from the blinds, and, in the dark, as he tried to calm himself, it came to him–how before, at his job, he had read the Internet conspiracy theories about the reptilian beings that hid beneath human skin and controlled the human world via machinations and deception. At the time, he laughed about it. But it wasn’t funny when he later got fired for what they called his odd behavior, which, now, he recalled, had to do with the feeling that his coworkers were scheming something bigger than their aeronautics work.

This was not funny either. Frightened, and in need of something, anything, he turned on his television and saw the tail end of an advertisement for mortgages. Then came the news, and the talking head, who was not human either, but also green and mottled and leathery. It spoke, this thing, and the noise came–tinny and ominous. Then the noise was louder, and it wasn’t generalized or specific anymore, but from all places. From outside. From Don’s room below. From other apartments. From the President, now on the news–and green too!

He wanted to scream, but he remembered what the things do to those who find out–if they didn’t already know about him knowing…

• Copyright: © 2009 A.M. Fontana