MicroHorror

John was in front of the stove, stirring the sauce. Slowly he poured spices, coloring it. The meat was ready, the salad was already made, and the rice was already done. John opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of table wine to add to the sauce. It was almost ready. The only thing left was to cut and sauté the meat.

“Billy! Can you help me?”

A boy of thirteen years came in the kitchen. “What you want me to do, Dad?”

“Take that drop cloth and put it under the table. Let’s cut the meat.”

The boy did as he was asked and John approached the table, holding a knife. The body lying there shivered and tears began to fall from its eyes. John sharpened the knife and stabbed it in the body’s right leg. The body released a muffled cry.

“Don’t move! I don’t want the rice to be ruined!”

The boy entered through the door and the bell rang. He wiped his feet on the carpet and addressed the counter.

“Good afternoon. May I help you?” asked the old man.

“I wanted the one in the showcase.”

The old man came out from behind the counter and opened the door that gave access to the showcase. He approached the counter and put the suit on top. “It’s of very good quality, resistant to heat. Feel it.”

The boy touched it, savoring the texture with his fingers. “Yes, this is it. How old is the skin?”

“Ten years. It’s still new.”

“Yes, there aren’t many scratches. Just out of curiosity, what was the name of the owner?” asked the boy.

“Peter. Why?”

“Curiosity. I’ll take it,” he said with a smile.

He looked at the screen, his eyes wide open and his jaw gaping. He had been reading his e-mail when he opened the message. The subject was “Hello.”

“I want you to look at the photos, and send the information I need. That is what I hope you do, Mr. Ryan.”

He read the contents and his eyes froze. The boy took a deep breath and opened the attachment. He could see two photos. In one of them he saw a little girl totally ripped open, her guts on the floor, and a dog eating them. In the other photo he could see a woman with a rope around her neck, hanging from the ceiling.

He closed the e-mail and smiled. “Thank God I’m not Ryan,” he said, rising from the chair.

Lying in bed, Howler couldn’t sleep… It would be impossible to sleep with all that noise, with all those bugs crawling between the walls… Every day was the same thing, especially every night, the bugs crawled inside his mind, taking his sanity, led him to madness. But in spite of that, he had created a life around the bugs, as he tried to be normal, and at least tonight they weren’t inside his skin. Howler rose up and headed to one of the walls. He put his ear against the wall and breathed deeply. It was necessary to understand where they were, how many and where they were moving. In the mind of Howler, the insects wanted something, not only the warmth of his flesh, but they wanted to make a nest, wanted to eat his soul with those bloody jaws… As he was listening, something moved inside his skin, squeezing in his veins, walking in his bones, chewing his muscles, trying to get out. He slowly approached his bed and lay down. He closed his eyes and heard that sound, the rattling of a million legs, building something, feeding his madness. Because the bugs fed him, only to consume him when he closed his eyes… Within the darkness of his mind, he could see the bugs that began to build a nest behind his eyes, a nest of memories, a nest of pain that Howler accepted and was eager for… Several spiders, ants, cockroaches worked together to feed the madness of Howler, to build large cocoons of flesh and his psychosis was like sugar to ants. Slowly he tried to open his eyes but he found out that he couldn’t… He felt the warmth of the cocoon involving him, stretching from inside to the outside. The insects were his mind, and Howler was the nest.