MicroHorror

My name is Jacob Tennyson, and I was an IRS man. Boo all you want. I was proud of it. I made decent money, and all the things you would boo me about, well, I was just doing my job.

We’d been auditing a man named Grady Sanders for some time now. He had never responded to our calls… and he had never paid his taxes, which is why we had an interest in him. I’m in the same area as where Mr. Sanders lived, so my superior (who I’ve never seen in person) sent me to check on him at his house.

Checking on people like this is dangerous.

In America there are some real psychos.

Grady’s house was obscenely small, a red-brick mess. I parked in his shambly driveway and got out. The house wasn’t much taller than I was, and I felt somewhat claustrophobic as I walked up the path to his front door.

A redhead swung open the door and stepped onto the path, looking me in the eye. Trying to intimidate me. He looked untamed, almost like a hobo, and his hair hadn’t been washed in days. Maybe weeks. A horrid odor seeped from him.

“Good afternoon,” I said. “I’m Jacob Tennyson, IRS.” I didn’t want this guy shaking my hand, so I didn’t hold it out.

“Grade Sanders,” he growled, not unfriendly. “Come in and have a beer with me.”

“I’m really here to find out why you haven’t been paying your taxes, Mr. Sanders.”

“Hey, I was being friendly,” Sanders said. “I’ll tell you. Come in.”

Against my instincts I did so. He directed me to a small closet and opened it. There was a notebook on one of the shelves. He pulled it out and showed a piece of paper with three columns. The first two had names, the third a price.

“I hire hit men to get rid of the people after me. Jacob Tennyson, is that right? Black truck. Right, it won’t take long to get you. All you bastards think they can get me. But you’ll see. You’ll see.”

It’s been three days since that encounter. My superior said he’ll send someone else to look since my nerves are pretty much fried. That Sanders guy was scary enough, but he gave a pretty big threat. I could go to the police but I don’t trust them and I certainly wouldn’t trust them with my life.

I actually quit my job just a few minutes ago, told my superior where he can park it, because I don’t want to deal with any more nuts like Sanders. That bastard threatened to kill me.

The phone rings. I let the machine get it.

“Honey, it’s Mom. A man asked me where he could find you and I gave him your address. Just wanted to let you know.”

Frantically I rush towards the phone and dial 911.

• Copyright: © 2008 Andy Arnold

“Well, seeing a psychiatrist certainly won’t hurt, now, will it?”

His boss was a cold, unfeeling professional whose only goal in life was to make money, lots of money, enough money to lose oneself in. The name of the boss was Eric Bell, and he was too young to be as far up the corporate ladder as he was. Brendan despised Eric. Brendan hated the constant smirks and wise-ass comments Eric made, hated Eric’s arrogant swagger, hated everything about Eric.

And now, Eric Bell had insinuated that Brendan Haynes was some kind of psycho. Just for having a phobia! Brendan had recently been gripped by a sudden fear of elevators. Sadly, Brendan worked in a skyscraper. The dread that held him when he waited in the elevator kept him drenched in sweat, and Eric Bell would make one of his asshole quips when the doors opened.

“Right, Eric,” Brendan said, spitting the name out. “Right. But I can take the stairs, right? It isn’t hurting anything.” He couldn’t think about what he was saying. Brendan could only concentrate on his hatred for Eric Bell.

“It’s not efficient,” Eric said, frowning. “Face your fears. I’m worried for you.” This statement, Brendan knew, was completely false; the most Eric Bell cared about was his steady flow of money.

“I’ll see one,” Brendan said, “just to make you happy.”

Eric smiled evilly. “I don’t really care if you see one.” Did he have to turn everything into a cat-and-mouse game? He’s only trying to look intimidating, Brendan told himself. Ignore him.

That night, Irene asked Brendan if something was wrong. Brendan, as usual, lied to her, telling her there was nothing. After Irene was asleep–she couldn’t know about this–Brendan looked up “Shrinks” in the phone book. When that did not turn up any results, Brendan looked up “Psychiatrists” and found many. He settled on one in random and made an appointment.

The next morning Brendan came up in the stairs. He opened the door to his floor, and Eric Bell was standing right there, waiting for him. He was grinning.

“Hey, Brendan.” Eric could barely hide his amusement.

Brendan resisted the urge to push him over. Instead, he merely walked past Eric and worked himself into a paranoid state. Was Eric watching him? Brendan was obsessing on that thought, hoping and praying to himself he was, just so he could have an excuse to hate Eric even more.

That night, Irene was angered at her husband’s decision to see a psychiatrist.

“I mean,” she moaned airily, “you’re not a nut! Are you? Because only nuts see a psychiatrist!”

“No,” Brendan said, “I’m not. I’m not a nut,” and he smiled in a way that proved he was.

Dr. Michaelson’s room was sparsely furnished. The couch, the footstool, the chair where the plump, acne-faced psychiatrist sat.

“I’m Dr. Eric Michaelson,” he said as Brendan dropped on the couch, and Brendan felt a strong, angry wave of revulsion and disgust pass him. Brendan had to leave, he knew it; this guy had the same name as that asshole ruining his life.

Brendan left wordlessly, leaving Dr. Michaelson stunned.

The next day at work, Eric Bell was waiting for him again after Brendan climbed the stairs. Brendan muttered something to himself, and decided to bring his gun to work tomorrow and kill Eric Bell.

That night, after Irene confessed to an affair with Eric Bell, Brendan shot himself in the head. As Irene grinned an Eric Bell grin, standing over Brendan Haynes as he quickly faded into the afterlife, Eric Bell himself stepped on an elevator, and the cable holding that elevator snapped, and Eric Bell felt himself falling, and he screamed and roared, but there was nothing he could do except fall and die.

A few hours later, Irene bought two tickets for New York City. There, she and Eric would live happily ever after.

• Copyright: © 2008 Andy Arnold