MicroHorror

Just look at her, standing in the condiment aisle, reading the nutrition facts on all the salad dressings. She has no idea what’s going to happen to her. It’s the same oblivious state that cattle live in when they’re patiently waiting in line at the slaughterhouse.

She’s in her own little world right now, a world that foresees her slathering her salad with fat-free ranch dressing to distract her from the awful lawn clippings she’s shoveling into her face in a pathetic attempt to stay attractive.

It’s not her fault. She’s merely a product of this society: a cruel microcosm that judges beauty on the merits of malnutrition and murderous cardio workouts.

How ironic. These women march through the grocery store, picking only the healthiest items, feeling pretty darn good about themselves until they get to the checkout lane and see the models on the fashion magazines, looking infinitely more attractive than they ever will.

This system creates a complex that makes them buy healthier, eat less, and exercise more.

In other words, it makes them taste like shit.

But the girl I’m watching now isn’t quite there yet. She’s still playful with her purchases, dipping into the candy aisle for some Sno-Caps, the frozen food section for some ice cream. She hasn’t completely given up on the joy of eating, which is good.

It’ll make her taste sweeter.

I wonder if she planned on sprinkling the Sno-Caps onto her ice cream.

It doesn’t really matter.

The ice cream will melt in the back seat of her car, which will still be sitting in the grocery store parking lot. The rest of her food will rot in the heat of tomorrow’s sun. I saw her toss a package of fresh salmon into her cart early on. That’ll be a nice, stinking surprise for the cops when they break into her car to search for clues.

Their only lead will be her grocery list, which will tell them that her kidnapper also took a few items for himself: seasoning salt and fat-free ranch dressing. Personally I prefer barbecue sauce, but then I never actually buy groceries.

The farmer gets his milk, cheese, and butter from his cows. I get whatever happens to be on the grocery list from mine.

Oh dear God, I hope I don’t miss.

My rifle aimed up the basement stairs, focused low on the heavily padlocked door, I watch the barrel shaking.

Reverend O’Connor said he’s seen this before. Gabriella’s unborn child is going to tear through her stomach, try to kill everyone in the room, and head for the basement.

“It’s restitution for a life of witchcraft,” he said. “The woman had it coming.”

Sharpening his crucifix-shaped knife, Reverend O’Connor said “If you give yourself over to the Devil, you’re bound to bear his seed.”

Reverend O’Connor has already decapitated Gabriella and will attempt the same with the demon once it emerges, but if he fails, it’s up to me.

I am the last line of defense.

If this abomination gets past me and burrows into the earthen basement floor, it will haunt this land as a murderous specter for all eternity.

The trees will rot. The birds will fall from the sky. The soil will become salt. And anyone who attempts to live here will die a horrible death.

I can hear the muffled sound of wet things squishing and tearing upstairs. I can hear footsteps kalunking on the hardwood floor as Reverend O’Connor closes in on Gabriella’s corpse.

I can hear him inhaling and exhaling in shallow, panicked breaths.

No… wait… that’s me…

A piercing shriek rips through the upstairs, followed by a heavy thud.

Then, it’s quiet…

I tighten my grip on the rifle, staring down the sights, focused on the still door.

It’s quiet…

There’s a sudden thump. It jars the door so hard, I can see the light upstairs shining through the frame. There’s another thump, then another.

The door begins to crack, showering me in splinters. A sudden sting in my left eye forces me to turn away. As I’m trying to rub away the debris, I notice the small table where I set my supplies. Everything is blurry, but I can still make out their shapes.

There’s a lantern, a half eaten sandwich, my pocket knife, a crucifix, and…

And…

Oh dear God…

How could I forget?

I can hear the basement door break open behind me, followed by the quick patting of footsteps coming down the stairs. I don’t turn around because I don’t want to see it.

I just stare at the bullets I left on the table.

Dark in the cabinet… The hydrogen peroxide is angry.

Morning Routine:

Rick starts with the bicuspids, then the incisors, then the molars.

-Counter-clockwise motion-

Back in the cabinet… The band-aids are conspiring.

Rick is fighting with his roommate again. This time it’s about rent.

Night-time Routine:

Roommate starts with the outside of the toilet, then the rim, then the inside.

-Counter-clockwise motion-

Back in the cabinet… The dental floss feels neglected.

Rick is screaming at his roommate. There’s a loud thud.

Break in Routine:

Rick scrubs blood from between the kitchen tiles.

-Counter-clockwise motion-

Back in the cabinet… The fingernail clippers are bored.

There are sirens outside…

Her skin was wet, reflecting the fluorescent lights overhead.

It was sweat, escaping every pore, congregating in small pools that became a salty waterfall, trickling all the way to the puddle of urine below her.

She gently swayed from side to side, bound by leather straps that left her suspended from the ceiling.

There was no more surprise in her eyes, just a hopeless realization that this was inevitable. She could not escape him.

The process was explained to the best of his abilities, but he could tell that she didn’t understand.

There was nothing left for him to do but disrobe and show her.

His body appeared normal at first, but upon closer inspection, she could see numerous slits all over him. They were on his neck, his arms, his pectorals, and his abdomen.

He didn’t want to hurt her. He never wanted to hurt anyone, but the ache was too severe to be ignored. He inserted a pair of earplugs and approached her.

As he drew near, she saw the slits opening and closing, revealing small, jagged teeth. Tongues were protruding as well, licking his neck, his arms, his pectorals, and his abdomen.

He tried to appear gentle, but all those stomachs were growling inside of him, making patience a dying virtue.

He wrapped his arms around her and tried to ignore her screams. They were muffled by the earplugs, but it wasn’t enough.

Tears streamed down his cheeks as he held her, anticipating that beautiful moment when she stopped.

Feeling very trapped in Soggy House, surrounded by lime green walls that glisten wet and slowly melt like candle wax.

Everything closing in, all these hallways getting smaller by the minute.

And then there’s the pressing matter of the Giggle-Hoppers, the bright red creatures that look like upside-down mops, bouncing around on stick-thin bodies, a mess of crimson dreadlocks barely covering wild yellow eyes, slit like a snake’s.

The Giggle-Hoppers laugh like mad hyenas… until you get too close…

They become deathly silent, gently leaning forward like a tree in a breeze, ready to strike.

It’s impossible to tell where their mouths are underneath all those locks, or if they even have mouths.

It could be a stinger or some sort of proboscis, like that of a mosquito.

No one struck by a Giggle-Hopper has ever lived long enough to examine the wound as the creatures are extremely poisonous.

There is no room for error in this sloppy mess of a dimension.

Remember: When you’re playing flute for a cobra, you can’t afford to miss a note.

If you don’t move through Soggy House with haste, you will be trapped in rail-thin hallways, forced to face the Giggle-Hoppers head-on, a venture that is sure to bring about certain death.

Tread softly, poor souls, for the ground itself gives way.

And the worst part is, no one knows how to get out.

Patching up differences with needle and thread conversations.

Passive gestures and lukewarm cups of tea.

White patio furniture glowing in the sun.

A giant umbrella protruding from the center of our table, offering accepted shade.

Nodding gentle understanding, all the while secretly fantasizing about chopping your fucking head off.

Bending your headless corpse over the patio furniture, pulling down your pants, and shoving that giant umbrella up your ass.

Forcing its dull and bulbous tip through your colon and intestines, displacing the heart and lungs.

Big chunks of misshapen meat ooze out the neck hole like unwrapped sausage links, coiling on the patio, steaming in the sun.

The umbrella finally crowns.

After that, things get much easier.

It even opens easier, lubricated with shit.

Sitting under the umbrella now, sipping tea, feeling very glad we got together on this beautiful morning.

“I got fifty bucks on the one with the twitchy eye,” the new guard says confidently.

The old guard shakes his head.

“You need to be more specific. They both got twitchy eyes.”

“Okay. The one that shoved a rusted yard implement up his mother’s ass.”

“Just say Patient #446, would ya?”

“I’m no good with numbers,” the new guard shrugs.

“Okay, then. I got fifty on the quiet one.”

“Don’t you mean Patient #227?”

“I thought you weren’t good with numbers.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get it on!”

The two guards lean in, ear to ear, peering through the food slot to Patient #446’s padded cell. They just threw Patient #227 in there a minute ago.

“They’re not doing anything,” the new guard complains.

“Give ‘em time,” the old guard soothes.

446 thinks that 227 is his dead mother, bloody ass and all, coming back for revenge.

227 thinks 446 is everybody else.

They circle one another, clenching dirty teeth, struggling to get free from their respective straitjackets.

“Oooh,” the new guard moans. “This is gonna be good.”

446 emits a sustained, high pitched whine. He screams “Mommy!” and charges.

227 slightly crouches, cocking his head to the side, his mouth wide open. 446 falls right into the trap.

It’s a dry, hollow snap, followed by a wet gurgle.

446 falls backwards, slamming into the padded wall. He slowly slides to his ass, his open throat painting his straitjacket crimson red.

The old guard smiles, holding out his hand.

“Never bet on a momma’s boy.”

The new guard shakes his head, laying down a fifty-dollar bill.

“How’d ya know?” he asks.

“Well, kid, when you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you learn that old saying is true.”

“What old saying?”

“You gotta watch out for the quiet ones.”

Playing at the dump. The old car is a castle, the trash piles are mountains, the broken televisions are witches and warlocks. Sheet metal is a shield. Glass shards are swords.

Climbing to the top of a trash mountain and sliding down the other side, trying to avoid the wet spots. The sky is one grey cloud. The wind is cold and constant. Dogs are barking in the distance. Buzzards are circling overhead.

Up and down another mountain, stabbing a warlock with a small sword until it breaks. Looking for another sword, rummaging through pizza boxes and potato skins and old sweaters with cigarette burns. There’s something white underneath. It’s smooth and soft and cold. Removing more garbage reveals a bellybutton.

It’s a girl, naked and bruised, eyes wide open and stiff as a board. The wrists are tied together with extension cord. Clearing all the garbage away reveals the lower half. The ankles are tied too.

A captured princess.

Propping the girl up on a stack of tires. The buzzards overhead tighten their circle. There’s a glass shard next to a broken window seal. A new sword.

Standing at the dump entrance. The princess is at the other end. Mountains and witches and warlocks stand in the way. Let the quest begin.