MicroHorror

She instinctively awoke in the cramped, moist darkness. The smell was intoxicating. Such a bountiful food source to go to waste, she lamented. Alas, it was her time to go.

She shed her cocoon and wriggled to a place with a softer potential exit. Her sisters followed close behind. Her host was finally aware of their presence. She could hear his muffled, panicked whimpers. He was on the move. Time was short.

She unfolded her mandibles and commenced burrowing. Her host’s cries grew more frantic. She could feel his fist pounding just outside the fleshy prison wall. He was trying to thwart her efforts. They all do, she was told by her instinct. Finally he stopped running, no doubt doubled over in pain.

She continued her efforts until finally, her mandibles met no resistance. Cool air rushed in and enveloped her and her sisters. Her host had grown silent. He lay lifelessly in a secluded alley. Perfect, she reveled. Seclusion was exactly what she needed.

She carefully removed all sets of her legs from the crude hole that she created. When she was out of him, her sisters followed suit. They spread their wings and took flight in separate directions. Freedom at last!

She scanned the city’s streets. There were so many potential hosts bustling in the sidewalks. Then, finally, in the back lot of a restaurant! A perfect host was removing garbage from his business.

She swooped down and released her noxious gas, temporarily incapacitating him. She worried for her children’s children. They will have a tougher time finding hosts. There are fewer and fewer to go around with every hatching.

When she took flight, he woke, none the wiser. Just a dizzy spell, he assumed. He took a pill for his diabetes and brushed himself off. He does not realize that he is the host to her children. In mere weeks, the cycle will begin anew.

The mugger jabbed the knife blade closer to her. She recoiled but clamped her mouth shut. He promised to kill her if she made a sound and she was not going to test him.
She began to hand her purse over when she saw the silhouette of the man leaping from one rooftop to the adjacent one. Her spirits lifted slightly–a shadowy hero in the real world–her rescuer, perhaps?

She let go of her purse, but the mugger lunged toward her anyway. She turned away and covered her face, anticipating the knife to cut into her at any moment.

Instead, she heard the mugger’s muffled screams. When she opened her eyes, she saw a cloaked figure pummeling the mugger. His hands seemed to latch onto the mugger tightly. It was a strange sight, but a welcome one.

“Thank you so much, I was so scared.”

The figure turned and screeched at a high-pitched frequency. Her ears bled and she nearly fainted.

The creature had no eyes or any other discernible features that would allow it to be human.

She glanced at the incapacitated mugger. His skin looked like a hollowed-out pillow case. Her purse and its contents were strewn over the alley.

The creature retrieved the skin and slid it on. Then it leapt onto the fire escape and cascaded upward toward the rooftop. It glanced one last time over its shoulder then leapt away.

Shelly slammed the car door shut and frantically removed the keys from her pocket. Her trembling fingers finally found the key slot.

She peered around, but there was nothing. She knew they were there, somewhere. The unmistakable stench of death told her.

The engine started at a high idle. It was winter, after all. The compressed break pedal triggered the brake lights to illuminate. That is when she saw them.

Their grayed skin was painted red with the reflection of the burning brake lights. She screamed, but to no avail. There was nobody left to save her.

The driver side window shattered and she was welcomed into their ranks with their painful initiation. Soon she would become one of the things she hated. Soon she would be just another face in the shambling horde of flesh-eating zombies.

“If you want to play my game, you play by my rules.”

“All right, name them already. I don’t have a lot of time. Let’s get this started.”

Joseph loaded two bullets into the revolver and spun the chamber before snapping it closed. “I play with two bullets. The first one dead, loses. Two hundred dollars, cash, up front.” A wry smile twisted across his face.

“Sounds easy enough.” Shane laid the last of his savings on the table. “Let’s get this over with.”

Shane was addicted to gambling. He was also terminally ill. Cancer had nearly incapacitated him completely. He ran out of money thanks to his gambling debts. Russian roulette seemed to be a win-win situation for him. He could pay for medical procedures or die quickly. He didn’t care which anymore.

Joseph slid the revolver to Shane’s side of the table. “You first.” Joseph loved seeing the fear on his opponents’ faces.

Shane held the gun to his temple. His eyes burned into Joseph’s.

The gun clicked, Shane’s eye twitched and then the corner of his mouth curled up. He won round one. His spirits lifted slightly.

Shane slid the gun back to Joseph.

Joseph put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger with no hesitation. Another click.

The gun slid back to Shane.

Shane took the gun and slowly raised it to his head again. A bead of sweat ran down his cheek. Joseph grinned. The gun clicked again. Shane exhaled and laid the gun down quickly.

He slid the gun to Joseph.

Joseph lifted the gun again. He pressed it to his temple and pulled the trigger. A cloud of gray dust blasted out the side of Joseph’s head.

Shane’s hands quivered. Joseph was still smiling. He slid the gun back to Shane.

Shane kept his eyes on Joseph, awestruck by the horror of what he just witnessed.

“It’s your turn. The first one dead, loses, remember?”

Shane took the gun with a trembling hand. He put it to his temple and pulled the trigger.

Joseph always wins. He’s lived now for nearly three hundred years and this is his favorite game.

I saw him coming in the mirror. Some young punk in his flashy new car that his parents most likely bought him. He was trying to look important.

I knew he wanted in front of me, so I sped up slightly. I could see out of the corner of my eye that he was annoyed, so I sped up a little more.

He took the bait. He accelerated and quickly merged in front of me. He held his middle finger up through his sunroof. That was my cue.

I accelerated and gripped the steering wheel tightly. I held down the horn and flashed my headlights rapidly to intimidate him. It worked. He was easier than most.

He tried to accelerate, but I stayed on his tail. I was close enough to see through his rear view mirror that his confident young radiance faded into fear. Just another young punk trying to bully the older folks, I thought. Never again.

The large curve approached. The large curve that is notorious in these parts. I inched closer. He accelerated again.

I knew it was time to slow down, so I did. Unfortunately for him, he slowed too late. His car lost its traction and slid through the guardrail. They weren’t designed for retaining cars at that speed.

His car met a tree and nearly disintegrated. Some pieces flew over a hundred yards. It rolled down the hill and into the river. I drove past at the speed limit, smiling. Another job well done.

Then a few miles down the road, I saw some other young punk approaching. My service to the public never ends.

The credits began to play on the television screen. The black and white floor model clicked off and Jim stretched his thirty-year-old legs and set aside the pillow he was clutching onto. “Sounds like a flyin’ saucer outside, Daddy.”

“That ain’t no flyin’ saucer, them’s tree frogs.”

“It sounds just like the flyin’ saucers on the TV though. The sky’s all lit up too.”

Roger peered out the window, but saw nothing. “It’s probably just heat lightnin’. If you can’t handle watchin’ these old spook movies, I’m goin’ to stop lettin’ you watch them.”

“I ain’t scared.” Jim swallowed hard and looked at another flash outside the window.

Roger saw the fear on Jim’s childlike face. “Alright, alright. I’m goin’ out on the porch. I’ll prove to you that there ain’t nothin’ out there.”

He pushed open the screeching aluminum door and stepped out on the porch. “See, it ain’t nothin’ but tree frogs!”

A bright flash disintegrated Roger. An intense wave of heat rushed through the trailer.

Then the sound of the tree frogs dissipated and the flashing lights faded into the night air.

He slid on his iconic mask again. It still fit after all these years. He’s not as spry as he used to be, but his spirit is still there. His town’s funds are running low again. The factory is about to go under again. It’s time to go to work, he decided.

Thirty years ago he killed fifteen teenagers in one night. The media coverage was the best thing that ever happened to sleepy Shadybrook, Kentucky. The town’s notoriety exploded across the nation.

Before long it was a tourist trap and a hotbed for dumb kids that wanted to tempt fate while blowing their hard-earned summer job money on overpriced “I Survived Shadybrook” knickknacks.

Retiring was easy. The town was thriving and he could resume his post as sheriff. Unfortunately the tourism has slowed. The only silver lining is camping has become popular in the state park again.

He removed his favorite ax and Old Trusty–his butcher knife–from the sheriff vehicle. He couldn’t help but swell with pride as he stepped into the woods. He was off to save the town again.

Richard dreamed of her. Rachel died less than a month ago. Yet she visited him often that way. He woke with teary eyes. Her framed picture smiled softly at him from the dresser.

His son, Shane, cried from the next room. The cry that doesn’t quell easily. His mother was gone, after all. Ron slid off the bed and wiped his wet eyes.

Shane’s cries softened and turned to laughter. Richard hastened to his son’s room. A waft of Rachel’s scent was at Shane’s bedside. Shane met Richard with his toothless smile. Richard hugged Shane, knowing everything would be okay.

Gerald and Bernard were immersed in their digging. Six feet is a long way to go when the soil has settled for over a hundred years. Storm clouds began to blow in unnoticed. Soon after, the rain fell furiously without warning.

The increasingly saturated ground softened allowing them to dig faster. Finally one struck something solid. They painstakingly pried open the coffin lid to find an exceedingly deteriorated corpse.

Suddenly it grabbed their fleshless forearms and pulled itself out and it stood face to face with the two undead men. “It’s about time!”

Yes, indeed the South will rise again.

After a long day in the field, Marty sat in his recliner to watch the local news by the fireplace. Wind rattled the window. He leaned in the chair to check the scarecrow. It must have been blown off its stand. He let out a frustrated sigh and walked out to the field.

He stabbed it onto the post again and returned to his recliner.

The wind blew another powerful gust. The scarecrow was in a heap again. Again, he angrily trudged outside. The scarecrow irritably sprang to life and impaled Marty with the post. Now he enjoys the recliner.