MicroHorror

Two lovers walk hand in hand, fingers intertwined. Moonlight reflects their silhouettes on the still water.

Unaware, absorbed with each other, they pause in the middle of the bridge, the two reflections now joining as one. The silhouette of an arm holds up a small box and a gasp of joy echoes over the water.

The sound trickles through the planks, penetrating to the deepest recesses under the bridge where darkness becomes one with shadow. It resonates in the hollow of an ancient cauldron suspended from a rusted trivet.

Luminescent eyes snap open, instantly alert, and peer from the darkness, watching, the waiting over.

She would warn them if she could. Scream, if she were able. Instead, she trembles with revulsion–a rattling sound, like a wind chime of brittle bones.

Old it was. As old as the stone from which it rose. Druidic lore warned of it. Hushed voices round crackling fires told tales of the beast in the forest and chanted spells of warding, but time had stilled them while she was young and yet roamed the land. The breeze through the branches sounded the alarm in furtive whispers, but men had long ago forgotten how to listen.

Impotent, she watches anew as an ancient evil awakens.

Years of frustration and helplessness tear at her. Sinewy muscles strain at feet long rooted to the ground. Yet she remains frozen, immobile. It has been so long… too long.

She had thought it dead or gone when she had chosen this spot. Moved on when Roman axes cut down the forests that were its home, a sole consolation for the sacrifice of so many of her kind. She had sent her roots deep, delving through cracks and crevices in search of sweet, untainted water, shutting out the world in blissful isolation. Too late the realization that she is held fast, powerless in a trap of her own making.

Silently she screams. A rending from within sends a quiver through her. Needles rain from branches suddenly devoid of sap and form a red carpet at water’s edge as the troll emerges, blinking in the moonlight.

• Copyright: © 2009 Brian Laing

“Can you finish closing up, Bob?”

“Sure. How’s your daughter holding up?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“And you?”

Angie shrugged. “I’ll manage.”

***

On her way out, Angie grabbed a pack from the cabinet, filled a syringe from two ampoules then hurried out to her car.

At home she changed into a pair of fishnet stockings, a red skirt and shiny black thigh-length boots. A final adjustment of the wig and she was out the door.

***

John strolled into the bar, a practiced eye scanning the room. Bingo. A brunette sitting by herself. He could read them like a book. This one had recently broken up with a boyfriend; the puffy eyes told the story. Perfect.

He slid up to the bar and ordered two drinks, a scotch on the rocks for him and a Singapore Sling for the lady.

A blonde in fishnet stockings cut him off.

He smiled. This one wasn’t even an open book; she was a fucking billboard for fuck’s sake. A little old for his taste. A cougar on the prowl, but look at those legs!

She placed a hand on his chest and ran her nails along his shirt, sending shivers down into his pants. She might be worth his while…

“One of those for me?” she purred.

This was going to be too easy. The night was still young. He had the room till midnight. Maybe he’d have time to finish with her and still come back for the pining sophomore.

What? Stupid bitch! He fought down his shock and anger. “You spilled your drink all over my two-hundred-dollar pants!”

“I’m sorry.” She grabbed a handful of napkins and began patting down his crotch. Nails dragged up his inner thigh. “Why don’t you finish yours and we’ll go someplace where I can clean you up properly?”

John gulped down his scotch in a single swallow. The motel was just across the street. Why waste time here.

He fumbled for the key in his pocket then fumbled again trying to insert it. Damn lock. A card key would be easier, but you get what you pay for.

“Hurry…” she breathed in his ear.

The key turned in the lock. The door flew open and they tumbled inside. Suddenly sleepy he flopped on the bed, his erection bulging in his pants. The blonde placed her purse on the bedside table. Why do these old broads have such goddamned big purses?

“Sweet buns, you could be a plumber with the size of that bag. Make any houth callths?” Did he just slur? He tried to sit up but she pushed him back gently and slipped off his shoes.

“Be back in a second, honey. Got to wash my hands.”

“Wash your handths?”

She shrugged. “Habit.”

The blonde came back toweling her hands, only now there were two of her. He blinked. Even that was hard to do.

She unzipped her purse and snapped on latex gloves with practiced ease.

“Latex gloves?” he thought dimly.

Something metallic flashed in her hand. “I think you will find ketamine is more effective when mixed with Valium.”

“What…”

***

Bob entered the surgery just as Angie was closing the Great Dane. “You’re in early.”

“Just wanted to finish this postmortem.”

“Cause of death?”

“Kidney failure.”

“Poor old fellow. Not a nice way to go. Here, let me help you move him to the crematorium.”

“Thanks, Bob.”

Bob paused as they reached the oven. “Suzie won’t testify against the bastard?”

“She feels it’s partially her fault.”

“Nonsense! Being drugged and raped is not a normal college date.” Bob slid the Great Dane into the oven. “If she doesn’t testify the creep will do it to somebody else.”

Angie watched as the flames consumed the carcass and its four kidneys–two scarred and shriveled, two flush in the prime of youth. “How long do you figure someone can live without any kidneys?”

“About seventy-two hours, give or take.”

Angie smiled. She thought he was probably right.

• Copyright: © 2009 Brian Laing

The breeze off the ocean blew her long golden hair across her face and pressed the white shift against her skin, the invisible hands of a lover holding her up as she fought for balance at the edge of the cliff. In the background, the drums throbbed, pulsing through her body and weakening her knees.

She looked down at the massive gray rock, while waves crashed in darkness below. Her eyes traced the outline of the closest of the crude sarcophagi all ranged in a row, awaiting their charges. The beat of the drums changed. Her signal. She turned her back to the sea and watched as seven bearers lifted the body of her husband and approached the open tomb.

So young to be a widow, hot tears ran down her cheeks, whether for her… or for him, she was unsure. She had known it would be so ever since their wedding night. It seemed like yesterday. Lying naked under the bearskin she had caught a glimpse of gray in his hair, caught in the firelight, as her new husband slid aside the hide flap of the tent. She smiled, remembering; the drums were present even then. As he had come to her, with trembling hands, she had felt the deep creases in his skin as he caressed hers. The realization had hit her then, even as he entered her, that this day would come; she would not grow old with her husband. He had already spent his youth, and she must give him hers. But she was duty-bound. Traditions from time immemorial decreed that it should be so, the price of betrothal to a chief.

As their queen, she stood erect while seven young men, stripped to the waist, their oiled muscles glistening in the firelight, lowered the corpse into its eternal home, then wailed aloud as they strained and the heavy stone ground into place, sealing the tomb away.

She waited, impassive, as a long line of people filed by, placing flowers on the stone. Would they do the same for her? She watched, detached, as the final petals fell atop the pile, then stiffened as the rhythm of the drums changed once again. Her knees buckled, but rough, dirty hands caught her and lifted her in the air. Grasping, groping fingers soiled the pure white of her raiment as they laid her down.

Calmly, she took one last breath of cool sea air, one last look at the stars in the sky, then closed her eyes as the grinding sounded, locking her inside.

• Copyright: © 2009 Brian Laing