MicroHorror

“City Financier found murdered in his flat,” screamed the headline of the evening newspaper, discarded by the previous occupant of the toilet cubicle.

Kurt leaned back against the door, and felt a repeat of the pain in his chest he had endured, sprinting across the station to catch this train and a seat in First Class.

The Express thundered along as he read the details of the murder: the severed finger the police assumed taken by the killer as a trophy.

“It’s not possible,” he whispered, looking at the photograph of the man he had been contracted to kill only three hours ago. “How could the newspaper have heard so quickly?” He glanced at the top right corner and read the inscription: “Special Edition.”

He waited until his breathing returned to normal, relieved the pressure in his bladder, then left the cubicle with the newspaper.

Turning left, he stepped into the buffet car, frowning as he glanced out of a window. They were in a tunnel, hurtling along at speed.

“Don’t remember a tunnel on this trip.” Panic gripped him at the realization he might be on the wrong train.

The shutters were down at the buffet. No amount of banging and shouting provoked a response, and a stiff Scotch was an urgent requirement.

He wiped a hand across his sweating brow, conscious it was getting warmer.

“Where the hell is everyone?” He stormed back into the first carriage, where he remembered seeing a young woman as he passed through.

“She’ll know where we’re going,” he mumbled.

The table had been cleared and the occupant was missing. He glanced at the window, seeing a dense blackness, with the heat becoming unbearable. Kurt, the cold killer with no nerves, no feelings, no compassion or remorse was worried. He was more than worried. He was frightened. Entering his carriage, he noticed that an attendant had placed a fresh cup of coffee on the table, and he sank down into his seat. Gratefully, he leaned back and sipped the hot brew as he tried to think about the crisis. Still sweating from the heat, he took off his jacket.

Looking up, he could see a laptop being used further along and relaxed. At least there was someone else in the carriage

Kurt instinctively felt in his jacket pocket for his trophy: the severed finger was missing. He turned out each pocket on the table, but the victim’s digit was not among the contents.

Running down the aisles of the swaying carriages, he reached the toilet cubicle. The package must have slipped out when he bent down to pick up the newspaper.

He stared at the notice on the door, telling any intending user the toilet was out of order. Kurt turned the handle–the door was locked.

Sweat poured down his face, from fear and the air which was becoming increasingly hot with an added sickly smell. He wiped a hand across his face and staggered back along the hurtling train, trying to keep calm. It didn’t matter now where the damnable train stopped. He had to leave it and disappear.

Collapsing into his seat, Kurt turned the front page of the newspaper: all the pages were empty.

The heat inside the train had him gasping for air, and he undid his tie and top collar button as the train began to reduce speed.

He glanced at the newspaper, which now had a new front page story.

“An unidentified man collapsed and died while about to board a train this evening. Police confirmed that the missing finger from the murdered financier was found in a jacket pocket.”

Kurt could smell burning flesh, and flames were licking the sides of the carriage, with the laptop on the table ahead flashing a message in bold letters. He staggered from his seat and forced his way to the computer. The owner was absent, and Kurt screamed as he read the message:

The Next Stop is Hell

• Copyright: © 2010 Brian Lux

“Guests are always surprised when they meet Mother’s collection. You see, she has these dolls which are… different.”

“Dolls?” said the policeman, sitting up, and letting his pencil drop.

Leaning back in my armchair, I clasped my hands behind my neck and smiled as I thought how little police know about life… and food

As I thought about food, my stomach rumbled and salivary glands worked overtime. Oh, yes, Mother always produced a meal to be savored, devoured and remembered–one reason why I was still single at forty-five and living at home.

The Guest House might be in the hills, by a lake, a long way from main roads, but we had enough visitors to cater for our needs.

“Nothing really, only they are unusual coming from Africa. I only mentioned them because I remember the fat one you say is missing…”

“Richard Swail, sir,” said the policeman.

“That’s right, nice man, very friendly. Joked a lot, ate a lot, and drank even more, but loved the dolls.”

“No problems, then, yet he has vanished. Disappeared into the proverbial thin air.”

Easing myself out of the armchair, I walked across to a decanter sitting on a silver tray with some cut glass tumblers. Pouring out some of my favorite Bowmore whisky I closed my eyes and sniffed deeply, letting the tangy smell waft up my nostrils.

I took a sip, rolled it round my mouth, savoring the taste as the expensive malt sent its fiery sensation down my throat as I swallowed. Smell and taste: what a combination, even more so when applied to food.

I eyed the dark oak door to my right and smiled briefly, knowing what sat in silence in the other room. Pity Mother wasn’t present, she’d be proud of the way I was handling the intruder into our privileged life.

The policeman consulted his notes, then stared at me, hostility obvious.

“We know his last call on his mobile was after breakfast from here, driving straight to his office. Seems to have vanished, his car with him.”

I poured myself another whisky, walked to the oak door and listened. I thought I heard rustling from within. My stomach rumbled, and a glance at my watch confirmed it was time to eat again.

How lucky I was, having such a brilliant cook as my mother, and weren’t we lucky in having…

“Can I look ’round the house, sir?” asked the policeman, interrupting my thoughts.

“Why not go in there first?” I stood aside and let the policeman enter and smiled as he caught sight of the occupants in the dimly lit room.

The floor was bare dark wood, and the only furniture was a long settee, with four sitting figures.

Each was about four feet tall, made of crudely carved wood, with shrunken heads that had gaping mouths still full of teeth that had been chiseled to points. Wisps of hair still adorned the heads, and colorful blanket-type clothing covered the bodies.

The policeman’s face had gone white, and beads of sweat appeared. I could smell his fear and see his terror.

“Bloody ’ell,” he whispered, “those heads look real.”

“They are,” I said. “Taken from enemies during battles and treated to make them shrink and not rot.”

“Do your guests meet them?”

“Oh, yes. Gives them quite a shock.”

I watched him walk towards the far wall, and smiled as four shrunken heads turned and eyes, now blazing with life, stared at his back.

Quietly leaving the room, I locked the doors. Time to let Mother know that fresh joints would soon be ready for cooking. Her African servants were most efficient butchers

I wandered into the kitchen and thought about the mouthwatering meal she would cook with her subtle choice of herbs and spices. I had already decided on the wine when a short scream momentarily disturbed my reverie.

• Copyright: © 2010 Brian Lux