MicroHorror

On the Twitter search page, Wendy-56 entered “ghosts,” and hit the RETURN key. A column of tiny square images, like little soldiers, dutifully lined up the on the left side of her Firefox window. Topping the list was one unusual square. No-longer-living’s image was a solid black square. His one tweet said “Don’t follow me. Beware.” So naturally, Wendy-56 clicked on “follow.”

Wendy-56 had so much on her mind like the health of her mother and the threat of a transit strike, that she gradually forgot about No-longer-living. She arrived at work a week later, before the others of the same secretarial pool had arrived. After logging into Twitter, she noticed that No-longer-living’s black square had appeared. The message to the right of his square was odd, “@Wendy-56 is following me. I told her not to. Beware.”

Curious, Wendy-65 clicked on the black square. The No-longer-living page came up all black as expected. He was following only one person, her, and she was his only follower. “Um,” she said to the screen. “Like, one sick dude.” Wendy-56 decided to send him a direct message.

“What the F,” she wrote. She made it a point to never type the F-word out in full because she could never know who might be snooping over her shoulder. “Why the weird posting. Should I report you as abuse?” She hit the RETURN key and jumped. Her fingertip hurt like an insect bite. She tried to jerk her hand free, but the keyboard came with it, her finger stuck to the keyboard.

She stood up and looked at her finger stuck to the RETURN key, the keyboard dangled from the end of her finger. The cable connecting the keyboard to her computer transformed as she watched it, from its normal dull black to a transparent tube filled with green bubbling fluid. She looked more closely. The bubbling green was traveling from the computer into the keyboard. Her eyes went wide. The green was injecting through her finger into her blood.

He head swam. She felt woozy. On her computer screen the black square that was No-longer-living’s logo dissolved and vanished. Wendy-56 collapsed back into the seat of her chair. “Oh,” she said, her last word. She sagged like a bag of Jell-O and was swiftly sucked in through the keyboard, in through the cable connecting the keyboard to the computer, sucked through the Internet, sucked into Twitter.

Those who followed Wendy-56 were puzzled later that day when her next tweet arrived. “I followed @No-longer-living. Beware.” A few of those who followed Wendy-56 clicked on @No-longer-living. A few of those who viewed No-longer-living’s page ignored the warning, ignored the same warning Wendy-56 had ignored. They too clicked “follow.”

Afternoon light dappled by outside leaves scattered shadows across her hospital sheets. The hospital reeked strongly of disinfectant. His mother opened her eyes and said, “Is that you, Harry?” Harry was his dad.

“No,” he told her. “It’s Blake, your oldest son.”

Her feeble hand fluttered, seeking his, so he took it in his and held it gently. If felt to him like brittle paper. He tried to will her his love though his hand.

“You look good, Harry,” she said. “You must be eating well.”

“I’m Blake.”

Her grip relaxed, and her eyes closed. The room filled with beeped warnings. “Goodbye, Mom,” he said at last, too late.

Blake let go of her hand and felt a tiny piece of her skin tug at his. He looked and a tiny bit of her old brittle skin had stuck to his finger. He looked at it and realized this was the last touch he might ever feel from her. He asked the nurse for a bandage and covered that bit of his mother’s skin to protect it.

Blake forgot about the bandage. The next morning, bleary-eyed, as hot water bathed him, the bandage washed off and lay unnoticed on the shower floor. Blake dressed and went to work.

Exhausted that night and a little tipsy Blake slipped his key in the lock and found the door already ajar. Carefully he eased the door open. Harsh light from the hallway swept across the interior as the door squeaked open. A young naked woman sat in a chair facing the door. The door stopped, left silence hanging, waiting.

“Is that you, Harry?” the woman asked.

Alf Dagger was a reporter who specialized in hot technologies. Ever discreet, he visited the cell phone store early before it opened for the regular public. Today’s story would be about the hottest selling cell phones, the ones implanted directly into one’s brain.

Alf sat on a smooth bench near the back of the cell phone store. He waited for the pain of a pin prick to dissipate. He sniffed and could still smell the lingering odor of rubbing alcohol.

The salesman said, “Just one quick test and you’ll be out of here.” The salesman fingered an old-time ear bud.

Alf’s ear itched. As he had been instructed, he thought about answering and a voice floated inside his head, “Testing one, two, three.”

“All clear!” Alf thought back. He smiled and stood up. “This sounds way better than the old phone. What do I owe you?”

“Already debited,” a click then Alf heard the rest of the words directly from the salesman’s mouth, “You’re set to go.”

The first call Alf made was to his editor. He thought about calling and, inside his head, heard his editor’s phone ring. Alf smiled. Totally hands free. He could stand in the middle of the street and juggle and still make calls.

“Mr. Nounen is away from his desk, please leave a message.”

Alf smiled and hung up. If his boss wasn’t in yet, he felt no rush himself. He looked around for a coffee shop. He felt his ear itch.

“Hello,” he thought.

“This is the AT&T Security office. Disable your phone at once and seek an upgrade immediately. A phone virus has been… click.”

Alf looked around. He was standing in that small park near city center. How had he gotten there? “I was on my way to work,” he said aloud trying to allay his confusion. “On the sidewalk, but now I’m in this park.” Two kids were playing Frisbee. Pigeons flew overhead. The grass smelled newly mowed.

Alf’s ear itched.

Alf found himself in an alley. A dumpster next to him stank of garbage. He was breathing hard and his legs ached as if he’d been running. In his hand he held a woman’s handbag. He stood up straight and felt his side hurt. He looked and found his coat and shirt cut and the skin underneath bleeding. He appeared to have been cut by a knife.

“What the hell,” Alf began, but then his ear itched again.

A horrible screeching and rumbling shook his entire body. Alf covered his ear. Dust swirled and the stink of oil and blood filled the air. He closed his eyes. The noises subsided. Alf opened his eyes. A locomotive car was inches from his face. He looked to his right and found another man standing there, his face also mere inches from the train car. “What happened?” Alf asked.

The man looked at him. “Didn’t you see? They all threw themselves in front of the train. Hundreds of them.”

Alf shook his head. “Didn’t see it.”

The man nodded at Alf. “There’s blood running out of your ears.”

Alf felt his ears. They were sticky. He looked at the man again. “There’s blood in your ears too.”

Alf felt a buzz on his chest. It was his old cell phone, a fancy pin he wore on his lapel. He tapped it with a trembling hand and said, “Hello.”

“Where the hell have you been?” It was his editor. “All hell’s been breaking loose. Something big is happening and it’s happening all over the world. I need you in here now.”

“I’m not sure where I am,” Alf said. “But I’m pretty sure it’s over.”

Alf heard screaming. He looked behind and saw dozens of people jumping off an overpass. Most just jumped silently. A few jumped and then screamed.

“Never mind,” he said. But the connection had already been dropped.

Acrid mold wetted by mud and persistent rain leaked in at the seams of the white canvas tent. Dr. Flender wrinkled his whiskered face at the stink and listened to static on loose headphones. Homeless ants crawled over the folding table in a line across a worn star pattern. “I only hear static,” he mumbled to the Sheriff. “I can’t tell what the growling is. It’s too soft against the noise.”

Dr. Flender was Chief Veterinarian from the Denver Zoo. He’d been flown in special to identify some wild animal. He hadn’t been told five children had been trapped behind a cave-in. The Sheriff surprised him with that news. Trapped for two days. Drillers had only that morning bored a hole for air and a microphone drop.

The Sheriff squelched a walkie-talkie. “Any luck with that connection yet?”

A reply returned immediately, “Almost. There, got it.”

The Sheriff pointed at Dr. Flender with his walkie-talkie’s antenna. The Sheriff appeared worn with worry and fatigue. He clearly hadn’t shaved in days. “Crap,” he said. “One delay after another. Try listening again.”

A great bullfrog roll of thunder outside rattled the tent. Dr. Flender shifted on the slick nylon folding chair. Again he eased the damp earphone over his head. This time the growl was clear despite the rain. “You say there’s children down there?”

The Sheriff nodded.

“The growling’s not a dog. A dog doesn’t sound like that.”

The Sheriff frowned. “We need to know what’s down there before we let the parents in.”

Dr. Flender concentrated on the sound. He felt a drop of cold water hit the back of his head. “Not a wolf either,” he said. “Not canine at all.” He wiped the back of his head with his coat sleeve.

“A bear maybe? There’s bears around here. Or were in the summer. Grizzlies.”

“No. Wait.” Another wrenching bellow of thunder caused Dr. Flender to press the earphones harder to his head. “No, not a bear. Not a cat, not like a cougar either.”

The Sheriff slipped on the other pair of earphones. He listened for a minute then asked, “What’s that crunching?”

Dr. Flender pressed the earphones tight again with his hands and listened hard. “Bones cracking. Whatever animal is down there, it has powerful jaws.”

The Sheriff looked unhappy. Then they both heard a tack tack like a stone hitting stone. Then the cracking of bone again. And then the same tack tack, stone against stone.

Then they both distinctly heard, “Ow!”

The growling was replaced by, “Ouch. My finger. My finger.”

Dr. Flender looked at the Sheriff and saw a man with slumped shoulders. Dr. Flender said, “I think I’m done here.” He tried not to sound sarcastic. He took his earphones off. He didn’t like what he’d heard. Not at all. The growling, now that he thought about it, reminded him of an ape’s growl.

The Sheriff took off his headphones. “One kid’s alive, anyway.”

“What are you going to tell the parents? That one kid might have eaten the others?”

“I don’t know.” The Sheriff looked at him. The Sheriff shook his head sadly. “I just don’t know.”

Mona Shotzki took her husband Dan’s hand. It felt cold to her despite his gloves. They stood with other neighbors behind yellow police tape. They were both bundled against the night’s slushy cold. Mona spoke first: “I’m glad you’re safe.”

Mona felt his hand shiver. She knew he was trying to forget.

“Another body,” he said softly.

She heard the pain in his voice. She turned her head to look where he looked. Fifteen bodies in body bags laid out on the grass front lawn of the dark rundown house. Two policemen gently laid another alongside the others. A small lump in a large bag. A child.

Hard to believe, Mona thought, pure chance between her husband and them. Pure luck that he was alive and those in the bags were dead.

“That’s her,” Dan said. Mona felt him squeeze her hand hard.

A tall, muscular woman was led out by police. Her hands were handcuffed behind her back. She wore a jumpsuit and red apron.

With a start, Mona realized the apron wasn’t red. It was white. It only appeared red because it was almost completely stained with blood.

The other people around her began to shout. Hateful shouts. Fearful shouts.

Mona wanted to shout too, but she felt Dan let go of her hand. She looked at her husband. He was bent over. She saw him pick up a stone, a big stone.

As Dan stood Mona saw a look of hatred on his face. A look that she’d never seen before. He snarled and showed his teeth. He didn’t say a word. With all his might he threw the stone at the woman.

The throw was off. It broke a front window in the house. The result looked to Mona like sharp teeth she’d once seen in a museum, a shark’s teeth.

The police hustled the woman quickly into a police car. Other stones were thrown by others in the crowd. A rock flew past Mona’s head. It cracked the rear window of the police car as it drove off. The car slipped sideways briefly in the slush then sped away, red lights flashing.

Neighbors pushed past the police then, as if a dike had been opened. Pushed past and broke the yellow tape. They rushed to the body bags to find their loved ones.

“Don’t open the bag,” Dan said softly.

Mona looked at him. He looked afraid.

“Please don’t open the bag,” he said again.

Mona looked back at the house.

A couple she recognized from church knelt by one of the bags. The last one brought out. The one with a child.

Mona watched as they zipped open the bag.

Mona felt her husband take her hand.

Mona watched as the couple screamed. When she saw what was in the bag she felt herself involuntarily sob. She grabbed her husband and hugged him. She buried her face in the rough wool of his coat and wept with love for him.

On her sixteenth birthday Debbie Hanks climbed the hill behind her house in the dark just before sunrise. The morning was chilly but not cold. She walked easily up the modest hill despite the high grass gone to seed that clawed at her pants. At the top she spread a blanket, its dark pattern a gift from her departed grandmother, under a large black oak tree. Then she sat, cross-legged, a fifth of Wild Turkey whiskey in her hand, and waited for the sun to rise.

“How dare you,” she said. She could barely make out the shape of her house far below in the dark. “How dare you touch your daughter that way.”

He’d taken her the day before. He’d gotten drunk and raped his own daughter in the same bed he slept with her mother. He’d raped her then threatened to kill her if she ever told. She’d showered three times but still felt dirty, then stayed in bed and pretended to be sick, her vision haunted by visions of his hair, his grey hair. She hid her face when her mother came into the room. She couldn’t face her mother after that. Not then, not all night.

The sky began to lighten. Debbie unscrewed the bottle and smelled the whiskey inside. It smelled like her dad’s breath but different, sweeter. But under it she could still smell gasoline. She smelled her hands. Yes. Gasoline. She recapped the bottle and tried to clean the smell from her hands using dirt and the blanket.

She smelled her hands again. Dirt smell. A good smell. A clean smell. She uncapped the bottle again and drank a swallow. It burned. It burned and cleansed, burned and cleansed. She took another swallow, another cleansing swallow. The distant sky began to turn orange, began to glow.

Below, the first wisps of smoke rose from her house, his house.

“Die,” she said and held the bottle out like a toast. “Die badly.”

Flames began to lick out from the edge of the roof. Flames red-orange like the sunrise. Flames red-orange like the whiskey. Flames that cleansed.

Debbie stood. She drank the whiskey again. It didn’t burn her throat as much this time. A little spilled across her sleeve.

Below she saw her mother run out the front of the house. Her mother was in her night clothes. Her brother appeared next. Together they stood outside the house and pointed and screamed. Her brother screamed for his dad. Her mother screamed for the man who beat her. Screamed and wailed for the life of that evil man.

Debbie drank again. She remembered grinding her mother’s sleeping pills into her dad’s nightcap. She remembered him drinking it. She remembered wanting him dead. Debbie held the whiskey bottle up again. The sun just broke the horizon. Blinding. Bright. She used the bottle to shade her eyes.

Sirens sounded in the distance.

Debbie smiled. “Cleansed,” she said. She toasted the dawn. “To a new day.” She drank again then let the bottle hang in her left hand. She watched the house burn. Her house, their house, his house, him. She watched and after a while muttered bitterly, “Happy birthday.”

Unalaska Island and the town of Dutch Harbor lay in the middle of the string of Aleutian Islands that dribble toward Russia off the tip of Alaska. Fran Corbran walked uphill to the cemetery one last time before flying back to the mainland. Her husband, Ace, had died the year before, mysteriously, while captaining his boat, the Dugan Royal, on a fishing trip.

It was early summer so Fran spread a plaid wool blanket on the still green grass and sat down comfortably. The water off shore appeared its usual deep blue. Fran remembered these last months. The inquest had been painful for her with rumors about a large claw found punched through Ace’s chest, a claw the size of a boomerang. Her husband had been buried at sea per his last will. The coffin had been closed because that had been her final wish for him.

“Damn you, Ace,” she said. His name tasted bitter in her mouth.

She remembered trying to run the fishing company herself. But she was just not cut out for that kind of a life. Especially with several other fishermen mysteriously disappearing at sea. Fishing was not why she’d moved to Alaska. She’d moved here because Ace was her last chance for love. She ended up selling the business to a corporation formed by a few of her former employees. In fact she had just signed the last of the papers that very morning in the old office in Dutch Harbor.

“Damn you, Ace,” she mouthed again. Saying it felt less bitter.

Fran looked at her watch. 10:00 AM. Still plenty of time to catch her flight. She snapped open her purse and pulled out her only remaining photo of Ace. It showed him drunk in the Sports Bar, his hat on upside down. He liked to sing karaoke there, she didn’t.

“Damn you, Ace.”

Slowly and carefully, Fran tore up the photo. She tore it into smaller and smaller pieces. At last, a handful of confetti, she let the photo fly free into the summer breeze.

She wanted to say goodbye, but her voice still said, “Damn you, Ace.” She lacked courage.

Finally free of Ace, all cords cut, Fran stood and looked one last time at the view. The distant hills, still snow-capped in summer. The black beaches full of stones. The eagles along the wharf standing there like big rats with feathers waiting to scavenge food. What had the newspaper said just that morning? About eagles disappearing?

Inside her purse she heard her cell phone play music.

“Hello?”

“This is Betty. Duncan’s wife.”

“Oh. Hi, Betty.”

“We just wanted to let you know how much we miss Ace, and how much we’ll miss you too.”

“Thanks Betty. That’s very kind of you.”

“When you get back to the mainland, use your computer to visit Flickr.com. We uploaded a bunch of photos of you and Ace. To help you, you know, remember.”

“That’s nice. Bye.”

Fran snapped her phone shut. She looked at it for a moment, then dropped the phone to the grass by her feet.

“Damn you, Ace.” She kicked the phone with her toe.

Fran started walking down the hill. Away from Unalaska. Away from the blanket given to her one Christmas. Away from the cell phone and the wrongful kindness of others. Away from the view, always so spectacular. Away from the mysterious deaths. Away from Ace.

“Goodbye,” she finally had the courage to say. “Goodbye, Ace.”

“Did you hear about the Wilson boy?” Jenny Blane asked, just to keep from being bored while waiting in line outside the hospital.

Norma MacTailor, Jenny’s friend, said, “I heard he found one of those egg things and thought it was candy. I heard he put one into his mouth.”

A woman in line behind them leaned in. She wore an apron dusted with flour. “I saw the poor boy when they took him away. I saw a bloody bandage wrapped around his mouth. He moved like it hurt like hell, you know, flailed his arms about. Too bad he couldn’t scream.”

Norma held up a sack of candy. The bag had a jack-o’-lantern on it. The name Gail was written on it in permanent marker. “I got this away from my youngest daughter before she could eat any. I heard about the egg things on the radio and drove to find her. I tell you, I feel real lucky.”

The line moved a few steps.

Jenny held up her bag of candy. “My Johnny ate a few pieces. But, thank the Lord, there were none in ones he ate. I’m sure glad the hospital agreed to X-ray all the candy.”

“Yeah, thank the Lord,” the woman behind said.

The man in front of them turned. He had a big bandage on his cheek. “One of them got me,” he said. “That’s why I’m here, to see a doctor.” He pointed at his cheek, a large spot of blood in the center of the bandage. “And I swear they do hurt like hell. I mean really like hell. My wife burned it out of my cheek with one of those little torches. You know, the ones used to make that fancy custard.”

“Ouch,” Norma said.

“Yes, ouch,” Jenny agreed. “Your kid bring one home in Halloween candy?”

“No kids. I’m okay. It’s my wife, you know. She can’t have kids. It was in a box of Cheerios we bought at Walmart.”

Jenny thought about that. She looked at Norma. “You know,” she said, “maybe we should head back home. You know, just to check.”

“Wouldn’t hurt,” the man said. He rubbed the bandage on his cheek. He winced. “Them egg things might have gotten into more than just candy.”

“Yeah,” Norma agreed with a nod. She had already pulled her car keys from her purse. “Just to check.”

Linda Norman was thirteen and loved her lush blond hair. Her Mom’s razor felt strange scraping over her now bare chilly head. She wiped tears from her eyes with her fists. “All my hair,” she moaned. “All my hair.”

“Like I told you, dear,” her mom said and rinsed the razor in the bathroom sink. “I heard it on the radio this morning. They hide in your hair. That’s how they’ve been getting into houses.”

Linda knew that, of course; she’d heard it at school too. But knowledge didn’t make it any easier to take. “But my eyebrows!”

“All hair. Just be thankful you’re not me.”

Her mom dropped the razor into the sink and said, “There. All done.”

“Can we let the dog back in?” Linda needed some comfort from a friend that never hesitated to like her.

“Not yet. We need to burn this first.”

Together they swept up all her hair, being careful to find every single bit of it. They wrapped it all in newspaper and carried her former hair into the living room.

“You know, I always wondered how one got to Dad. I mean, he was so careful all the time. But with this hair thing…”

Her mom lit the gas in the fireplace and turned the flames up high. “One must have hitchhiked in his hair on the way to work with him. That was before we knew about their hair trick, of course. I hate the way they eat their way through to your brain through your eyes.”

“Please, Mom. I don’t want to think about Dad. I mean how he died.”

Her mom picked up the bundle of hair. “Sorry.”

Linda crossed her fingers and said, “I hope.”

Her mom tossed the newspaper bundle of hair onto the fire. There was a flash of the expected yellow, then just smoke and flames. Linda breathed out a sigh of relief.

Then they both saw it. A purple-blue flash. Then they both heard the terrible squeal, a squeal that went on for long seconds sounding like a broken dog whistle. And finally the smell. It hit them, like bad cheese or old fish. A dead smell.

Linda’s covered her mouth with both hands. She screamed. “One was in my hair! It could have killed me!” She began to shake.

Her mother hugged her. “It’s okay now,” she told Linda. “The danger is past.” Her mother stroked her head. Her mother stroked her bare head.

Linda stopped shaking. She pulled away and looked at her mom. “You’re bald too,” she said.

“I’m bald too.”

They hugged again. And this time they both laughed.

In the laundry room the dog barked, twice, then howled in pain.

On Sunday, Danny McPhran sat cross-legged on the floor and looked at old photos piled in a cardboard box. There wasn’t anything else to do there in the basement now that the TV had stopped working. Mostly Danny missed spending Sunday with his friends.

Behind him he smelled his mom making soup. His stomach gurgled. He liked his mom’s soup, with tiny bits of meat and sometimes carrots or onions. He picked up another photo.

This photo showed his mom and dad riding horses. “Hey, Mom,” he said. “How come we never go horse riding?”

“It’s still not safe out there,” his mom said.

Danny dropped the photo back into the box and picked up another. This one showed his dad in a policeman’s uniform.

“Hey, Mom,” he said. “I miss Dad.”

“I miss him too,” his mom said.

Danny flipped the photo over. There was just a date on the back: 2006. “Hey, Mom,” he said. “Dad shot lots of them, didn’t he? The ones with teeth.”

“Yeah. Lots. He was a real hero,” his mom said. “Now wash your hands in the basin. Lunch is almost ready.”

Danny dropped the picture. He was ready to stand when he noticed another photo. He picked it up. It showed a picture of him as a baby. And sitting next to him was a young girl.

Danny flipped the photo over. The label on the back said, “Danny and Linda.”

“Hey Mom,” he said. “Who’s Linda?”

“Wash your hands,” his Mom said. “And I mean right now. I’ll tell you about your sister after you eat. Not before.”

Danny dropped the photo back into the box. He stood and went to wash his hands. Standing on tiptoes, he gazed at himself in the tiny mirror. “I had a sister,” he proudly whispered to his reflection. “And her name was Linda.”