MicroHorror

“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.”

Sarah Linds had kinky hair that tended to curl badly in the rain. And rain it did. It had poured all day and promised to pour all that night too.

Sarah worked nights in a bad part of town. She waited in the rain to cross the dark street. She held her umbrella, pink with white flowers, stiffly, more to protect her hair than her blouse.

The pedestrian crossing light had just turned red. She knew she would be stuck there, on that corner, for a full minute. She frowned and pulled nervously at her hair.

The gurgling of water down a nearby drain felt rhythmic. The sound felt calming. Sarah let her free hand drop to her side. She listened to the water, its bubbling sound, its hollowness. “Wow,” she said aloud and shook her head. “That’s almost hypnotic.”

The light had changed so she stepped off the curb. Her boots sloshed. She paused and looked down. Both her boots were full to the top with water. “What the heck,” she muttered.

The light changed again, more quickly than she expected. Sarah stepped up onto the island in the middle of the road feeling a little miffed. She wondered how best to empty her boots without getting her pants all wet. Then she realized she was just being silly. Her pants were already wet.

Sarah lifted one leg and held up with her free hand. She tried to raise her foot enough to empty the boot. “I gotta take up those stretches again,” she said. She was barely able to get the water to dribble out. She set her boot down and it sloshed. The boot was full again.

Sarah noticed water running down her arm. No. Make that both arms. She looked up to see if the umbrella was leaking. It wasn’t. She nervously pulled her hair. Her hair was soaking wet. She grabbed a fistful of hair and squeezed. Water flowed out of it as if squeezed from a sponge.

She looked down and saw the water overflowing her boots. “That’s funny,” she said. Her boots looked much closer and her pants were all wrinkled and foreshortened. “Am I shrinking?”

The light changed again. Sarah tried to step off the curb but her legs wouldn’t respond. The didn’t feel numb or anything, they just refused to work.

Sarah looked both ways. There was no traffic. She wanted to jaywalk but her legs didn’t work. “Help,” she called. Then louder, “Help!”

Water in the gutter by her feet no longer appeared to race by. It moved slowly, almost in slow motion. She peered hard at the water. It appeared to be made up of transparent snakes. Thousands of them. All moving in the same direction down the street.

The pedestrian crossing light changed sooner, faster. Then it seemed to flicker. The transparent snakes were distinct now. She looked down at her boots again. Transparent snakes crawled from the gutter up and into her boots. A mass of them. And every once in a while a bit of reddish meat passed down through one as if it had swallowed a piece of her.

Sarah felt her hand resting on the ground. That seemed just plain wrong. She realized her legs were now almost gone. Then she felt the first bite. Raindrops hung suspended in the air. More bites more pain.

Pain shot up her arm. As she watched, the transparent snakes ate her hand. The pain became worse. Soon she felt as if she were being eaten alive. She screamed once. Then she screamed continuously.

Just before dawn a man stopped his car to make a left turn. He rolled down his window to toss out a cigarette butt. There, on the island to his left, he saw a pile of clothes. And on top of the pile, a pink umbrella with white flowers. He rolled up his window. The light changed. He turned left and drove off through the rain.

Young Jimmie Smathers tucked his feet tight under his grammar school seat and
held his head firmly with both hands. “Don’t thunk,” he muttered. “Please don’t thunk.”

“Are you feeling ill?” his teacher Miss Elmer asked. She walked up next to him. She smelled flowery with perfume. “Do you have a headache?”

Jimmie closed his eyes. He didn’t want to take any chances. “No,” he whispered. “I feel fine. Please leave me alone.”

Other students laughed. One called, “Crazy Jimmie trying to hide again.”

Miss Elmer half-knelt next to him. The cotton of her skirt brushed his arm. “Should I call your parents?”

His mother. Jimmie wanted to shout, “She’s the one who did this to me,” but he didn’t say anything. He just held his head.

At dinner the night before, his mother had said, “Eat all your Brussels sprouts. If you don’t, your head will grow but your brain won’t. Your brain will begin to rattle in your head. You wouldn’t want that, would you.”

Jimmie had fed the Brussels sprouts secretly to the dog. Now he paid the price. Whenever he moved his head he could feel his brain thunk from one side to the other in it.

“Here,” Miss Elmer said and placed her hand on his forehead. “If you sit up straight you’ll feel better.”

Jimmie tried to resist, but Miss Elmer was too strong. She pushed his head upright. He felt and heard his brain thunk backward.

Miss Elmer stood up. “That’s not right,” she said. “One of you,” she pointed at the girl nearest the door. “You, Ann. Run and get the nurse.”

Jimmie didn’t feel comfortable with his head straight up so he leaned into his hands again. His brain shifted forward with a thump.

Other students started to yell. Jimmie heard someone say, “His head. It’s bulging.”

Jimmie looked up to see if Miss Elmer could help. He felt his brain shift backward again with a thunk.

His final living vision saw Miss Elmer staring at him and screaming as his brain fell out of the back of his head.