MicroHorror

The girl stared out between the cold iron bars on the window and watched the darkening sky. She felt herself grow angry at the clouds overhead. She knew the rain was coming. She hated rain. He stayed home when it rained. Rain kept him from hunting. Soon the door would open…

When I first opened my little exhibit, word spread like plague inside the walled city, and soon waves of citizens came from all walks of life to see my captured beast. Those born with purple blood stood silently in line behind peasants. Farmers stood behind generals. Husbands were sandwiched by their wives and their harlots. All crowded into my poor little tent to see the beast I had obtained at great personal expense.

Each evening I would stand at the box office and graciously accept the lovely coins. People paid. People entered. Yet before my eyes the line only seemed to grow and grow and grow…

I quickly determined the source of the problem. Once inside the tent, no one felt the urge to leave. Onlookers would gawk at the beast for hours in awed fascination. When I would gently suggest they head for the exit in order to give others a turn, they would inevitably turn cold and surly. When my suggestions became more forceful, I would come away with a bloodied nose and a bruised face.

With a cold damp rag pressed against my face, I watched and I thought. After two hours I was struck by sweet inspiration. Within minutes I found myself standing alone.

The crowds still come in overwhelming numbers. We do eight shows a day now. Business is booming. How, you ask?

It’s child’s play. When I feel that the audience has gotten value for their coin, I simply walk on stage and unlock the cage door…

Are you afraid of ghosts?

If you are, I have a tip for you: move into the spookiest house you can find. Ghosts are just like regular people. They don’t like rats. They don’t like bats. They don’t like spiders. They don’t like cobwebs. They don’t like the dark.

A house like this is absolutely perfect for ghosts. It’s clean. It’s well lit. It has all the modern conveniences. I’ve been living here for five years, and I’ve never been happier.

You must be the new owner.

My name is Terry.

I was murdered in this very kitchen.

BOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

For the Tree to live, someone had to die.

Most of us were willing to slit our throats for the Tree, but that wasn’t how things were done around here. We needed an outsider’s blood.

After a few hours, the leaves on the Tree started to wilt. Our children circled around it and kept it stable with their tears, but the Tree needed blood. As the sun went down we started to despair. Then we saw the headlights in the distance. The children stopped crying and started dancing.

We felt bad for our loss of faith. In all the years the Tree had always provided.

The car stopped twenty yards from the Tree. There were three people in it. One of them got out of the vehicle. He was lost. He saw us. He saw the knives in our hands. Then he knew how lost he was.

We chased him toward the Tree. We gave the Tree life. As the blood soaked in, the branches quickened with fruit.

They were screaming in the car, but they didn’t try to drive away. They were foolish outsiders. We gave them apples from the Tree. Then they understood everything. We had two more converts.

Adolf Hitler came back from the dead. Ben Franklin came back from the dead. Clark Gable came back from the dead. So did Attila the Hun. Elvis Presley. Dorothy Parker. Ty Cobb. Lizzie Borden.

As soon as a zombie crawled out of the dirt, they were immediately cries of recognition before the inevitable screams of horror. After that first week of chaos, it became clear to one and all.

Only the famous got a second chance.

While foraging for food one day, I was bitten on the arm by the Wizard of Menlo Park himself, Thomas Alva Edison. Since then I’ve had a bad case of the shakes. I can feel my body grow colder and colder.

I know. It’s not much of a story. But it’s the best I could come up with under the circumstances.

My name is written under the title. Remember it.

Please?

I was supposed to be in the house alone but I could hear someone walking around upstairs. He wasn’t just walking. He was stomping. Plaster dust started dropping from the ceiling and tiny cracks started to spread like veins in a medical simulation.

From the force of the pounding I assumed it was a man. Finding a woman that size would have frightened me even more. A brave person would have marched up the steps and confronted the intruder. A smart person would have called the authorities.

I was neither smart nor brave. Instead I just turned up the volume on the television set to its highest setting and tried to ignore the terrible footsteps.

Apparently the racket blaring from the speakers disturbed the intruder. Moments later I heard heavy footsteps coming down the steps. I jumped to my feet and tried to flee, but there was a shape in the doorway.

Not man.

Not woman.

Instead I saw…

The End