MicroHorror

The pond was frozen deep, snow brushing and wisping off the top, a brittle chill in the air.
 
“My dog, I’ve lost my dog,” the silver-haired old lady said.
 
Nearly evening, light dipping away, grey dusk stepping in.
 
“Can I help you at all?” I shouted. I was on the other side of the pond. My own Jack Russell, Beckett, bounding up and down in the frosted grass.
 
She continued to search first to the side of the pond, then she tracked back to where the little wooded area began, then abruptly she turned left until she found the path into the woods. She would walk a few meters, call the dog’s name (I couldn’t quite hear what she said), then come back and make her way to the side of the pond before starting over.
 
I shouted again. “Excuse me, do you need some help?”
 
“My dog, I’ve lost my dog.”
 
“Yes, I know. Do you need some help? Ahh, I tell you what, I’m gonna come round and see if I can help you look.”
 
She didn’t say a word, just carried on back up the track shouting the dog’s name. It was about fifty meters straight across to the other side and I figured that if I went left, although I’d have to duck up a little into the woods, it would be quicker than going right and walking the long way around. I turned up the path and Beckett followed.
 
I could still hear her calling but no sign of the dog yet. I also caught occasional glances of her through the trees, large shock of silver-grey hair catching the last rays of the sun and her red dress and black shawl rippling in the wind. She must be pretty cold, I thought. But there she went, back and forth, calling the dog’s name. By now I could almost understand what she was saying. It sounded like her dog’s name was Dylan but there was something else, other words I couldn’t make out. I kept on walking and Beckett followed.
 
We had to head further into the woods than I had previously thought. Night was settling in quite firmly and our path became quite dense. I could still hear the old lady but she was getting very faint, after a while nothing at all. I stopped and fished a small flashlight from my bag. By the time we reached the clearing about five minutes later, we could see nothing, nobody there, no dog, nothing. I walked around the area she’d been looking. Beckett just sat and flicked his tail around on the cold pebbles.
 
Nothing. I crouched by Beckett and lit a cigarette.
 
“Guess she’s gone, eh, boy? Looks like Dylan came back.”
 
The evening wind calmed and the moon peeped out from the clouds. Such a beautiful place. I closed my eyes and inhaled the smoke deeply. I heard a cracking noise and everything within me began to creep, my skin tightened, my heart beat fast, my eyes shot open, in my ear like whispering ice, “Thank you for finding me a dog.” I flung my fist back angry, adrenaline roaring and I jumped to my feet looking around in all directions, ready to fight, wanting to scream.
 
Nothing. I calmed down, deep breaths, my heart beginning to drum more slowly. I was sweating. Still nothing. My imagination? Perhaps. I shook another cigarette out and lit it. I called for Beckett but I couldn’t see him. Called again, still nothing. Called and called. I trudged toward the edge of the pond, then I backtracked a bit toward the wooded area, then I turned left toward the path we’d come down, then I moved back toward the pond, maybe he’d gone for a walk around the edge of the pond, no, still nothing. I walked back toward the wooded area.

Dim flickers, the other lights dead long ago. She carries a torch and the others follow. It is easier for them. They are very afraid, but she will lead them, they are sure.

She is searching for something else altogether: her father was the king and she is the last of her people. He had sat on the throne in the palace until this other had come, this other who had swept in and destroyed everything, turning the land into a swamp of blackened earth and blood. He tainted with his touch, a thinning of vitality, a plague and a rot.

She would meet with him in the palace, this man who had defiled her father. The palace was now overgrown with weeds, damp with mildew, crawling with creatures.

The once Great Hall that had stretched for miles with color, sweetness and beauty now lay barren, a cold fog and a stench of decay, the result of death horrific. The corpses of a million soldiers lay pooling into each other and above all this stood the new King.

He was a man unlike any she’d seen. The others stayed far back clinging to the shadows as she strode forward, hiking her white dress up around her knees. She trudged through the squelching mass of death. Strange things slithered in and out of eyeballs and mouths.

It took her hours to walk across it all and the new King just sat and watched her, moving never once. The others, courtesans and villagers alike, clung to each other, afraid to move. She hated them and knew that they were cowards, that they would sacrifice her.

The King sat high, staring, covered totally in a liquid battle armor, tall and thin, a glowing metallic blue.

“This is all mine now, child.”

She bowed down, her long hair slopping in the giblets of a fallen soldier.

“This is so, my Lord.”

Her words echoed around the Great Hall. The others listened open-mouthed and afraid. An old priest who was with them began to recite a prayer but the others forced him silent. This was not the time; something marvelous was about to happen, they thought.

“Then why do you come?” the new King asked.

She stood and looked up at him.

“You have everything, my Lord; you killed my father and took his kingdom. You have left nothing untouched, spared no one; you have destroyed our land and murdered most of us; you have left a mark here we never wanted and we can never forget.”

The King continued to stare. The others kept hoping, though for what they remained unsure.

She continued.

“These are my people and you are indeed a monster, but I have a question for you. What comes after you? What then?”

The priest began to pray again, louder now. The others watched him–he was crying.

“It is the end,” he said. “Just you see.”

They turned back to her and watched as she began to ascend the steps. Her dress turned a dark color, her face rigid. She took the new King’s hand and kissed the royal ring upon his finger, the ring that had once belonged to her father. She looked back at the others and let out a long and hateful scream before talking her seat on the throne. The new Queen.

The priest left first, the others followed, heads bent low.

“What did you expect?” he asked to no one in particular.

What happens when night falls?

Well, my skin falls off. I have to lie down for a moment or two while I adjust. First my feet slough off, a neat strip from ankle to toe. Minutes later my legs and backside. My private parts spared until the end. My stomach, back and arms all peel away. I tidy up and go to the bathroom, I like to watch my face come off, sometimes I pick at it too soon. I lay it gently in a padded silk box.

I stare out of the window the whole night, trying to frighten the neighborhood cats. Nobody ever knocks on my door.

The corner of my eye, the edge of my reason I guess. Ahh, gone again. I long for sleep, for peace and most of all, for quiet.

Three more months they tell me, wrapped and immobile, legs shattered, pelvis cracked, my arms held together by pins, head, bruised and chipped, my one eye milky white, a sliver of metal still embedded. They left enough of a gap in the bandages. I can still see with the other at least.

And I can see them, like shadows, the evening light slinks away through the high window, my companions on this ward in comas or close enough. The shadows move unlike a shadow should, quick dash, sparse, furtive, they pass me by. I keep my eye open and search them, guess who they are.

Nobody comes to visit me, at least not yet. I’m not sure who would anyway, or could. They keep telling me I’m lucky to be alive, I guess so. The short pretty nurse smiles at me, I like her, dark hair, peaceful eyes. The big Irish nurse says nothing, she seems unhappy. She never stays for long, fast click heels as she leaves the ward.

Nobody can tell me who I am either. It’s become quite the thing, newspapers, local TV, my anonymity, a rush, an excitement but actual anonymity scares me. Surely I was, or still am, more than just a nobody out there.

I check the time, a clock placed just for me. I asked the nurse to hang it high above the entrance. Seven o’clock. Shadows soon.

As the lights go out they really put on a show for me, dancing and whirling, they seem stronger with more form. I feel afraid and try to cower. They almost seem like children, so much energy. Morning will be a comfort

I wake up. Routine tests today. The Irish nurse comes in, looks at me and backs away, nervous eyes, bumps through the door. The doctor enters.

“How are you today, sir?”

I mumble through the bandages.

“Well, it appears we, umm, know who you are after all, sir.”

I look past his face and see the policeman.

“For your protection, sir.”

And then he leaves.

“We’ll be back to see you again later. These men will stay with you, umm, protection.”

He almost runs down the corridor.

The policeman steps forward, notebook in hand.

“I have some questions I’d like to ask you, sir.”

“You know who I am? Do you? Please tell me.” I wasn’t sure what to expect, I felt nervous, my heart pounding.

The policeman cleared his throat. “Umm, well, sir, I have some questions I need to ask you before I, umm, before we can…”

“Who am I?” I know my mumbles are becoming more difficult to understand the louder and more agitated I get. I really need to know now.

“Well, your name is Brendan Hartley, you’re from Wyoming originally, not married, no kids, no family we could find.”

He pauses. I urge him to carry on. I can see with my one good eye that he is very unhappy, this is not a job he particularly wants to do.

“It also seems that we need to arrest you, sir. We believe that you are responsible for the deaths of twenty-three people, suspected of many more all over the country…”

I stop listening, recoiling in horror. I can’t understand what he’s saying. I don’t want this, it can’t be true. There absolutely has to be a mistake. I shut my eye and think of the shadows, they will be coming soon. I try to scream, I try to make them understand what will happen. They sedate me and the policeman walks away, shaking his head.

My eye begins to shut and I can see them, dim and blurred, but faces now, faces I can see…

Abigail pulled away fast from the shadows. She thought that something had moved, had stirred the rotten smelling air. The small room had been so quiet for the last few hours; the only sound she’d heard had been a faint scraping like a thin metal chair against polished wood. That had been over an hour ago though, and nothing since.

She sat back down by the small table lamp that stood in one corner. If she angled it right she could see everything, not that there was much to see, bare gray walls, no door and a pink leatherette car seat to sit on that smelt of boiled meat and aniseed.

Suddenly she heard a hissing noise, like soft white sounds, a low feral static, not loud but a constant drone in the background. She paused, focusing on total silence, absolute stillness; she felt her breathing, the deep swell of her lungs pushing her chest up and out, her pulse and heartbeat becoming louder in her ear. Slowly, the sound began to dissipate until it was gone but she could still hear faint echoes, whispers, impressions.

The lamp went out, first it flickered a little, the light wobbling along the walls, then it sputtered, on, off, on, off and finally gave one heroic burst before it went off again. Abigail was frightened, she breathed deeply, scanning the room for any chink of light, hoping that her eyes would adjust soon.

She stood and tried to make her way to the other side, her mind had made a mental note of the placement of the furniture but she still had to reach out to the walls for support. They felt damp on her bare palms. She wanted to grab them. She was scared she might fall if she didn’t.

She made it to the other side but there was still no light, no breeze, no sounds, just the dead air and the wet coolness of the flat stone she sat upon.

She began to cry, she’d promised herself she wouldn’t, that she’d find a way out, that she’d be strong but now things seemed hopeless, stacked against her, she found it hard to think straight.

Again, the metal sound, thin and high pitched, she cocked her ears around the room trying to decide which direction the sound was coming from but she couldn’t focus. She began to shout and beat her fists against the slick wall. There was another burst of static and then loudly, voices, voices sprang to life, lots of voices, talking, shouting, different accents, the heavy rat a tat of machine gun fire, the wailing of fire engines and the screams of mothers; television, someone was watching the news. Then, just as abruptly, it went off.

She could still hear talking, very quiet but still talking. She removed her glasses and pushed her ear hard against the wall, focus, focus, she strained hard to catch anything; a single word, but nothing, too far away, too muffled and dampened by the wall between them. She couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman.

She began to cry again and laid down on the pink car seat.

Days passed, or so she assumed, sometimes when she woke there would be food placed nearby. At first she was dubious but soon hunger forced the issue. She used a corner of the room as a toilet and was amazed to see that when she awoke it had all been cleaned up. She tried to stay awake or to pretend just to see but she always fell asleep.

She began to make little games in her head, little stories, dances and adventures. Sometimes she’d be the heroine, sometimes she was free again but these stories made her cry.

She lay awake and listened to the television. Sometimes on the news, she could hear her mother crying and talking about how much she missed her beautiful Abigail.

She twisted her body and let her arms glide upward, crisscrossing, fingers clasped together, her arms supple and writhing, a swan’s neck. She stood up on tippy toes and tried to spin around on the soft floor, she felt gentle and light, breezing through the room, on a downy cloud. She closed her eyes and she was on stage, so sensual and slim, as fragile as a bird, held tight and strong, firm yet so precisely, a big man’s hands, a wonderful man’s hands, strong muscle and hard jawed.

She stopped and held her hands out to the front of her, eyes still closed. She was in a forest, she was a fox, an energy possessed, eyes bright and darting, she could feel the hunters, didn’t even need to see them, their scent was strong on the wind and they were clumsy. Today they hunted without dogs, she would win this time. She laughed and scuttled into the dry brush that grew along the banks of the stream.

She opened her eyes and squinted, hunkering down, still, so quiet. She peered cautiously around the room, nothing stirred. She relaxed and sat cross-legged in the middle, her hands resting, fingers dangling off her knees. The daylight almost done, a latticed window of sun on the floor in the corner, dusky, the evening lights still not turned on.

She thought of Meredith and where she might be now. She missed her. Her sister. Gone for so long that she couldn’t remember when, or even why. She thought of daytrips to Aberaeron and eating honey ice cream as the wind roared along the harbor wall, salty air, the frigid breeze of late September.

Sometimes she remembered what the newspapers had said about them, the few things she’d been able to see, been allowed to see, but she knew better. She knew that it wasn’t her fault or Meredith’s. She knew that their Daddy was a bad man.

They’d told her, the nurse with the auburn hair always tied up in a top-heavy bun and the small bald man with the tiny round glasses and buggy eyes, that soon it would be her eighteenth birthday and then she would have to go somewhere else, that they wouldn’t be able to look after her anymore. They said that she might be able to spend some time with Meredith again before she went to the new place.

Sometimes she remembered what had happened to their Daddy, what they’d done, but mostly she danced and smiled. She was going to be such a wonderful star one day and she wanted to make sure she had it just right for when Meredith came to visit.

She closed her eyes again and spread her wings wide, very wide, even wider. She took a deep breath and leaned forward ever so slightly. She held her head high and proud, her mouth wide with a smile, ecstasy anticipation for the kill. She pulled her feet together and arched her back. Below her she spotted a mouse and began to circle the room readying herself for the dive.

The crack along the wall appeared to be getting bigger and Gerald thought that he could see eyes, blinking eyes somewhere deep in the darkness. He looked at his feet and they kept moving, slipping in and out of his line of vision. The skin on the back of his hands had turned very grey and had begun to crumble, dust puffing away in to the air. Ice had formed on his hair and his breath ran out in a painful frozen mist, his throat burning.

On the floor next to his left foot an upturned bottle of red wine dripped the last of its contents on to the wooden floor. Gerald’s dog lay, paws on ears under the kitchen table, his big eyes darting back and forth, too afraid to sleep.

The crack wrenched and ground, each sound scratching at Gerald’s head, the inside of his skull, thin pins scraping at bone. He felt hot wax drops on the back of his eyes and his nose began to stream, viscous snot burning like ammonia. He raked his tongue across the roof of his mouth, flicking off the small polyps that had grown there. He wanted to scream but his throat had constricted, an almost airless rasp, a weak whistle.

“Hello, Gerald.”

The white pain in his brain eased for a second and he stared at the crack in the wall as the thing within began to push rubbery, slick hands out of the thin hole. It grabbed the edges and began to pull. Its bald slimy head was next, just muscle and sinew and blood vessels over a stark hard skull. In a few moments it stood before him, naked and dripping blood on the black rug.

Gerald tried to speak but nothing happened, the pain was severe and now more of him began to peel and dust, his nose slipping away in clumps, like wet sand. His tongue began to swell, bloody gums leaking pus filling his mouth with stench.

The dog padded over to the man and began to lick his feet, wet bloody licks. The man crouched down and clasped the dog, ruffling the fur on either side of its head.

“Hey, Steve, how are you doing, boy? You’re such a good and loyal dog.”

Steve showed his appreciation by nuzzling the man and letting the man tickle his tummy.

“Now, Gerald, don’t fight it. Relax.”

The man smiled gently at Gerald and bent down so his eyes were inches away from Gerald’s rolling yellow sickened eyes. Gerald’s face had begun to melt, dollops of blood and skin pit-patting on the wood floor below.

“It’s okay, Gerald, not long now.”

The man picked up Gerald’s watch from the small pool of body fluids and slipped it over his own wrist; he rubbed the new formed red raw skin that had begun to grow on his arms and smiled again.

Gerald had become a lifeless mass oozing off the chair, his face barely recognizable. His dog, Steve, sat still, waiting on the man’s command, barely noticing Gerald.

The man began to get dressed, one of Gerald’s old suits, charcoal grey, an austere touch he thought for an important occasion. He slipped on a pair of Gerald’s worn brogues and flexed his toes, perfect. Finally, he slipped Gerald’s wallet into the inside breast pocket of his suit and patted his leg. Steve came bounding over to him, tongue lolling and tail flapping furiously.

“Goodbye, Gerald. Thanks for everything.”

The crack in the wall had closed almost perfectly now and the rest of the room just looked bare and very normal. The puddle that had been Gerald was beginning to disappear, seeping into the floorboards.

The man took a last look around the room and flicked the light switch off. He began to whistle, flashing his newly minted pearly white teeth and then shut the door behind him as he left. Steve walked along beside him, always happy to be at his master’s side.

I’m going to befriend a stranger today. I feel full of life and energy, slept well last night, no dreams, no panicked waking up as the night noises shook and boiled beneath my window, the dogs stayed quiet and the cats weren’t fighting. I had the covers pulled right up to my nose and my eyes scanned the room for hours but eventually I slept.

I was covered in sweat as usual but I couldn’t see the shadows in the corner. They weren’t moving or talking today. I couldn’t hear a thing. This was going to be a good day. I could feel it. I danced a little but my feet felt slick against the wooden floor. I looked down and saw that there was a small smear of blood trailing off my foot.

I’d scratched myself again and now I needed to scratch some more. I sat back down on the edge of the bed and soothed the burning, feverishly raking my nails across the skin, reddening and reddening, the blood seeping into my nails. I stopped and took a deep, deep breath and smiled. Better now, sore but the itching had gone. I pulled on my robe and went downstairs. The buzzing noises had lessened today, a cold snap outside and I couldn’t smell a thing. I poured a glass of milk and drank it deep.

I switched on the TV and a block of hissing static filled my ears. I left it on and walked to the window which overlooked the park ten floors below.

It seemed like a really good day for making friends, perhaps I could talk to the children who were playing soccer by the swings. Maybe not, they did look a bit old and I felt a little afraid. Or maybe the colored boys with the turbans who owned the shop by the library could be my friends. Sometimes I bought comics in there and pop; they had dandelion and burdock which I like the best. They were always friendly, well, except for the old man, he always stared at me and Mary who helps me at the hospital says that he smells funny.

I slumped to the floor resting the back of my head against the cold radiator, my neck and chin bunched up into rolls of fat. I began to pick at my chest. Some of the spots were very itchy and mad red. I squeezed some and rolled the yellow juice between my fingers. I had a quick smell but I didn’t like it much.

I got dressed and opened the front door. The wind was howling around the caverns and alleys of the housing estate, dark clouds settling firmly above. I avoided the boys and stayed away from the shop by the library. I walked to the hospital feeling very cold in just a T-shirt. Mary would be there. She could tell me what to do.

When I eventually got there they told me that Mary was missing, they hadn’t seen her in days. The other girls looked really scared and upset. There was even a policeman in there, talking to Doctor Heffernan. Sometimes I wondered if Dr. Heffernan would be my friend but I didn’t think so. I’d heard him tell Mary once that he didn’t like comics in the dayroom.

I went home and found that I’d left the front door open again and the television was screaming at me. I laughed and thought of Mary. She would be my friend. I took her photograph down from the fridge door and put it in a bag with some of her other things. I could go to see her later, check to see if she’s okay, and maybe we could play together if she isn’t too tired after work. She works very, very hard.

I need to vacuum the house, it’s been three weeks and the dust is making me sneeze but I hate you too much to open the closet door. I am afraid of what I might do to you. I don’t worry anymore about what you might do to me.

There is a bird in the corner, it looks at me through one broken eye, the tiny bloodshot redness aching and hurting. I prop it back up sometimes but it always falls back down. I don’t understand. I don’t want it to be hurt, I want it to fly away but it’s cold and it’s hard. I think it’s tired.

…and if I let you out you might start asking questions. But then maybe that’s a good thing, perhaps you can help me. But, I’m not afraid of you, don’t go getting ideas now. I’ll chain you up so you can’t move and maybe we can have a chat, a nice civil chat. It always makes me scared when you thrash like that, struggling and that noise, hurts my ears, I’ll just lalalalalala if you do and put my hands over them so I cant hear you.

I woke up earlier and I felt my heart tick tick tick so fast. My eyes felt popping large in my head but it was ok, I had a good look around the house and I couldn’t find a thing wrong, everything was in its place but I still don’t know what to do about you, you down there, thudding and banging in the closet. I wish you’d stop, I just want to cry and I want to hit things, really hit things. I screamed at the bird this morning, just after watching television, a quiz show about food. I screamed at it. I want it to help me but it won’t. I don’t know what I’ve done, oh, is it safe now?

I’ve made a decision. I want you to go, I need you to leave. I am afraid, I lied about that earlier. I think I may have done something wrong. I don’t think you can help me after all. I think it’s your fault. Really, that seems like the right answer, makes sense doesn’t it, after all, if it wasn’t for you… but the bird told me.

I think the bird is dead. It told me that you did it. I didn’t think so at first of course, we know each other so well, yes? I was angry with the bird. I told it to not be so suspicious of people, especially you, then I went outside and I mulled it over. I was in the post office lining up to pick up the pension when it all suddenly made so much sense. Who else could it be? Of course the bird was right! You always hated him and now, well, now he’s dead. It’s not a coincidence is it? Maybe you always hated me.

So that’s how I made the decision.

I am paralyzed by pain, palsied by your poison; you hateful thing, slick and dank, sweating furiously in my under stairs closet. I can’t hear you right now but I watch the ceiling undulate as I lay on the floor and I feel a little sick. I found the kitchen knife that we thought we’d lost last Christmas earlier today. It was in the washing machine. I must be getting old and daft.

I will open the closet door soon when I stop shaking and crying. I know that I need to do this. It won’t take long but it’s probably about time anyway, it’s been so long since we talked, I mean really talked so what does it matter? And well, you did kill the bird after all, he told me so.