MicroHorror

“Listen, kids,” the old man urged. “Watch your backs.”

Josh and Sam smiled at the old man. They had been told about him. The crazy guy who was always talking doom.

“Why?” asked Josh.

“They’re everywhere, boys. You can’t escape them.”

“Who?”

“Brain-eating zombies.”

“Well, they’ll get nothing from us, huh, Sam,” Josh teased.

“It doesn’t matter how smart you are, you young whelps. It’s the brains themselves they live on. Listen to me and beware.”

“Whatever, old man,” Sam chimed. “We have to go home.”

The two boys left the old man standing there. He watched them walk into the alley. Then he heard a terrible voice.

“Brains!”

When he turned around the corner he saw that some zombies were eating the boys’ brains. He shook his head and walked off. They should have listened to their elders.

Sam answered the phone on the third ring.

“Yes?”

“Sam Wilson?”

“Yes, what can I do for you?”

“I was just calling to make sure you were home. I really hate to have to hunt down my victims.”

“What? Who are you?”

“The Grim Reaper, and I’m here for your soul; just open the door and I promise it will be quick.”

“Yeah, like I’m going to let the Grim Reaper into my house.”

Sam hung up the phone and turned to see the Grim Reaper standing beside him.

With a swing he took Sam’s life.

Opening his cell phone he dialed the next number on his list.

Clad in only a pair of sky-blue shorts, little Timmy Johnson trembled as another blast of cold air blew over his bare skin.

He could feel cold stone beneath him and it chilled him to the bone. He was lying on top of an aboveground crypt, his arms and legs spread wide towards the four corners. Thick, yellow rope around his wrists and ankles held him secure. His skin was taut over his ribs and his stomach was sunken. On his upper body lay a long, thin knife with a hilt that resembled a serpent.

At his left a man stood clothed in a dark black robe, one hand gently ruffling Timmy’s head.

“I’m sorry, son,” Timmy’s father said in a cold voice like the grave. Timmy shivered at the sound and his heart raced in his chest. “But I have no choice.” He gazed sadly down at his son but there was no love or feelings of any kind in his eyes. He just didn’t care for the boy.

He was just sixteen when the bitch of a girlfriend became pregnant with Timmy and now seven years later he was finally good for something. His innocent blood would give his father the power he craved.

“Please, Daddy,” his voice shrill in fear, his green eyes wide.

His father gazed down at his stomach to make sure the pentagram was right. Then he took the knife from where it lay and raised it high above Timmy’s chest. It gleamed in the moonlight for a second and then plunged down through the air towards Timmy’s chest. He screamed as the blade rushed down and plunged into his heart

Timmy felt the blade cut through his skin to the heart and gave one last, lingering scream before he died.

Billy was about to go trick-or-treating when the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it, mother,” Billy said.

He hoped his zombie costume would scare whoever was at the door.

When he opened the front door it was Billy who got a fright.

The Grim Reaper stood on his porch.

“Billy Thorson, your time is up.”

His scythe sliced off Billy’s head and it bounced to the porch.

“Who’s at the door, Billy?” His mother asked. She screamed when she saw his head at her feet.

Who was my first victim, you ask. That is simple enough to answer. His name was Billy Carson, but I called him bully. He liked nothing more than to beat me when his friends were holding my arms.

That was why I finally decided to take him first. He was the worst of the lot for me. It was in the summer of ‘74, and he had been swimming at the lake. He was walking home near dusk when I smashed him in the head with a branch.

When he awoke, he was hanging from a tree branch with a rope tied around his wrists. He was wearing blue jean cutoffs and was skinner than I would have thought. When he opened his eyes and saw me standing near him with the knife he screamed.

The first few cuts were swift slashes across his chest. He would let out a cry but not for very long and I wasn’t satisfied. Therefore, I laid the sharp edge against his skin and slowly drew it along his belly from side to side. He screamed the whole time and that was more fun.

For the next two hours I cut him slowly and deeply until his skin hung in bloody tatters. He died when his heart finally gave out.

It’s been almost forty years now but I still remember his screams of pain and he sound of his voice as he pleaded with me to stop. The way his skin hung from his bones with the blood dripping. I should have taken a picture but my memory is good enough.

Billy was almost out of the spooky old house. A few more steps and he’d be at the back door and freedom. He’d entered the house on a dare, simply walk through an old, supposed haunted house. Thankfully nothing spooky had occurred so he felt safe.

As Billy reached for the back doorknob the door to the pantry swung open. A large hand shot out and grasped Billy’s left shoulder. He was pulled into the pantry kicking and screaming. The door to the pantry closed shutting him off from the world of the living.

Billy lay trembling; his green eyes were wide with fear as he looked around him. Where were his mother and father? What was happening to him and why?

These questions and many more had raced through Billy’s mind.

He had woken up only a few moments before and tried to sit up, only to find he couldn’t. He was strapped down to a gurney. One strap went across his legs just below the knee; another went across his chest just below his armpits. Two more held his wrists to the side of the gurney so that he couldn’t move.

A small light bulb swung above him from a wire, providing just enough light for him to see by.

The door to his right opened and his father walked in. Behind him two big men in black clothes moved forward. One shut the door behind him and then stood near the doorway.

“Dad, what’s happening? Where am I?” Billy’s voice whined in fear.

“I’m sorry, son. Your number came up in the lottery.”

Billy gulped in fear at those words.

For all of his life he had heard about the lottery. Because of the holocaust there was little food or water. To preserve what there was every person born was given a number. When they lottery hit your number you were executed.

“But I’m only a boy, dad. I don’t want to die.”

“I know. There’s nothing I can do though, son. At least your mother and I can live a little longer. We love you son and when our time comes we will see you again.”

Billy quietly watched as the black-garbed man began to glue wire into his chest and stomach. He shivered as the cold wires touched his skin. The man placed the last wire on Billy’s forehead. A tear ran down bill’s cheek.

“Tell mother I love her. I’ll be waiting for you both on the other side.”

Billy’s father nodded and sighed. After holding his son’s left hand for a moment he turned away and walked out of the room. Although he had never been told exactly how the lottery losers were killed he had a pretty good idea.

“Billy Sorenson, number 3754, your number is up.” It was the way it was supposed to be. The man pushed a button.

Billy screamed shrilly and his body arched as the electricity ran through his body. His hands clutched the sides of the gurney for a moment then went still.

Billy’s heart officially stopped on October 9, at 10:08 PM.

He was only one of the many lottery losers.