MicroHorror

I really wanted to join the Lambda House fraternity. So, when the brothers sent me to find a wide variety of animal droppings, I knew that I’d have to sneak into the veterinary college. I passed through the dim halls without notice, but the Animal Room’s heavy, metal door was locked. The lights were off and I found it difficult to see inside through the small Plexiglas pane. But I could make out the shadows of cages and shelves. What I really noticed was the thick brown smell that washed through the hallway. How could such a strong odor penetrate a soundproof door? Suddenly, the lights went off in the hallway, and clicked on in the Animal Room. The cages were empty.

I was the one being hunted!

I began to run along the linoleum, rounding the corner, and plowed full-on into a huge furry body. Screaming, I clawed at it. Another hairy monster leaped on me, knocking me to the floor, and others piled on, smothering me. My bladder let go, and a high pitched keening emerged from my throat.

The next morning the veterinary staff found me crammed into one of the larger cages, naked, amongst the returned animals. One of them picked a note up from the desk and handed it to me. “That must be for you,” he said wryly, examining a large ape-suit hanging over the chair.

We regret to inform you that your candidacy to become a Lambda has been rejected.

John had been hunting the Twin Lakes mountain lion for ten years. Most Maine folk didn’t even believe that it existed. But John knew better. And to prove it, he had dragged his nephew Mark with him on a warm December morning.

As John doggedly struggled up the long slope from the Twin Lakes area, his nephew complained vociferously. “Uncle John, why are we going up? Didn’t you see it down there?” He pointed through the leafless trees.

“Yup,” John breathed heavily.

“My dad says that you’re crazy,” Mark lashed out. John ignored the comment, tightening his grip on the rifle, heading north along a long cliff that rose high from the surrounding trees.

A few minutes later, a huge brown shape moved through the bare trees to their left, lumbering in their direction.

“Shoot it! What are you waiting for?” Mark panicked.

“Naw, old bear ain’t gonna hurt us. Hasn’t smelled us yet.”

But Mark wasn’t listening. He backed up, nearing the edge of the cliff.

“Watch out, son.” The hunter waved. Just then, the bear reared on its hind legs, smelling them for the first time, and John fired a warning shot in the air. Mark screamed, turned to run, and promptly slid off the red cliff, smashing his head on a rock a few yards below, and then plummeting silently. The bear ran up the slope.

“That was no bear,” muttered John, his lips pulled back on his teeth. “That was a mountain lion.”

Your child’s hand

in the mailbox.

Jagged teeth and monstrous eyes leapt into the ginger surface as little Jacky swung the blade. He sliced a hole in the bottom, just wide enough for his thin skull, and gleefully janked out seedy guts. Chewing a seed thoughtfully, he heaved the terrible mask onto narrow shoulders. Immediately, he choked, driven to the floor. The wet, stringy insides filled his nose and mouth, smothering him.

Jacky’s mother strolled into the kitchen and saw Jacky, motionless on the floor, wedged into an enormous pumpkin. She turned to dial 911, and just then, the creature gnashed its teeth and sprang.

My friends and I find a place with homemade clam chowder. I buy macaroni and cheese and some kind of shrimp salad. We gather around a table and chat. Perhaps I should buy dessert. Ooh, what an important decision. I laugh to myself that everyday I, everyone, makes these empty choices that will not affect, cannot affect, the rest of the cosmos. There are more important things to consider.

I take a trip to the public restroom and it is empty as a skull. I peer around, wondering why there are no people in here, since the food court is packed. After leaving my mark, I walk over to the mirror, footsteps echoing, the noise from the restaurants not reaching into this cave. Water splashes my face and I look deep into the mirror. Slowly, I wet my long, brown hair, pushing it from my face, when my pulse starts pounding and stomach cramps force me to the floor. I vomit the fishy contents of my stomach onto the tile. I feel the change come on me so suddenly, there is no time to stop it.

I am crouching against the sink when a wrinkled janitor tells me to flush the damn toilet after I use it. I stand up, towering over him, and he screams. My hands move to stop his noise, and crush his throat to a pulp. I pull the body into a stall to feed, hungry after the loss of my lunch, and when I’m done, I slowly gain control of my body. I walk out and blend into the crowd, making my way back to the Clam Bake Hut.

The vast plain was silent. Five figures stood alone, neither talking nor moving. No bird called; no wolf howled. The dust on the arid desert floor swirled away from the near statues, as if it was consciously attempting to avoid them. Off in the distance, lights began to flicker on in a mining village as sunset neared. Suddenly, the quiet eve was shattered by the whistling sound of a sixth figure hurtling through the sky. It reached the earth with a thunderclap that pulsed out into the stillness like a flood. Then all was as it had been. Long minutes passed as the sun slowly sank beneath the horizon. When all was dark, one of the figures spoke, whispering with a palpable menace.

“Have all completed their tasks for the first?”

Each affirmed that their tasks had been completed. They girded on armor and checked their assortment of terrible weapons for impurities, but found none.

“Good,” a figure that towered over the rest boomed. “Our mission is one step closer to being fulfilled.”

“We need to make sure.” Another pointed to the distant mining village with a weapon so horrible it could kill at a thousand yards. All grunted their assent and joined him, stalking toward the sleeping town. There was a sudden frenzy of death and destruction.

An hour later it was if the hamlet had never been. The six creatures had retreated to a ridge where they were roasting a small animal for dinner. One of the beings was disturbed by a vibration on his hip, and reached in to pull out the offending item. It was small and plastic and spoke to him.

“Daddy?” it said. “When are you coming home?”

The huge redwoods loomed over the lumberjacks. They stood silently, staring at their ruined equipment. The trucks were broken at all the right places, engines torn to shreds, tires stripped to the rims. They were not surprised. Stories like this had been coming in from all over Northern California. Stories of camps wrecked, work huts burned, and vehicles smashed.

Suddenly, a cry from the depths of the forest.

“The night watch!” one of the group shouted. They cautiously made their way through the groves of giant trees to the source of the noise. The sight that greeted them filled their hearts with dread. The two security officers were tied to a great trunk, ropes binding them to the thick, rough bark. One was unconscious, slumping into the bonds. The other greeted the lumberjacks with a wild stare, perhaps not believing they were real. Three rushed forward, taking out pocket knives to sever the thick cords. The man began sobbing, crying out loud.

“What’s wrong? Do you need an ambulance?” They asked him, glancing around as if the answer was hiding in the undergrowth.

“My chest…” The guard managed to get out before he broke down again. They quickly pulled him off the tree and laid him on the ground, rubbing his limbs to bring feeling back. The other lumberjacks quickly untied the second guard and rushed the limp body through the woods to a car.

“He did it to me!” The first guard coughed, moving a numb hand to his shirt. The crowd of flannel shirts peered down in horror as the guard lifted his uniform, revealing fresh, black tattooed words spread in a ragged line across his abdomen…

“Once-Ler.”

The Litchfield Hills of Connecticut were the perfect place for a day hike. The rambling hills and dales were only an hour from New York City, and were labyrinthed with trails of various difficulties. When the city-world became too much for me, I drove out to a trailhead and hiked into the trees. That’s just what I had done today, and it had paid off. The sky was blue, the wind was mild, and the smell of burning autumn leaves hung in the air. I struggled up a steep trail to an overlook, where I collapsed on a limestone shelf. Eating a lunch of biscuits and berries, I relaxed, glad to be clear of the week’s work.

I pulled out a pair of binoculars and swept the countryside, over the hilltops and along the river valleys. A few hawks, some new construction on Mt. Riga, and… what was that? I could make out figures dancing in a farm-field below. They sang, sprinted wildly in every direction, and seemed to be having a fine party. A huge old bull stood nearby, chewing grass. Once every minute or so, one of the strange people darted up and caressed the animal. I raised my eyebrows. This was the problem with coming out here to Connecticut- the natives. “Hippies,” I snorted.

Then, as if spurred by my comment, they moved towards the bull one by one, then in a writhing mass, engulfed the beast. I muffled a cry. What were they doing? Fascinated, I scrabbled down the leafy hillside to get closer. In a few minutes I reached a lower outcrop and could see the people tearing meat off the bull, which seemed to be making no effort to stop them. They devoured the raw meat hungrily. I had the feeling that the bull was alive in each of them, though, throbbing with life. Bile rose in my throat, and I heaved my lunch onto the brown leaves.

A shout went up, and I saw someone pointing toward the hillside. Then the group of feasting citizens turned towards me and looked at me with the eyes of madness.