MicroHorror

Deborah knew that, now, she was the last. They had gotten her family. She could hear them outside of her bedroom door now. Sometimes they knocked softly, trying to soothe her with soft words, trying to convince her that they meant no harm. Sometimes there was hysterical screaming and banging on the door. They made threats.

She was the last human alive.

She’d barely escaped. Deborah had holed up in her tiny cabin for a week before they found her. She hadn’t seen another human being in all of that time. Evacuation efforts. Everyone fleeing an inescapable fate. But she’d survive. She had food for at least two weeks, plus she knew how to distinguish poisonous plants from edible ones. She’d even hunt if it came to that–as long as the infection didn’t affect the animals.

Maybe “infection” wasn’t the right word. “Possession” didn’t fit either. Whatever the proper word, she had seen no evidence of it happening to animals so far.

The banging again. Using her sister’s voice. Begging, pleading for her to open the door. Deborah covered her ears. Even though she knew their tricks, knew it wasn’t her sister out there, it hurt to hear the tears in that voice. She could almost believe…

Anyway, the only thing she’d forgotten was bullets. She had a five-shot revolver. She’d shot a few as practice before she realized that she only had what was in the damn gun. She couldn’t hunt. She couldn’t defend herself. But she could make sure they didn’t change her into a monster.

She’d tried to tell them. Of course they still looked human. What did they expect–that an alien creature would walk up in all it sslobbering, slimy, reeking glory and announce that they were here to inhabit Earth, eat the children, mate with the men, and make the women their slaves? If you wouldn’t mind, they’d say, we don’t want to waste fuel, artillery and such. Men line up on the left for lubricants and, ladies, be dearies and please start seasoning those kids up for the victory barbecue.

“Deborah,” her sister-alien said, “we’ll have to call the authorities. They’ll take Jenny away from you. At least send her out to me.”

Right. Dinner mustn’t be late.

Her daughter Jenny sat next to her, face red, tears streaming down her face. Jenny looked at Deborah with such fear in her eyes. Deborah had told Jenny what was going on. She’d also told her what would have to happen if the aliens found them. Jenny struggled but didn’t make a sound as Deborah tightened her grip around Jenny’s neck. Finally she stopped struggling and her eyes closed.

It was in the eyes. The cold indifference, the mocking arrogance. These aliens no longer held doors for ladies or helped the elderly across the street. They disguised themselves as priests and diddled the children to destroy our faith. They formed gangs and shot innocent people. They waited on you in McDonald’s with a rudeness bordering on contempt. They screamed personal information into cell phones just to rack your nerves, keep you off balance. They filled music with sex and TV with violence so that their actions seemed normal, just and right. So humans would never see the invasion happening.

But she knew.

She had tried to warn her family for years. They wouldn’t listen. Made her see shrinks and take drugs that stifled her soul. Cassandra Complex indeed.

Now they knew the truth.

And it was too late.

She should have brought bullets.

She put the gun in her mouth and pulled the trigger.

“We have to do it just like the song says,” Jenny whined. Bobby wouldn’t play right and she was very frustrated. “It said ‘two eyes made out of coal,’ not ‘two eyes made from a button and a carrot.’”

She snatched the offending objects out of the snowman’s face and placed the pieces of charcoal in their places.

“Not gonna work no way,” Bobby grumbled. “It’s jus’ a stupid ol’ song.”

“It’ll work. Then Daddy will be jealous because he won’t play with us, but Frosty will play as long as we want to play.” She stepped back and studied (mainly) her handiwork.

The snowman was taller than her, so about five feet tall. Two coal eyes, one button nose, Daddy’s antique corncob pipe placed in the smiling mouth she’d made with one finger. She’d added fallen tree branches for arms. She shook off the notion that those skeletal limbs were reaching for her. She’d added a festive scarf, a Christmas gift from Granny. Only the finishing touch was left.

Bobby tried to place the old silk top hat they found in the attic on top of Frosty’s head.

“No!” Jenny shouted, snatching the hat away. “I’ll do it. You’ll only screw it up.”

“This is a stupid game anyway!” Bobby shouted. He stomped away heading for the house. “I’m gonna tell Dad that you won’t let me play!”

“Okay, Frosty,” Jenny whispered. “Time to wake up and play.” She placed the hat on Frosty’s head.

There must have been some magic in that
Old silk hat they found
For when they placed it on his head
He began to dance around.
Oh, Frosty the Snowman
Was alive as he could be…

Slowly, the frozen head turned to look at her. The coal eyes were menacing without the shine of life. The smile opened, revealing sharp icicle teeth. Déjà vu, Jenny thought as the skeletal limbs reached for her. So frozen with fear she was that, as the arms she placed on him pulled her forward, she couldn’t even scream when those icy razors pierced her throat.

The snowman tossed the girl’s body aside. He turned toward the house. And waited.

There was another child inside that had wanted to play.

As tradition dictated, she sat in a dark room on Hallowe’en gazing into the mirror. Either the face of her husband would appear or, if she were to die before marrying, a skull would appear. After a while, a face had appeared. The eyes were sunken, dark, closed as in death. No one could interpret the meaning.

Now, five years later, she understood as she stared at her husband’s decomposing face. After a week the stench was terrible. She couldn’t sleep next to him any longer. She should probably find someplace to bury him before her crime was discovered.

I’ve been blogging for a while. I’ve gotten sites to add my link to their blogroll. I add pictures, stories–yet I’ve failed in drawing in the number of viewers I’d like.

So I researched. What do you people like? Then it struck me–reality TV is big now. Add some audience interaction and watch those ratings soar!

It works for TV, it’ll work for my blog. Therefore, I will now be bringing you interactive reality every week. Here’s how you can be a part of it:

Everyone visiting my site is being tracked to determine where their IP signal is coming from. Once the actual address is pinned down, I will add it to the hat. Once a week I will pull an address, then I will visit the lucky winner.

I will, by any means necessary, remove one person (actual viewer, a family member, friend, co-worker, we just don’t know!) from that address. That person will be transported to a secret location. For the next week the captive will be subjected to the most vile and imaginative tortures available to me- all to be witnessed via live video feed by free viewers! Fridays will be execution day, and the captive’s body will be left for discovery and disposal by animals or whoever may come across the corpse.

It can’t fail!

Because someone out there thinks this is just another story. They will tell someone about this site and that someone will visit. Once the live feed starts, word will spread like a virus and more will log on, wanting to judge for themselves how real this is.

Everyone will play.

As you are reading this, you are being traced. Those reading this must realize that after this was posted, I could have added the first address, I may have even pulled the first address. I may have pulled your address. I may be outside your home right now, picking a lock, opening a window, slinking up your hallway, looking over your shoulder as you read this.

Your entry has been received. Thank you for playing and good luck!

Mother says it began when I was very young. I cried so much that she thought she’d go insane. At first, room-temperature milk seemed to calm me. Sometimes, still, it will do, as its taste is so close to that of blood.

When milk no longer worked she moved on to animals. She couldn’t kill them herself, being the sensitive woman she is. She discovered that I preferred them alive. Sure, dead they offered the nourishment of congealing blood, and life is still in the blood. But alive! Oh, the life force they contained! I remember as far back as a toddler, holding the kittens, puppies, frogs, birds, whatever Mother found. I remember feeling their terror, feeling their struggle as the life force left them and fed me. I remember the satisfied feeling once their bodies went limp in my arms and they became a part of me forever. Their screams and whimpers serve as my lullaby at night.

I remember the satisfied feeling of allowing Mother to join me in that same way. Now she’s always with me. She even speaks to me sometimes. Usually she’s not very nice. She doesn’t understand that, now that I’m an adult, smaller prey doesn’t satisfy the hunger. Sometimes she pleads with me not to hunt. She cries for those that will suffer eternal torment at my hands. She doesn’t understand that I am the way, the path to eternal life is within me.

Tonight she simply wails. She knows I will feed.

All of the stories we used to tell, all of the movies we used to watch told us to watch out for the darkness. Don’t go gentle into the good night. Death was succumbing to darkness. Every imaginable monster was heralded by the setting of the sun, the coming of darkness.

The darkness was mysterious. Dependent as we are upon sight, darkness was an enemy. Who could tell what awaited us in shadow, what traps were set, whose dripping fangs were set inches from our unguarded throats. In darkness, our eyes played tricks, our ears strained to compensate–picking up every mundane sound and turning it into a threat that approached on quiet cat feet to take us unawares.

Light was always the refuge. Got a vampire problem? Wait for sunlight! Poltergeists running wild? Direct them to the light! Rage-infected monkeys gotcha down, run toward some light!

Light was the answer–until September 30, 2006. I will never forget that date. That’s when the parasites took over.

There had been reports of this condition, but no one in the scientific community believed it existed, much less had a inkling of what it might do. Sufferers claimed that insects of some sort lived in their skin, causing itching. Scratching produced wounds from which red or blue fibers may protrude. When they sweat, a black foul smelling substance exuded from their pores. Yeah, sounds crazy, right?

That’s what everyone thought. Eventually reports of this phenomena faded, another “mysterious” illness invented by insane persons with a need for attention disappeared.
That’s what we thought.

It was waiting, hiding in broad daylight. Spreading through the sweat. Sure, sleeping with someone might spread it, if the sex were vigorous enough to produce sweat. But even a kiss, a hug, a handshake could spread it. Pets weren’t even safe.

Then, these parasites, they altered the personalities of the hosts. All of the infected suddenly became athletic sunbathers. Nighttime creatures roam the days–bats fly with bird flocks, nightcrawlers lie drying in the sun. That’s when the reports started again–but this time from people that witnessed the black substance. By the time anyone thought to investigate it was really much too late.

Eventually, the mutation started. All of the infected have a purple cast now. The red and blue fibers have grown in the place of normal body hair, for humans and animals alike. Their stench is everywhere. The smell of the sweat is awful, but combined with the smell of the festering open wounds caused by the scratching…

Apparently the DNA of these creatures has been altered also. It is no longer unusual to see human-like forms rutting in the streets with four-legged creatures like dogs in heat. Nor is it unusual to see mythical creatures, half-once-human, half-once-other-species roaming the streets. Most defy description. I guess the parasites, realizing survivors had gone into hiding, found this new way to propagate the species.

Most plants are black now. The fibers growing within them have destroyed the once beautiful green that covered our world. What few plants remain uninfected now serve as food for those few humans left.

If they see us, they charge. The infection spreads faster now, and they secrete on demand. Hordes converge on a single person, pinning him, leaking the black substance on him. He scratches uncontrollably within seconds; within minutes, he is one of them.

The cities were burned to create light at night. For a while they commanded both day and night, until the fuel source ran out. Now, there are no shelters for us against the sun.

Survivors seek shelter in caves and underground now. We hunt plant life at night. Any uninfected animal life has long ago been eaten. How long we have left is unknown as we devour the last of the uninfected food sources. Light has become our enemy now and without light, we can’t grow more.

We always believed we should fear the darkness. We were wrong.