MicroHorror

Under the stairs–the cubbyhole, some would say; to my mum and I, it was the glory hole. In the old lamp’s dim, electrical glow in the must, full of glistening, silky webs and dramatic shadows, it was an Aladdin’s cave.

My mum in her youth was a dancing girl in pantomime, dressed in shiny, glittering materials to become a jewel, or a slave of the Lamp. With her stories she had me in her thrall, her memories mine–all her love pure magic, shared under the stairs.

Shiny trinkets and tinsel, not just at Christmas–decorating the dark–for bravery. Daring to pretend and live out our dreams in glory–outlived my genie with her light brown hair silvered. Her eyes dulled emeralds, ceasing to sparkle and twinkle. Years on, glistening–shimmering with tears.

Precious were her gifts (in that confined space) of her imagination and time, indelible in my mind, to hark back on. Angels and fairies in our grotto. Even a virgin sometimes appearing–to be quite happy in her naïveté–mother or child doing well; I never grew up, drew up to full lack of height. Blessing only little: under the stairs a tight fit. Risking concussion–for an adult, not much room for two–usually on my own in there, in most recent childhood memories. Little headroom, cluttered thoughts jumbled, voices of doom in my head hurting when raised–the way I was brought up.

All my toys crammed in, then dragged out. My little brother mad on Batman: needed a Batcave. He had a homemade costume, and little air. Door ajar–shutting mysteriously–me out–for revenge.

He played in there alone. Popular enough to be left on own, and not feel threatened. An independent man in the making. He pored over his glossy horror magazines in the gloom. Sometimes closing the door, putting off the lamp, having small, luminous plastic ghosts–free with breakfast cereal–glowing in the darkness of my jealous heart; a gleam, a contagious germ of a bad idea, I fear–not for fun–I did—well– sometimes I admit– no one else welcomed into lair. Outside looking in.

Years older, looking in. I am alone. My parents are in deep, black, confined places, rotting away. I am existing, not alive–rotten to the core. I hate myself: a brat, a whore. Went back to the old, abandoned home (by closing my eyes). Ideas of revenge building. Back to the wall, glory hole bricked in, when I still dare to dream.

My faint heart strong again and hammering, at the hidden doorway. Surprise in store. Bricks collapsing, dropping like heavy hints of madness. And inside, a child’s skeleton crucified. Not like Christ, but looking like Batman, with homemade cape spread like wings, in rotted tatters. My grey hair having dust in it, my skin covered in dust flaking.

The light filtering in, weak in the ancient, cracked mirror in the corner–putting me in my place: showing my brother’s face, tears streaming down mine–hard to believe–real feeling, tasting like blood. I lick my lips.

Never felt at home, was out of her element around deep water–and whenever the depression set in, felt morbid dread, or sheer terror when near it. Drowning in hidden, murky depths of despair, when distant. She had come back to the house canalside because her mother had just died (was yet to cry) and left it to her alone–there was nobody else.

Her little sister had drowned in the canal. She had been looking after her as they played–blamed herself. Their mother never forgave her. Being back here brought all the bad memories, the tragedy, back–dredged it all up.

In keeping with the dirty canal, the house was dank and damp. Walls weeping and sweating condensation, wood warped and rotten, stairs and floorboards unsafe. The house smelt stale and musty, was cramped and cluttered, full of mother’s teddies–ornaments and stuffed toys suffocated by dust. The house was old, shabby and neglected as was her mother, towards the end–not that she’d know, was never there.

Tonight the handyman/gardener was coming round for a meal. His father was rich–maybe he’d be her ticket out of here. It was still early; he’d gone home to shower and change, would be back before darkness fell, keeping it at bay.

She’d put the meat in the oven, left it to cook while she went upstairs to run a bath. She was interrupted by phone extension ringing in the bedroom. Answered it–was him: “Going to be a bit late.” On the phone a while, chatting and flirting. She sat on the bed clean and freshly made, an oasis in the grim, gloomy room. “Bye,” found herself smiling–first time in years.

She was about to enter the bathroom, when she heard the shrill, piercing beep beep of the smoke detector in the kitchen. The meat should have a while to go, but the oven, like herself, unreliable. Dashing to the rescue. Charging down the creaking, treacherous stairs, racing at breakneck speed into the kitchen. Slipping on water dripping down. Twisted as she fell, breaking her neck as she hit the wet, dirty lino. Temporarily numbed to pain by shock, lay staring from horrifyingly odd angle at the dripping, sagging, bulging ceiling, early life flashing by as if she were drowning. Happy times. Parents young, energetic and loving. Her sister and herself, secure and hopeful for the future. “O, my house!” she sobbed; for years it was no place like home–suddenly was.

Ceiling, bath and water coming down on her like a ton of bricks, for being careless, taps left on. Her whole world (for what it was worth) falling in on her. Ready to exit it for next. Kingdom–come–hell and high water. Lay dying in rubble, bathwater and blood. She had wet herself–was this to be her last act? Felt shame as well as pain. Her mother was here (or was it one final cruel trick of imagination?) stroking her cheek, whispering tenderly, “Never mind, chuck, accidents happen.” Mum holding her hand and squeezing it gently, “Time to let go… of the past.”

Remembering all the fun of the fair–the early years. Glorious summer sunshine–weather always seemed to be fair when they were there–loud music, bright colors, rattle and thrum of the rides, the excited chatter and laughter of small children, smell of hotdogs and onions frying–simple pleasures, simply being happy.

Holding hands of both her parents, between them swinging her, or daddy giving her a piggy-back. This part of the fairground for little children; small rides–not too adventurous. And little treats; sticky, pink candy floss rotting milk teeth–but oh so sweet!

She’d ride on the small roundabouts, little wooden cars or train cabins. Every time went round, and one of her parents came into view, she’d wave and they’d wave back. Like she could read their minds: “I’m not going anywhere.”

And her father would throw darts at playing cards, and win goldfish handed over in transparent, plastic bags of water, but once home they did not live long: nothing, no one did.

A hot, sultry afternoon, uncomfortable. Rock and hip hop blasting out from different rides as they passed. She was at the fair with her girlfriends, who were all yards of bare, tanned flesh and tattoos. She had something to prove: she was determined to go on one of the adult rides–first time. Big wheel turning, thunder and rumble of carts on rollercoaster, and shrieks of those who rode their luck. On “ride of lifetime>” Jerked–and spun–and flung about at speed. Brain rattled in skull–mouth full of vomit–swallowing. G-force dragging on her neck, dragging her head back. Teeth grit, face flattened stretched, pulled back, as if it was going to wrap round and meet at back of head. Stop! Please stop! Had to go right to end of the ride. Got off at last! Felt wobbly, sick and dizzy, head spinning, round and round.

Forced to make a speedy recovery, to keep up with the rest of the girls, who were debating whether or not to go back on ride, as they flirted with the roustabouts. Fortunately they agreed to move on. She followed.

Gathered round the entrance of the House of Mirrors. She was hit by a sick sense of dread. Dare not go in. The mirrors. No matter how distorted the truth, her true self would show through. She was seventy-two. One of the girls turned and swore at her, “Piss off, you old bag! Leave us alone!” So she did.

From her bed, watched the goldfish dying; it had jumped out of bowl, going slightly before its time. Could not bring herself to go to the rescue; thought of touching the fish, going near it, made her stomach squirm. Watched it gasp and wriggle on the carpet.

She got under the blankets, imagined her mum tucking her in. As a child, she had been terrified of her mother dying. “I’ll be around a good long time, and when I go, you’ll have a nice husband and children of your own.” Had had all that, but still fell apart when, in her fifties, had lost her. Lost her father in her twenties–still grieving for him now: tears rolling down her face. Felt as helpless as an infant orphan, despite her age.

Had taken a lot of pills and vodka–head swimming, going round and round like a fish in a glass bowl. Had she taken enough? Saw fish dead before closing her eyes.

Lay in bed, newly dead, going slightly before her time. A plastic bag over head, film clinging to her old, tired face, as if to keep it fresh: already well past sell-by date. Nobody to say goodbye to or to mourn. In this brave new world belonging to the young, was like a fish out of water. No longer a bereft daughter–life unfair, not a fun fair. Death was maybe just–enough. Had enough.

One of the filthy lowlife tenants in bedsit hell–13 Chichester Street–kept using the bath on her unhappy landing, and not cleaning it after him. Three bathrooms, one on each floor: hers the unlucky, mucky one.

She hated bathing at the best of times. No central heating, and water only lukewarm. Sink not big enough to wash her long lank hair in. Forced to do it kneeling in the tub, shivering in cold silence, unless cold enough to make her teeth chatter. Not on speaking terms with her boyfriend–her cellmate. Hated him sometimes, and herself all the time. To wash her hair she’d dip her head in the tepid water, out of her depth; her boyfriend shallow, she’d wallow in self-pity.

Naked and cold. Barely remembering joy of bath time back at her childhood home. Sharing the froth of Matey bubble bath with her little brother. Her legs left red and chapped, exposed in knee-length socks and her sixties mini-gymslip. Almost worth it–bath time, good clean family fun.

The mystery tenant, dirty devil. made the ordeal of water torture even worse. Hard to shift the filth of the bastard–who must work irregular shifts, because she never caught him out. For as long as she could keep her eyes open, was never aware of bathroom door opening or closing (no lock) nor the sound of water roaring, no splash, no gurgle.

The Arabs who shared her floor never seemed to wash at all (not showing, though)–or work at all, never working up a dirty sweat to leave the old cracked bath in such a disgusting state.

She had lived at No. 13 for weeks, not years. Knew none of her neighbors well, let alone love them–in biblical sense. Fancied one of the Arabs, though, who floated around in long, crisp white gowns, no smears, no sweat, no nasty smell. (Did he wash himself like a cat?) Clean. Clean. Surely not him leaving bath in such a mess.

She loved her partner. Well, she did before they moved to this godforsaken place. Made her ill: the thought of sex in the cold, damp bedsit. Sagging bed groaning in protest. Sex cold and over quickly–listening out for intruder in bathroom.

Last night of her life. Alone and drunk. Her lover had done a bunk. So, pissed off, she stripped off to wash away his disgusting seed seeping from her unclean cunt. Ignored the mess of short and curly hairs clinging with foam to the bath. She filled it and got in. Sharing tub with scum of the earth. Tidemark blacker and higher than ever. Moon full tonight.

Sinking into depression and water deeper than usual; dipping head under, both mouths swallowing the filth–surfacing gagging, being sick in the bath. Tried to envisage the creep that shed so much of his fur. Dreamt of a creature that was strong and powerful, and fearless as it growled and grunted. Its mighty leg muscles pumping–heart thumping. Thought she heard him pounding up the stairs as she lay helpless, head spinning. Imagined him jumping on top of her, water rising–displaced, forced over side of tub on to sweating lino. Imagined him jumping her bones, baring them with teeth, flooding her cunt with liquid blackness. Seemed she was to be disappointed, though.

Was all alone in the cold bath swimming with a film of filth: a horror story. What could be more frightening than boredom? Picked up a razor blade. Bit her lips, as it bit into her wrists. Thought she heard a howling when she threw the towel in: couldn’t be sure. Better sorry than safe, could take no more. Doing something positive at last. Gritting her teeth and biting the silver bullet, pulling the plug on life. Consciousness ebbing away. Hair clogging–dirty, secret dreams not going straight down the drain.

She was almost happy (up till the ultimate tragedy) that she didn’t have much to smile about; felt too self-conscious. Wanted to lay low, felt low for quite a while, was to sink even lower–had to face the public before she was ready.

Her father was to be cremated. What was the point of having an open coffin, for him to be laid out in all his glory, only to be consumed by fire–not talking about Hell–she was in it.

His hair and face waxed–apple rosy, rouged cheeks, tight-lipped smile unconvincing. Remembered his laughter, deep, hearty, throwing his head back and roaring. Had had a great sense of humor: “Your brother takes after him in that–always makes me laugh,” her mother said. The daughter thought, “I’m funny too!” but nobody seemed to have noticed.

She hovered by the coffin, wanted a keepsake: his ashes would be scattered in the garden of remembrance, no headstone, no plaque. Wanted something to remember him by; a lock of hair, perhaps… what? Mourners dotted round the room in tight, intimate knots–her stomach in knots.

Her mother was saying to those listening intently, sympathetically, that her son (her daughter as well, of course–an afterthought) was a huge help. Taking after his dad; caring, hard-working. Looked like, favored (son favored child–first born) his father. Had his curly hair, his eyes…

The daughter spun round from the coffin, opened her mouth, had taken out her recently acquired dentures and put her dad’s in. Flashing big (had job keeping them in) ill-fitting teeth–sick in the head.

“I have my father’s smile,” she lisped, mumbled, and tried to grin.

Smile and teeth slipping.

To me it was just a case of history repeating itself: innocence in both instances. Opening the big box by the tacky, artificial Xmas tree. Lifting the lid on true meaning of Christmas, religion no longer existing, like Santa, and my mother.

Inside the box, the BIG doll lying in a nest of pink and white tissue, with tinsel in her hair. Called her Mary (Mary–merry Christmas–get it? said Dad–dead now.)

A beautiful doll laid out in all her finery, frills and flounces, like a spoiled brat–all mine. When I lifted her perfectly formed though rather stiff body her eyes flew open, and she called me “Mama,” claiming me as her very own. She was a walking, talking miracle, whereas I was slow at doing both.

Growing–serious. Time to put aside toys for awhile, for a period of mourning–womanhood threatening. Mary lay neglected, in her box, buried in the cluttered spare room, and the past–and when I next came to see her, on verge of nostalgia and tears, she would not speak to me. Batteries’ deadly acid eroding in her back like rotting innards, a mess of brown blood, like mine. I did her talking for her, putting words in her mouth–expertly, in time.

Don’t know what all the fuss was about when I wanted to play with that other, BIGGER doll laid out in all her finery in the big box. The doll’s skin more waxy than Mary’s plastic skin, and less natural. Roses colored like waxed apples painted in her cheeks, lips scarlet–like violence. Fake flowers in her hair, the hair like nylon to the touch.

I tried to lift her, wanting to get her out of her box to play with me. She slumped forward, and draped herself heavily around my shoulders, as if she were pleased to see me, glad of my support. Weight almost having me over (again–and again). I managed to ease her back a bit, trying to look into her shut eyes. Her face all smeared. Lipstick and rouge looking like blood without the wet glistening. Pushed her, heaved her off me. Her heavy head lolling on its rubbery neck, and hanging at a strange angle. Had to let her lie–down, let go eventually; but for now I held her half in and half out of box, her ill-fitting place; as she leered at me I fell forward. This doll was not as well made as my Mary. This doll had big clumsy stitches in her throat. Managed to lay her uncomfortably down, not flat, hanging over the sides of the box.

The roomful of people, as one, seemed to hold its breath, as if peering over into an abyss of madness (theirs, not mine). In the deathly silence only the doll spoke. Mourners dropping like flies around the corpse, as I threw a scare into them, throwing my voice–of doom, betraying its maker.

Did as she was told (didn’t she always?). Put a small clock in a blanket, and put them both in the basket of the vulnerable, wonderful little puppy. “Won’t feel lonely then,” she was told (and so she believed). “It will think the ticking is its mother’s heart beating.”

Frightened of the beating, since her father died, the girl left to be by her mother frightened, not by what she did, but what she may never do again (the mother, I mean).

The girl listening all night, with her head on her mother’s breast, listening to the sound of her mother’s heart beating, praying it would not stop. The girl ready to burst into action if it did…

Somehow she drifted into dreams of death being no dreams, just dark oblivion. Waking with alarm: her clock not going off.

She panicked, her pulse and imagination racing. Smelling a sickly sweet odor, overlaid with a stench like her brother had created when making a bad-egg stink bomb years ago, for a prank, with his junior chemistry set. A stench of innocence corrupted. “Mum?… Mum?” She shook the body, a bag of cruel tricks splitting at the seams. “Mum!”

The woman’s sparse hair dry and dead, on the head. Lying next to a meaty mess oozing noxious gases and juices, stewed in. The flesh of the corpse–putrid, perished: the bones seeming to be eating it away. Flesh no longer molded to the bone, just moldering. Maggots feasting on it: breakfast in bed. Dead, then. The girl had slept longer than she thought. Hellhound baying at the door.

Only occasionally took the dirty washing to the launderette; usually his old lady–his live-in squeeze–did. But, by staggering his visits–his duties–could get chatting (up) to different girls. He loitered and lingered as their skimpy lingerie got wet: his washing done quickly–covertly–secreting underpants secretions and all into washing machine–eyeing up the talent–after a tumble when washing done.

Took more than one encounter to get into a particular little darling’s knickers–lily-white. Helping out his “official” girlfriend–three Thursdays in a row (after noisy violent rows) doing washing and (sorry, forgot your stuff again: a dead giveaway) getting nowhere with the young “virgin.”

It was hard: (wasn’t it just!) to win launderette girl’s trust. She was shy and retiring (too young), unemployed, as was he. Third week in a row, “bumping into each other”–saw notice on the door: a job was going in the launderette. The woman in charge (sullen bitch) striking it rich, winning the lottery–washing underwear beneath her. He knew (thought he did) the owner of the launderette–though their paths hadn’t crossed for a long time, but being to idle to go for the job himself–he gallantly let the little cracker apply.

She became manageress, but he still could not get her knickers off–flirting–backing off–flirting; going round in circles, like the washing machine–and dryer (than his longtime girlfriend–frigid probably)–blowing hot and cold. He stayed away for a few weeks.

Then one day it happened. Launderette empty of people, but for the two of them: had a bit of a snog. Took her for a drink or three at lunchtime. Came back, putting closed sign on the door. Tipsy; heads spinning round and round, though not like machines (being hot-red-blooded)–screwing up against them–thrumming and vibrating.

And how did his live-in lover discover–uncover–the truth? Probably from the launderette owner, the proprietor, who had steamy fantasies about the matronly woman with the big tits–and had attack of conscience–sense of propriety–telling on her lover–with age. She came anyway–in a rage, another day with a huge black bin bag of his (and selected items of own) doing dirty washing in public: sticking it under young bimbo”s nose, starting with his smelly socks. Message loud and clear. You may have done him a service–wash, but the wedding should have been mine–your romance, a washout.

Dangerous sex–sheet stiff with semen–skid marks in “Marks and Sparks” underpants. Sperm in frilly knickers. And more worryingly than double cross dressing, was his irate missus (in her early sixties at least) out of the bag, whipping boxers covered–soaked with blood: (fight and what else lost?)

Sound of something solid–hard–in with the washing–thudding: should have been washed separately–irate shrieking butcher woman, off her head, turning air blue–water and whites turning red.

Ants in her pants, after the push–the fall. Hitting head already spinning–swimming in gin: blackness. Ants invading the gap (hairy lips sticky and red and thick with raspberry jam, and something else) in (sex) education. Dead drunk, she lay on her back, legs splayed. Author’s thought for the day: do ants sting? or bite? or spray poison?–itch in knickers anyway–seven years after breaking mirror, breath on it visible, but foul–as open drains, as open graves.

Ants all over her: carpenters–fire-red ants camouflaged in her red drying essence–and some flying, in face of goddess. Ants under her skin, under lids–eyes unblinking (what did they see in her?)–everywhere: every crevice, crack and gaping, stinking corrupted hole. Cover blown (a right Charlie) nose–tissue, bloody-torn: hanky-manky-panky–even worse since habit kicked: him getting his some other way–boot in–coming to a sickening crunch.

Body dismantled. Prime cuts drying up: no desire to eat, going off the very idea. Left the bits scattered. Caressed the sliced off breasts: did nothing for him–small and saggy, no milk, no humanity after murder (pure) tipped off–trophies. Milk nor blood flowing: her tits (as in life) shriveled like a starving, native African mother’s–or a would-be, couldn’t-be rapist’s prick–made to feel inadequate. Him losing face, while the corpse’s snotty, stuck-up nose cut off, lost to spite, not running down the road, but marching (followed by toes and cut and puckered nipples) right under the policeman’s nose: a regimented black line filing by…

Case and old wounds–reopened.

Lying, feeling like death–not suicide, as yet, but death warmed up. Lying alone in summer’s almost unbearable closeness, on the dodgy sun-lounger, in the non-flowering garden. She was suffering two kinds of hangovers: her mouth furred and stale and parched after a night on the dry wine; the other her pre-menstrual belly hanging over her cheap bikini bottoms–slack and shapeless.

It was hard work sunbathing after a night on the village, and she was browned off with everything. Feeling gross and delicate at the same time. She heard, instead of listened to, shrill birds–busy, feathery little fuckers–and horny bees and wasps buzzing her.

She felt she could lie here forever sweating. Not because she enjoyed it, but because she couldn’t be bothered to move, to sit up and beg questions. Lying red-raw, feeling like death, cold-blooded maybe again.

Somewhere, she heard a fat, slimy frog croaking. It could be herself talking, her voice bound to crack, if she dared to utter–utter rubbish, like the rubbish she had fed to her last night, by the prince of a man, turned into an odious toad, after the French kissing. She had told him to crawl back under his rock–then hit him with one.

She planned–if she ever moved herself again–to build a rockery: him planted under it, with Love-Lies-Bleeding and Forget-Me-Nots decorating it. The only headstone he deserved: the one that stove his brain in. Had his number all right–and his name on it. Such is fate.