MicroHorror

Twelve people surrounded Liz as she lay barely conscious on the wooden table. With legs spread wide, she firmly squeezed the hand of her beloved husband Jim. The pain of childbirth was excruciating, yet so very familiar.

Pushing harder still, Liz suddenly felt blissful release. Her child’s first cry made her smile, and Jim grinned as the surgical scissors were handed to him.

“Would you care to cut the cord?”

“But aren’t we forgetting something?”

“…Ah, yes, of course.”

Bowing their heads beneath dark hooded robes, the group joined hands for the Thanksgiving Chant. Although too weak to stand, Liz proudly joined in the circle of hands.

“Bless us Old One, and this Thy Gift, of which we are about to Partake.”

The streets of downtown Chicago were bustling with activity in spite of light snow and a chilling wind. The day before Christmas always filled the sidewalks with last-minute shoppers, battling for the best sales. Charles smiled as he walked north on Hyde Street, pausing to drop a ten-dollar bill into the outstretched hat of a grizzled panhandler.

“Bless you, sir,” he beamed at Charles. “Merry Christmas to you.”

“And Merry Christmas to you, friend,” Charles said. The stench of filth and liquor was overpowering, and his mission seemed more clear than ever before. The grocery sack in his arms was growing heavier by the second, but Charles could see his destination. Just ahead stood the massive stone arch marking the main entrance to Hyde Park. It was nearly dusk, but the carved lettering was still visible through wispy swirls of blowing snow. The park was five acres of landscaped woodlands pulled out from the surrounding urban blight. A big central fountain sprayed water skyward during the summer months, and walking paths paved with burnished brick meandered through the woods.

As Charles entered the park, he began to spot the residents. Some slept on wrought iron benches, while others milled about aimlessly. Fires glowed where the picnic grounds were being used as makeshift shelters. Originally planned as urban renewal, this had become a colony for those who’d hit rock bottom. Given the dim twilight, he was reminded of a scene from one of George Romero’s movies.

Not wanting to stay past nightfall, Charles nestled his grocery sack beneath a small group of bushes. It was slightly hidden, but would be quickly found in these woods. Opening the bag, he took one last look inside; a loaf of French bread, half a wheel of cheddar cheese, and a fully cooked ham. The large vodka jug would finish things nicely–Christmas was coming to Hyde Park in a big way this year.

Charles hailed a cab several blocks away. Once back at his hotel, he dropped his heavy wool coat. Turning on the television, he poured himself a stiff drink from the distilled water bottle next to his bed. Ironically, the local news was showing footage of the homeless being fed like feral cats at a charity function. The anchor was saying something about the grace of God.

“How fucking touching,” Charles smirked. “God bless us, everyone.”

Grabbing the water bottle, he poured another drink. This vodka was lousy, but not nearly as bad as the mix he’d left behind in Hyde Park: toxic wood alcohol and distilled water, neatly disguised in a cheap vodka bottle.

Those who drank his Christmas Cheer would get far more than drunk. The “hangover” from methanol poisoning ranged from slow, cramping death to total madness. If a person survived, they could always count on permanent blindness.

Not too many had to worry about that part, though.

Breathing slowly and evenly beneath his surgical mask, Roger slid the stainless steel blade along the malignant tissue mass. Fibrous but small, it was diabolically nestled inside the left frontal lobe of Ann’s brain. Having been deemed inoperable by virtually all other specialists, it was a death sentence, something which simply wouldn’t do.

Working through the two-inch square of removed skullcap was tricky, but strong lighting and magnification revealed the condition. If he could slip precisely behind the tumor, with steady hands it could be safely extracted.

Ann was blissfully unconscious, with her head clamped firmly in place. Taking a deep breath, Roger started cutting. At that moment, her eyes snapped open, and she was screaming at the top of her lungs.

Lurching away from the workbench, Roger fell backwards into a large crate filled with clattering lawnmower parts. Biting down on his own clenched fist, he watched Ann twitching, arching her back before dropping lifelessly onto the bench.

Although her head was still held firmly in the bench vise, Ann’s flesh had been ravaged by the violent seizure. Blood pooling around the vise was finding its way down the workbench legs.

As he lay there, still dumbfounded and surrounded by lawnmower parts, a random thought crossed his mind: perhaps small engine repair really wasn’t brain surgery.

After running headlong through the tangled forest for what seemed like an eternity, Alana could still hear the jeering cries of her pursuers. Struggling for breath, with her muscles starting to seize, she wasn’t sure how much longer she could last.

They’d come from nowhere, weirdly tall creatures, mottled in color, screaming strange, unintelligible sounds. She could hear them still, closing in as she tripped on a vine, tumbling to the ground.

When she arose, the creatures had her surrounded. She heard one loud popping sound followed by many more, as the world grew slowly black and her lifeblood ebbed away.

Lost for words, the puzzled hunters, both dressed in camouflage, stared down at the kill. It seemed insect-like but nearly six feet long. Along each side of the body ran several pairs of spiked, segmented legs. Almost translucent, the large head held a large brain-like structure, and seven obsidian black orbs.

“What the hell is that thing, Jake?”

“I don’t rightly know,” he said, “but it’s dead now.”

The piercing shriek from upstairs came without warning, and sent Ben’s Scotch glass tumbling to the floor in the downstairs study. What the hell could’ve happened now?

“Steven!” he shouted, bolting up the staircase, “Steven! What’s wrong?” As he reached the bedroom door, Steven’s sobbing moans sent shivers down his spine.

“Steven?” Ben slowly opened the door. Inside the dimly lit room, his son was curled into a fetal position at the end of the bed, rocking back and forth. His eyes were vacant and dark.

“…Dad,” he said, convulsing with a shiver, “It was that horrible thing again.”

“It was a dream.” Ben sat down calmly. “Steven, look at me.” The boy timidly met Ben’s eyes. “You know it was just another nightmare,” Ben said.

“I know, Dad,” he almost whispered, “but it seems so real, and it’s always the same. That thing comes right through the wall, and it’s got no real mouth, but I can still hear it talking inside my head. It’s coming to take me, and starts creeping closer, staring with all those crazy red eyes!”

“Steven,” Ben tried to calm the boy, “please.”

“And it will get me really soon!” Steven spiraled out of control, his shaky voice getting louder by the minute, “It smells like death,” he buried his face in his hands, “and when it coils those slimy tentacles around my body, I wish it would just kill me!” He started to sob again, and then suddenly grew very still. His empty eyes seemed to focus someplace far beyond the walls of the room.

“Steven.” Ben got no response. “Steven, please…”

Quietly hugging his son, he wasn’t sure what to do. The nightmares had started about a month after moving into the old Victorian house. The place had been a hell of a bargain, even though it needed work. It still stood tall, but the surrounding woods had been busily reclaiming the land. For whatever reason, the mansion had been boarded up and abandoned nearly seventy-five years ago.

After running across an advertisement in the L.A. Times, Ben had been able to buy the ancient estate for a song. After negotiations, and finally traveling to Kentucky, a deal had been struck with the last family survivor. The old man was strange, but more than ready to deal. After his older brother had passed, the will forced him to sell, but legally disallowed an auction. Family history, as Ben found out, was a taboo subject. Within a month, he and Steven had relocated from the west coast to the woods of Kentucky. It had been a year since losing his wife to cancer, but neither Ben nor his son had recovered. Ben arranged to work online from his newly acquired country home, and it seemed like a change that could do them both good.

Not long after finding the hidden room in the cellar, the troubles began. Ben had uncovered a strange library of antiquated papers. The writings were arcane, filled with incomprehensible text and odd symbols. A stench filled the air, which was much cooler than the rest of the musty atmosphere. Feeling the hairs rise on his neck, Ben had slammed the door and trotted upstairs. He’d never told Steven.

“Tell you what,” Ben said, moving his son back into bed. “You try and get some rest, and I’ll sit up with you.”

“You will?” he asked, clearly relieved.

“Yep.” Ben sank into the high-backed chair in the corner. “We’ll even leave the lights turned on.”

“Thanks.” The boy settled back into covers.

“Good night.” Ben was exhausted, and soon drifted into a fitful sleep. Time seemed to swirl aimlessly about him, no longer relevant while bizarre visions began to form. Totally alien landscapes, and creatures that defied imagination filled his mind, revealing images of impossibly ancient worlds.

Suddenly choked by the sickly smell of death, Ben screamed when he awoke to find himself face to face with his new visitor.