MicroHorror

“Go to bed–now!” Mr. Wedgepilchard bellowed, in a great gust of frothy spittle.

“But that’s so unfair!” yelled young Darwin T. Wedgepilchard, hands planted on hips, eyes defiant. The gloomy main hall of Wedgepilchard Towers, with its lichen-covered ceiling and cold stone floor, echoed with the sound of stand-off. The huge flaming torches set into the slime-dribbling walls cast eerie shadows which danced like mocking demons.

The relief in Mr. Wedgepilchard was almost audible as the epic, oaken front door burst open, and in flounced Mrs. Wedgepilchard, cigarette dangling from blood-red lips, gnarled hands dripping with gold and clutching a bottle of firewater. “What’s up, honey?” she slurred, and punctuated the words with a burp.

“HIM!” screeched Mr Wegdepilchard.

“What’s he done, fluffy-buns?”

“Don’t call me that!” hyperventilated the rabid father, and stormed off through one of the many side doors.

Darwin smiled his sickly-sweet smile at Mumsy, and she held open her arms as he rushed up to her for a big hug. She stroked the boy’s snaky hair and cooed: “Now then, Darwin. What’s all this fuss about? Mmm? Tell Mumsy.”

“It’s Daddy. He won’t let me do anything! He says it’s bedtime!”

“Well, it is late, chicken-pie,” she simpered, and farted loudly.

“I just want to play with Granny, that’s all,” whimpered little D.

“Maybe tomorrow,” said Mrs. Wedgepilchard, firmly but gently. “After all, you have dug her up three times this week, already…”

The atmosphere between little Darwin T. Wedgepilchard and his father was strained. Wedgepilchard Sr. had prevented young Darwin from playing with Granny–again. He was just so unfair at times.

“You will not sulk your way through mealtime, young man!” screamed Daddy, so vigorously that his right eye blew out of its socket, to dangle tentatively upon his cheek on sticky tendrils.

Darwin wanted to laugh, but thought better of it.

“Damn and blast!” howled Mr. Wedgepilchard, staggering from the table to exit the room in an agonized huff.

Mrs. Wedgepilchard hawked a ball of phlegm, spat it high in the air, and caught it in her wine goblet, where it floated like a green iceberg in a red sea. This always made Darwin smile. And today was no exception.

“That’s better, bloopy-chops. Don’t be a grumpy old sausage.”

“I’m not,” moaned Darwin, resuming his pout, and stirring his beans around on his plate, listlessly.

“So–tell Mumsy what’s wrong?” she cajoled, slurping down her snotty drink, with a huge gulp.

“Well… You see, Mumsy… I don’t really like Uncle Ralph.”

“That’s okay, honey-peach,” Mrs. Wedgepilchard reassured. “Just leave him at the side of your plate. The dog can have him later.”

“R-R-Ruff!” ruffed Rupert, the crossbred Rottweiller/Great Dane, skidding along the unyielding flags on its ass, in a clear state of anguish and a soupçon of excitement.

“At last!” yippeed Darwin T. Wedgepilchard. “I can go out and play without horrible old Daddy bothering me!”

Mr. Wedgepilchard had inadvertently disemboweled himself with the potato peeler, and was this very moment trying to bundle his intestines back into the gaping, blood-gushing rent in his stomach, whilst Mrs. Wedgepilchard styled her pubic hair into a mohawk, with superglue and a salad fork.

Having picked up a few pals along the way, Darwin excitedly rapped upon the front door of the cottage at the edge of the forest. A plump lady, in a flour-stained apron, opened the door and gazed down at Darwin, a look of puzzlement flickering across her visage.

“Yes?…” she said, suspiciously.

“Hi. I’m Darwin, one of your son’s friends. Can Mikey come out to play baseball with us?”

“But, Darwin,” the obese mare patronized, “You know that Mikey has no arms and legs, since he played butchers and bakers with you.”

“S’okay,” Darwin cheerily chirped. “We just want to use him as third base…”

“Bastard!” simultaneously shouted the old woman and Mikey-at-the-bedroom-window.

Darwin turned away down the path, spreading his arms in a gesture of nonplussedness. “Some people!” he sighed.

They thought they’d tamed him. They guessed he was saddle-broke.

He took the first motherfucker with the smashed neck of a wine bottle, the godawful jagged edges slashing the bastard’s face, taking out an eye in the process, before raking open the jugular. Old asshole deserved it, farting the night away like a humanoid skunk, day after day.

Second one bought it with a biro, jammed hard into the ear canal, busting his hearing aid nice and good, so the fuckstick didn’t whine and whistle no more.

Third sucker choked on a domino. It was probably about the tenth one that old Joe rammed down his gullet that did the trick.

Latest one–the old prick had had an indecent fetish for housework–had fizzled and jiggled when his vacuum cleaner had somehow ended up in the bathtub with him.

Now old Joe has a new neighbor in the sheltered housing apartment block. This cat’s-turd plays his fucking violin into the godless hours.

As the superintendent mops old Joe’s brow, she pities the poor guy for his wretched paralyzed state. Still, she guesses he’s so doped up on drugs and shit that he just doesn’t register which planet he’s lying on. Probably best, as the cops are having zero success catching the psycho who’s taking out the residents, one by one…

If she would look just a little closer, she might see that flash in his eye. Just a little. But she doesn’t. Never does. And she turns away, oblivious as he clenches his hands into tightly balled fists.

And a smile ghosts his lips. Shit–she has a great ass!

As she closes the door, and the kingshit next door fiddles on, old Joe thinks of a hundred ways of rubbing somebody out with a violin bow. Within half an hour, the string player will have sawn his last tune.

Old Joe grins. Wide and toothy. And he raises himself up, stretching copiously, all pretense gone–the saddle thrown off one more time.

They hang; some in bunches, others alone. Umbilical cords connect them to maternal branches. The babies sway gently in the breeze. Sun bakes forest floor.

The infants gurgle happily.

Footsteps approach, in soft grass. The man salivates, eyes glazed. Animalistic.

Pauses; sniffs the air; reveals discoloured teeth; snarls. Bloodshot eyes swivel toward a dangling foetus cluster.

Unsheathes his knife.

The infants sense danger. Scream. Agonizingly.

He falls to his knees, knife dropped. Covers his ears, which bleed through his fingers.

Foetal leeches jump, cords elastic. Countless needled jaws affix themselves.

His death is slow torture.

They drain him, withdraw. Bloated.

His alabaster corpse lies stinking in the calescent sun.

They hang, swaying gently in the breeze.

Until the next feed.

Jacob awakes to an icy breeze. His dreams have been skittish, uneasy, dark. As always, the content of these begins to slip away almost as soon as his eyes flick open. Yet he vaguely remembers visions of black clouds, so close that he can almost touch them, and stomach-lurching heights.

He is in discomfort. The cold wind bites deep into his flesh.

Where is he?

How has he gotten here?

He feels like he could fall at any time. The last thing he remembers is being snug in his dressing gown, in front of the TV set. He was babysitting his kid-sister, Grace.

He peers around in the gloom. He sees the dark clouds now, and questions whether he is truly awake. The first drops of chill rain confirm his conscious state. He tries to rise. Something holds him fast. In the dull light provided by a masked moon, he faintly makes out a shape against the night sky. He is bound to this by the cord of his dressing gown.

Dizziness and nausea rush in on him as realization dawns. He looks down at a vertiginous void, leading to a gloomy patch of ground, punctuated by haphazardly spaced eminences.

Gravestones.

The breeze gusts anew and the rain starts to fall with a vengeance.

Grace begins to cry. Right in his ear. She cannot yet speak, but her moods are always clear. She’s frightened. She moves against his body. Twisting his head, he can see that she is in her harness, strapped to his back.

She yells now, in deep distress, and the soother falls from her lips, over his shoulder and down into the spiraling abyss of nothingness that leads to the hard, jagged ground; ground that beckons like an ethereal child abductor.

Lightning illuminates the scene momentarily, like a camera flash. Jacob clings to the stonework of the building upon which he is tied. In that instant, he sees that he is attached to the pinnacle of a gothic church spire. A hundred feet below, Jacob fancies that he sees things moving, dark and writhing, amongst the realm of the dead. Thunder growls, frighteningly close. Grace screams louder now.

Jacob is lost, doesn’t know what to do. No way down. No way up.

Stay put. Ride this one out!

His mind flicks back to the previous night; working the Ouija board with Lucy, his girl. She was convinced it was him that had flipped the glass in the air. Yeah, right, he knew it was her. Mom had gone berserk. Told him never to mess with the damn things.

“Open up a whole bad can of goddam worms! Summon up dangerous things, Jacob!”

Bull. Just a bit of fun. A laugh, right?

You can’t summon up shit with a painted bit of cardboard and a glass.

The thunder subsides. Grace quietens to a low whimper.

Jacob hears a new sound.

A hissing. Snake-like. Coming from above!

He turns red-streaked eyes to the sky, which bears the darkened image of an open mouth. A bestial mouth. It grows nearer, hissing loudly and hungrily.

Jacob shivers, from something other than the chill temperature. He twists and turns. Sees no way out.

A new sound joins the fray. A sliding noise. A slithering. From below. And it’s getting nearer. At the point where the church roof meets the spire, a strange tentacle-like appendage whips over, attaches itself to the base. Something squelches and slops as it proceeds relentlessly upwards.

Jacob’s heart hammers. Sweat, urine, tears mix with pouring rain.

He scrabbles up to the weathervane that spins madly; lacerates his hands as he grabs it. He stares, hypnotized at the looming maw in the broiling sky.

Something lashes at his back. He feels suddenly lighter.

Grace screeches and screeches. And with each pitiful screech, her sound diminishes; gets further and further away. Below. Amongst the slithering, writhing creatures.

Jacob’s mind breaks.

He howls like a wounded animal, as the jaws of the sky close in on him.