MicroHorror

Jamie couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have a girlfriend like Beth.

Her blond hair shone like silk, cascading across her pale shoulders. Her eyes shimmered like chips of tanzanite beneath delicate black lashes, reflected in the wan candlelight. Her slightly parted lips were red and full, unconsciously sensual and hinting at undisclosed pleasures yet to come.

Her neck was long and slender, as smooth as an alabaster column, and her arms lay like willowy branches by her side. Her hands, unadorned by anything as vulgar as jewelry, were small and slight, the fingers of each ending in immaculately manicured nails.

Jamie shifted his gaze from her hands up to her sweet, round breasts, noting the pleasing way that they swelled above her ribs. Her toned abdominal muscles were just visible through the translucent skin of her stomach and her beautiful legs seemed to stretch into an ecstatic infinity.

Hair, eyes and lips. Neck, arms and hands. Breasts, stomach and legs. Each was part of a perfect puzzle.

Jamie wiped the tears from his eyes with a hand that was spattered with blood.

He wondered how he would ever put her back together again.

You can tell a lot about a person from the way they take their tea.

My father is a clumsy man and refuses to dunk his biscuits, in case he should make a mess. My mother holds her cup in one hand, her pinky finger extended, to appear delicate and refined when, in truth, she is neither.

As for me, I always take my tea with my family. They haven’t moved for nearly three months and the smell is getting rather bad, but I still make them a fresh brew every morning.

I’m not sure what that says about me.

Coffin for sale. One previous owner.

It was the best of times.

No more war.

No more poverty.

No more famine, now that the dust clouds had dispersed.

A fat bluebottle, buzzing through the still air, landed clumsily on a scorched human cheek.

It was the best of times.

Jack opened his eyes.

He didn’t know how long he’d been out, only that his headache threatened to tear his skull apart. He closed his eyes, willing the pain away, and watched phantom lights dance against his eyelids. He remembered running–no, fleeing– from something huge, fast and hairy; he remembered tripping on something in the dark and then… nothing.

He reached out with one hand, feeling fresh soil and tree roots–some sort of natural depression in the forest floor. His blind fingers touched upon something else, something large and warm, with thick, coarse hairs.

In the darkness, something growled.

Two pairs of heavyset paws hauled their load over the steep incline. Standing on the lip of the pit, the beast’s breath billowed in clouds of stinking mist into the chill air. Its rough tongue lapped across its heavy muzzle, mopping up a thick layer of blood, blacker than the surrounding shadows.

A breeze whispered through the trees, carrying the scent of sweat and fear. The beast passed through dense foliage, a ghost flitting between the ancient trunks, and panted with effort. A wound in its hindquarters glistened raw and red, a single point of searing agony that radiated through its being in throbbing ringlets. The beast pressed on through the wood, forcing the pain away, tracking the last of the creatures.

The first had been dispatched immediately, its throat removed in a black cloud of rage and pain. For an instant–only an instant–the beast had frozen, facing its two remaining tormentors. The creatures were too far apart to risk leaping at either one and, besides, it had never seen them or their like before. They were thin and pale, lacking even the most rudimentary covering of fur to combat the cold and damp of the forest. Their skin was stranger still, comprised of ungainly flaps and folds of varying hues and textures.

No sooner had it taken in the strange appearance of these creatures than one of them had bolted for the tree line and the beast, driven by adrenaline and fury, had ploughed through the woods in hot pursuit. This second creature had fallen into a ditch that the overgrown forest floor had artfully disguised and the beast had swiftly moved in and taken its life, gorging itself on the creature’s warm, red flesh.

Now, pacing through its black domain, its muscles ached and its back legs roared their pain as it tracked the panic and fear coursing from the pores of the third creature. The beast had no perception of the need for revenge, but it understood the concept of territory well enough to know that its own had been invaded.

Suddenly, it stopped in its tracks. There had been a subtle change in the nature of its prey’s scent. The familiar odor of terror was still there, ripe and pungent, but now it was mingled with something akin to relief. More than that, the smell was no longer carried tight through the narrow channel of the trees but had expanded beyond the claustrophobic darkness.

The creature had broken free of the woods.

Springing forwards, the beast ran with renewed energy, tracking this new scent that blossomed within its nostrils. As it broke through the final layer of cover, the beast felt the cold air and driving rain whip across the length of its body, stinging its wounded hindquarters and forcing a guttural snarl from its lips.

The creature was high up in the branches of the nearest tree, although the beast sensed its presence before it saw it, perched there like some ungainly bird. The fear was palpable in the small clearing and was reflected in the creature’s eyes as the beast ambled slowly towards its nesting place. Placing both forelegs on the trunk, it walked up its length, extending its body until its claws snagged a thin branch just shy of its prey. The bough gave way beneath the weight of the beast, sending it tumbling to the ground.

Lowering its head, the beast pushed with its muscular forelegs, ramming hard into the slender trunk, getting nothing for its labors beyond an impressive swaying of the tree and a cry of alarm from the creature that sheltered within.

Afflicted by pain at both ends of its body, the beast snarled in frustration as the creature looked down, its eyes wide and staring. It circled the tree, confused and enraged, as the creature followed its every movement until it settled itself at the base of the trunk and stared up into the branches.

The beast waited.

A pair of heavily booted feet trod through the dark canopy of trees. Thomas was scared, almost beyond reason, as he inched his way through the claustrophobic blackness. He struggled to keep himself under control, aware that he was close to panic. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was covering the same patch of woodland in ever decreasing circles.

He told himself that he would be okay, as a whisper of wind flitted through the trees, mocking his optimism. His legs were numb and he felt the muscles tightening in his thighs, the survival instinct urging him to flee. He tried to calm his jittery nerves, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other, insisting that he was alive and well and that he would make it through.

The others had not been so lucky. He might live another eighty years, but he would not forget seeing Neil’s throat torn out with enough force to nearly decapitate him. He hadn’t run at once; he had been too stunned for that and not from seeing his best friend’s life ripped from his body. His mind hadn’t believed what his eyes were seeing.

They had taken it for a bear, escaped from a zoo and long since lost to the wild, or so the local story went. Jack had raised his shotgun and fired a round into the head of their slumbering prey, whilst Neil stood ready to capture the execution of the legendary Black Beast on his mobile phone. Jack was an excellent shot but a poor zoologist. The shell had hit the beast, but the roar of surprise and pain had come from the other end of the animal.

It had risen with a speed that belied its great size and removed Neil’s larynx with a single swipe of its paw. This was no bear; its snout was too long and its jaw too heavy. It had glared at its tormentors, thick saliva pooling around malformed teeth and had uttered a chilling howl from deep inside its throat.

Jack had dropped his gun and immediately ran for the woods. The beast had launched itself with powerful hind legs and taken off in pursuit. Thomas had run in the opposite direction, feet digging into the sodden earth as his heart pounded in his chest. After a time he had no way of measuring, he heard a terrible, desperate scream in the distance and suspected he would not be seeing either friend again.

He had forced himself to slow down and suddenly, the woods were filled with muffled sounds of pursuit. He couldn’t see more than a few inches in front of his face as he paced his way carefully through the undergrowth and around the treacherous tree roots, until the forest thinned out, gently melting into a small clearing.

The relief he felt was short-lived, as he heard the heavy pad of feet approaching at speed. This time, he trusted those instincts buried in his twitching legs and ran towards a sturdy-looking tree. He pulled himself three feet from the ground, then six, then nine. As he tried to reach the next branch, his hand slipped on the wet wood, nearly tipping him to the floor and he decided to stay put.

The beast was a sight to behold as it entered the clearing. Heavily set and thickly muzzled, layers of muscle rolled sinuously beneath its shaggy hide. An angry wound on its hindquarters glistened in the pale light and was mirrored by the thick red smear across its dripping jaws. As it strode across the open ground, methodically and with purpose, Thomas was suddenly aware of three certainties.

He had been certain there was no Black Beast.

He had been certain that a shotgun would deal with anything he met in the woods.

He was certain that beasts couldn’t climb trees…

18th October 1916
Picardi, France

Dear Mum,

I’m sorry it’s been so long since my last letter, but I really haven’t had the time to write. All the boys say thanks for the biscuits you sent me–we had them with a cup of tea and they all said how they were the best biscuits they’ve had since leaving Blighty, so well done mum!

I’m on watch duty tonight and Corporal Jenkins is filling in this month’s munitions order in the dug-out, which means I’ve got both time and light to write to you. I know you must be worried about me, but everyone reckons it will be all over by Christmas and we’ll be on our way home. Won’t that be nice? Christmas back home with you, dad and Emily–I can almost taste that turkey!

There aren’t so many of us left as the last time I wrote. Not many came back from the last charge… well… we’re not really sure what happened to the others. Sergeant Parker says they deserted and I’m sure he knows what he’s talking about, but where would they go? One of the boys says Davenport hauled himself over the top of the trench one night and walked off across the mud, as bold as you like and disappeared into the dark.

I’m scared. I shouldn’t say it, but I am, because I’ve seen it–seen something out there in No Man’s Land–a shadow that’s darker than the night. You’ll think I’m being silly, but it’s true. I saw it last night and the night before, something so black that it blots out the moon and the stars. It dances out there in the churned mud and dirt, as thin as a sliver one minute, then wide enough to eat the sky the next.

That’s not all, mum. It speaks to me, I’m sure it does. When I’m out here, waiting for the dawn to come, I can hear a voice in the dark. It’s low and sweet and gentle, so quiet that I can barely make out the words, yet I can hear it over the howling wind as clear as church bells.

It’s calling me, telling me to rise from my post and climb over the top of the trench. There’s nothing to be afraid of, it says, the guns won’t get me while I’m dancing. I can’t make out the words; I just know that’s what it wants me to do. It sounds so lonely, like it’s seen some terrible sadness.

The shadow is moving again; closer than the last couple of nights. It’s so dark and cold, that I can barely keep my fingers from shaking. It’s coming closer, weaving in and out of the barbed wire, twisting and turning as though it’s trying to move in a hundred different directions at once.

I’m trying to be brave and I’m trying to do my duty, but I can’t take my eyes off it. That voice is in my ear again, telling me to join in the dance, just like Davenport and all the others. I don’t want to go, but it doesn’t feel like a request, more like a prediction.

I’ll have to stop writing now; I can see Jenkins blowing on the ink of his report and I suppose he’ll be putting out the lamp and retiring for the night. Don’t worry mum, I won’t be on my own. All the boys are with me, all those boys that went out and danced, knowing that they’d be safe from the bombs, the blood and the madness.

It’s moving closer, now; I can see it stark and black against the sky. Soon the light will go out and I won’t be able to see it any more, but it will be there, dancing through the valley of Death.

I love you mum. I love dad and I love Emily too.

I’m not scared any more.

Your loving son,

David.