MicroHorror

Little ghouls and goblins, eyes glowing in the night, knocking on doors and prowling alleyways. Creatures looking for tasty treats or a trick to play. Don’t come to the door empty-handed. Best not to come at all.

Scurrying around the countryside until the break of day, tiny claws and fangs dripping red. Only gourds, carefully carved into lanterns, and food offerings can hope to bar their passage.

Hide your children in the cellar and your wife behind the locked bedroom door. The Good Book has no power here. They know your time will come.

The placard out front read: Second Skin Tailoring: For the man who wants to feel good and look right. It was after ten in the evening and this was the only shop window still lit on the narrow, rain-soaked street.

The clerk inside looked up as a blast of cold, damp air entered the building along with a figure in a trench coat and broad-brimmed hat. “Good evening,” he called before returning to the balance sheets on his desk.

The figure moved in and out of the display racks, slowly hovering along the floor like fog. It perused the looks of city officials and policemen, dancers and would-be debutantes. Finally stopping in front of a simple accountant.

“Not particularly flashy,” the clerk said as he walked up behind the customer. “But I imagine you could blend in just about anywhere in this.”

Though he could not see the customer’s face beneath the upturned collar and wide hat brim, he could feel the malevolent grin as it oozed out with the rainwater in small puddles on the floor.

“Of course,” he added quickly, “we’ll take care of any cleaning as well as tailoring at no extra charge.”

The customer silently offered his arm and, with that, the clerk began peeling off the trench coat so he could get at the shirt and skin beneath and begin his real work. Meanwhile, the accountant stared back, silent, in wide-eyed horror.

The needle sends a syrup of dark fire scouring through the walls of my veins making them rubbery and limp like boiled, blue-green pasta. Memories toss wild and random before breaking apart against my skull in bursts of orange and electric yellow. Traffic noise and a shrill baby’s cry fade away beneath me as shackles of disappointment and failure turn to the powdery rust of might-have-beens. Unfettered, I pursue Alice as she races down the rabbit hole to a sunless, pauper’s grave.

I hired the man just before leaving for Florida. He was recommended by a friend. I had my reservations when he pulled up in a Ford F150 pickup, right taillight missing, windshield cracked and badly in need of a wash. However, my friend had said he was the best so I invited him in.

We toured the greenhouse, discussed his knowledge of exotic plants and went over his fees.

He assured me of his qualifications but I felt I was missing something. I handed him the greenhouse key and the pass-card to the front gate anyway, letting my doubts dissipate like the cloud of carbon dioxide from his muffler as it left my drive. I had a plane to catch and business to conclude.

Standing in the greenhouse this morning, I wished I’d been more thorough. I knew there was trouble when I saw the F150 parked in the rear of the drive. The greenhouse door was open and several pots were broken on the floor. His Oakland Raiders cap lay near a coil of bloated, grayish pink roots, their texture that of hairless, newborn rats. One shredded knee-high rubber boot lay just beyond it. There would be some explaining to do. I wonder if my friend knows a good cleaner. Good help is so hard to find.

He stared into the mirror tilting his head up, then right, then left. The skin on his jaw was a little tight and there were too many lines now at the corner of his mouth. Some sagging under the cheek bones was occurring as well. His jaw clenched briefly. This just wouldn’t do.

“It might be time for a makeover, Mr. Bellson,” he said to the face staring back at him.

He opened a drawer under the vanity and halfheartedly fingered through the dozens of bottles of gels and creams. Lotions for dry skin. Treatments for wrinkles and sun spots. Skin tone, revitalizing pastes and every manner of foundation and highlighter.

None of them would do him any good. This was the part he hated.

He removed the sandy brown hairpiece and placed it carefully on a metal tree behind the toilet. Reaching into the back of the drawer, he pulled out a box of latex gloves. Starting at his jaw line he began to feel for the seam. Slowly, as if uncrimping the edges of a pie crust, he began to loosen the skin and roll it back. His fingers worked deliberately, kneading then peeling the flesh over cheeks and brow and finally his forehead, until he was able to pull the last of it back from the skull like a hood.

He glanced briefly at the limp mask of flesh before casting it into the plastic-lined garbage pail below the sink. The whites of his eyes had an unearthly glow against the red and pink striated muscles twitching on his face. With a sigh, he turned around and bent down to the small refrigerator behind him. He opened it and looked inside. Carefully smoothed out on a manikin head was an unblemished, pale-skinned face. He reached inside to remove it from its perch.

“Hello, Mr. Reggante,” he whispered as it slipped into his spidery fingers.

A roar like an incoming tidal wave broke forth from the television before crashing over the sofa and reverberating against the walls. Martin ran in, cutting knife in one hand and a carrot in the other.

“Awww, man!” he exclaimed. “The Spurs just hit a three-pointer with fifteen seconds left to go.”

He sulked back into the narrow kitchen. He couldn’t believe he had spent the afternoon making salads, vegetarian appetizers and homemade Bloody Mary mix. Not that he had anything against food, but the Spurs and the Mavericks were on. Game six and possible elimination for the Mavs. He should be sitting on the sofa with a beer in one hand and some hot wings in the other.

“But nooooo,” he muttered to himself. The things he found himself doing for this woman.

Martin shook his head and placed the carrot back on the cutting board before glancing over at her. He admired her long, lightly tanned legs as they disappeared into her snug fitting shorts. He stroked the curve of her back and long neck with his eyes.

“How’s it coming over there?” she asked in a husky voice that bore the faintest hint of a lisp.

“Just fine, sweetness,” Martin replied. “The Spurs have erased a twelve-point lead and are on the verge of eliminating the Mavericks, but I’ve got things covered here.”

“Good,” she said, seemingly oblivious to his attempt at sarcasm. “You know I appreciate all the help with dinner.”

“Yes, dear,” he said, feeling mildly perturbed.

“You’re not nervous about meeting the family are you?” she replied.

“Of course not,” Martin lied.

In truth he had been obsessing about it for a week and a half. He certainly loved being with this woman but they had only been dating for about six months. It seemed as if things were moving a bit quickly. Not that he didn’t enjoy clubbing with her or catching a movie. And the sex, well, the sex was out of this world.

The positions she could assume, he thought, as the knife slipped and shot a carrot piece across the counter.

“Careful over there,” she said.

Martin’s face reddened as he finished slicing the carrot and grabbed for another. She was a wonderful woman. But was he ready to settle down, meet the family and buy a house?

“So when are we going to get the meat going?” he said.

“Already taken care of,” she replied, tossing the salad with some oil and spices.

“Really?” he replied. “I don’t think the broiler’s turned on.”

“That’s not a problem,” she said, turning towards him. “We like our meat on the rare side.”

“Well, that’s good,” Martin chuckled as he looked through the kitchen to the clock on the living room wall. “They’ll be here in less than an hour.”

“Yes, they will,” she replied with a hiss.

Martin started to turn as she stepped towards him. The muscles in her back bunched for a micro second and then burst forward as the vertebrae in her neck and back shot forward. Her full lips slapped wetly against his neck as two fangs broke through the roof of her mouth behind her canines. They sunk into his throat and her blood and venom pumped into his veins.

Martin struggled, eyes wide with surprise and horror as her arms and legs wrapped around him. His limbs felt heavy and his breathing grew shallow. He tried to form words but couldn’t focus. Her eyes bored into him, hypnotically, as she lowered his paralyzed form to the ground. A single tear escaped his unblinking eye as his brain processed its final conscious image.

Two beautifully shaped almond eyes with long dark lashes and slit, black irises.

“I just don’t know what you want me to do,” Keith said as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

A warm breeze was coming in through the kitchen window. It was going to be hot. A fly was walking along the edge of the sugar bowl and he swished his hand casually over the rim, causing it to move off.

“I said I was sorry. I wish I could change things but I can’t.”

He glanced back over his shoulder before scooping a spoonful of sugar into his cup. Maggie was sitting at the table, back to him, her shoulders hunched forward. She had been like this for days. First the anger, then the crying and now the unending silence. He knew she blamed him for them being trapped out here.

“I never thought things would get this far out of hand,” he continued. “I was sure things would be all right. I mean who would have thought that things would have got this crazy?”

The refrigerator hummed along but there was no other reply.

“Come on, Maggie,” he said. “You can’t stay mad at me forever. Things will get better. There haven’t even been any news reports for days. That must be a good sign. The authorities are probably already getting things under control. Maybe later today we can take a drive to Webber and see for ourselves.”

Keith walked by the table and gave a short smile as he headed to the seat across from Maggie.

The side of her face was covered by long strands of auburn-colored hair, hanging down as she seemed to focus on a spot on the table top just in front of her.

“You know you are the most important thing in the world to me,” Keith said as he pulled the chair out from the table and sat down. Three flies lifted off the table top as it shifted with his movement. “Whatever happens, I’ll always be doing my best for you.”

Keith took a sip of coffee and looked at Maggie. Her mouth was open as if to speak.

He smiled, waiting.

A fly crawled across her milky white, unblinking eye.

The refrigerator hummed its unbroken diatribe.

Keith’s brow furrowed and then he took another slow sip of his coffee. Maybe tomorrow. She just needed a little more time. She couldn’t stay angry forever.