MicroHorror

She had met a man, a wonderful man… Too wonderful? Fate had a filthy sense of humor, life had taught her that much; another lesson was that its tricks were Russian dolls, always another hidden within and each uglier then the last.

He took her dancing and built up a self-esteem she had not even realized was broken because she was buried under its rubble. He introduced her to Thai food and a love of French New Wave. He was cultured and assured and then one night he told her he loved her.

The suspicion started soon after she moved in with him and learnt better his habits.

At first her trust had been so full that she had accepted the few days of each month she never heard from him, “taking care of business” he said, had adopted Japanese working practices that meant he immersed himself fully with barely recourse to food or sleep. When he came back hollowed of eye he would take her to bed, and their love making was a craze of hunger and silence.

Those few days each month… Some part of her asked how she could be so naïve. He was on a solitary drunk, or worse, there was Another. She chided herself, made logic of his fine words and assurance of his lust; but the heart takes the middle ground between the higher organ of the brain and the lower of the sex–one of reason, one of hunger–and held tight to its suspicions. It is in its most secret chamber a masochist, and wishes for harm.

When had she first become aware of what the papers said, and how long again before she reconciled the dates of slaughter with his Japanese business rites?

It was in autumn that she confronted him.

He barely made resistance; his love was true, and seeing the tears in her eyes broke the secret. He confessed to what he was, what breed of monster. She screamed, more tears, and they raged and sobbed long into the night until exhaustion lead to truce. He asked her, as a false dawn broke beneath the east, the question that the screaming and the tears and the shouting had tried to prevent being asked.

He asked her if she could… if she still loved him.

And God help her, she did.

He knew this day would come, and he went to the drawer that was locked in the room she rarely entered and returned with the gun.

He asked a second question.

It was nearly midnight again when she finally relented. He told her he loved her; she said she hated him, then pulled the trigger and proved her tongue a liar.

His affairs had been arranged that, come this day, he would leave behind no suspicion of foul play and she would be provided for. All she had to do was dispose of the corpse.

It was as she went about her grim task that the insanity which had plagued their final hours together took perverse grip on her. She laughed as she worked; laughed or howled, no telling which. The house, the private cinema and books on spicy cooking… No. She wanted more to remember him by. To have and to hold, those were the vows, yes?

What was left she hauled into the woods, to be scavenged and scattered by all of Nature’s host.

At that first gala without him she was the subject of many whispers. Only a few were about how she had been betrayed by him, how the coward would never show his face around town again. No. They were about her new clothes.

Somebody–drunk on vermouth and indignation–finally approached her and asked if she didn’t know that fur was murder?

She looked up at the full moon, briefly, before turning her eyes on the accuser. And told him it was not murder… it was mercy.

Hurrying down the boreen homewards under a harvest moon Finuncane wondered, how long until midnight? Tomorrow was samhain, when the worlds collided and the dead walked the land.

A stranger fell in with him, a dark figure on the country lane. Finuncane said howyeh but the other stayed silent.

And Finuncane thought he knew who walked with him.

Hoping for two birds from a single stone, Finuncane asked the stranger had he the time at all? And the stranger, in a voice from behind the sky, said it had just turned midnight when he left Hell.

Samhain. In Ireland that means barmbrack, sweet fruit bread slathered in butter. The children sat around the turf fire, giggling, said ta mammy as they each took a slice.

In the barmbrack there was always a rag meaning poverty, a coin meaning riches, and a ring for the one who’d marry within the year.

The babe got the coin, spat it out with a half smile; riches but no husband this year. The oldest got the rag, sulked.

The middle child smiled, ate quick for her prize. Too quick; she started to choke.

And outside a bean sidhe wailed.

The Hanged Man, the Fool, the five of cups, the five of swords, the ace of coins.

The Devil, the World, the Female Pope, the seven of wands, the nine of swords.

“Take it off,” he said, grinning.

“Sorry pal, Erebus hold ‘em rules, remember?” she said.

Damn. Aces wild. He sighed, and pulled the flesh from his skull.

Eternal life was promised. Desperate, he trusted them. He woke up in a box. He remembered.

When the lid opened he knew something was wrong. It was there in the faces he tried to focus on, vision blurred with the sleep of fake death. The smiles they smiled were crammed with fangs.

“Success,” said the first. “He lives.”

“What year is this?” he asked.

“World War III ended a decade ago,” said the second. “No-one won.”

The cryogenics lab was a mess. Corpses with frost on their eyes littered the floor. Previous attempts.

A vampire’s refrigerator.

She accepted the treat. She bit; in Eden, the first trick was played. Razors would have been kinder.