MicroHorror

The last thing you see is a flash of white as the man’s coat sleeve brushes over your face. He is saying something, but it is difficult to make out his words over the clanging din of the machines to your left and your right.

You thought nothing could get worse and then it did.

The mesh wire mask was warm, heated so it would be more pliable, when a pair of hands pressed it down onto your face. The heat and pressure felt almost comforting at first, until you could feel tiny circles of skin being pushed up between the circled spaces created by the mesh. It has made a mask, one of metal, which has cooled and hardened, perfectly matching your features.

It is this mask that has been placed back over your face, the sides bolted to the table. If the cold, hard table you are laying on does not make you uncomfortable, then the immobility will. You cannot turn your head, nor lift yourself up. You have full control of your limbs, though the thought does nothing to placate your nerves or calm that growing pit in your stomach. You would sit up, slide sideways off this table, if you could only move your head.

A woman walks into the room. At least you think it is a woman, judging by the clack of heeled shoes on linoleum and the hand that touches yours. All you can see is her arm–another white-clad arm–but this one is smaller, more slender and delicate than the first. She works quickly, buckling padded leather restraints on your wrists; then she moves to your ankles.

Once you are strapped down completely, she tugs on the shackles to make sure they will hold. They do.

In an act of almost pure instinct, you begin to push against the leather strips that are holding you back. You don’t get far.

Now the panic within your belly is rising. It is hot and burning and thick as it comes up your throat and coats your mouth. Your heart is beating quickly, almost out of time with anything else, and you feel all at once heavy and light-headed, as if you might float right off the table, high above this place, and then plummet back down to earth.

You close your eyes and tell yourself to take a few deep breaths. Now is not the time to lose your grip on reality.

The metal mask is feeling wet, humid from your hot breath or maybe moist from your sweat. You can feel a drop of sweat forming between your eyes. It is growing corpulent and slowly begins to slide down the bridge of your nose. It itches, and you try to turn your head just an inch, just a centimeter, to dislodge it and maybe find relief, but you cannot.

The lights in the room go out, and you know it is about to begin.

It is so easy.

Quite possibly the perfect crime–untraceable.

It is unimaginable that no one thought of it sooner. Then again, maybe someone had. That’s exactly it. No one would know.

How could they?

After all, no one pays attention to those stupid tags anyway. Not even the owner–not after they scratched out their name and address in neat block letters and attached it to their suitcase. By the time they board the plane, they had all but forgotten that tiny little tag.

And when it’s gone, it is a rare few who even notice.

And those that do? Fueled by a devil-may-care attitude brought upon by a week or two of piña coladas on the beach, most shrug off the event without a second thought. Must have been lost in transit, right? Caught up in one of those baggage belts. And who would ever think of reporting something as insignificant as a luggage tag to lost and found?

It’s only a piece of paper with all the information I need.

Names, addresses. Sometimes phone numbers. Even e-mail addresses. Everything I need to begin my work.

The bags I want are usually easy to spot. Sleek silver cases. Turquoise duffels on wheels. Once I got one that was pink with white polka dots. The best are the black ones, though. Black ones with pretty little bows tied to the handles to make them easier to see.

Of course, it isn’t the baggage I want.

Just a quick look at the tag.

Take this one, for instance.

Ginger Kampe.

Female, always good.

And single, by the looks of it. The married ones always like to write names in pairs, like “Tom and Ginger Kampe.” Or “The Kampe Family.”

And she most likely lives alone. See the address? It says “Apt. P-23.”

Most likely a big apartment complex, full of singles.

Of course, she could always have a roommate. But that is easily discovered. I like to watch before I act. Build up anticipation beforehand.

And roommates will eventually leave. They always do.

That is when I can get to work.

I always go in at night. Everyone’s asleep. Usually they don’t even see me, even when I’m standing right next to their bed.

Ginger only sees me for a split second, just long enough for me to put the needle in her arm.

My work seems to be done before it even begins. A little snip here, a cut there. A pound of flesh taken, blood and sweat spilled, mingling in one stream on the floor.

I hold on to the luggage tag for as long as I can. I’d like to keep it, a memento of our time together, but I know better than that.

As I lower her body into the ground, close to the others, I hang the tag around her big toe. Throw in about six feet of dirt and this one is gone–but not forgotten. Her memory will keep me satisfied for a while.

At least, until the next vacation season.

She stretched her body along the length of the plush bed, thick and heavy with silk sheets, newly feathered pillows, and the finest tapestry from the Orient. The small man with the black mustache had protested at first, that mewing little fool, desiring only bedding woven here in the Vaterland. Lilith had gotten her way in the end, of course. How she despised the coarse linens of this coarse county, with its guttural, sputtering, spit-flying language. He was so easy at times. One alluring glance, the look of her eyes as she cast them up at him through her eyelashes, coyly, seductively, the shape of her hips as she rolled them in his direction… and he was hers.

Still, she did like it here. The ease of her life–no more creeping in the dark recesses of the forest, stalking her sustenance like no more than an animal. Here, she was brought the finest and purest of lifeblood, served to her in a chalice of gold.

She drank the iron-red liquid slowly, letting the warmth roll over her tongue. This was a good year, young, still tasting of mother’s milk. This one must have been born only a year or two ago, 1942, 1943 perhaps? A deliciously decadent vintage. She stretched out again, examining her visage in the mirror, her reflection changing in the looking glass for the briefest of moments–first, a woman’s round and supple legs, then a serpent’s inky black tail, and finally legs once more.

The Führer paced up and down the room, his gait keeping a staccato rhythm. He slicked his coal hair down against his forehead. He knew the end was coming, as well as she. He stopped, casting a sidelong glance her way. She smiled in response, lazily licking her tongue across her lips.

She would hate to give this up, yet she knew she must move on–and so would he. Soon.

She inhaled deeply; the scent of him, of his blood, infused with his ego and greed, pride and megalomania, intoxicated her. He will be the last, she thought, before she moved away from here, back into the huntress’s life yet again.

And she would taste him. Down in the bowels of the earth, hiding from his fate, he would relinquish himself. A single bullet to the head, he would open his veins at last for his demon lover.

I.

William Crouchley stood outside the crumbling wall marking the entrance to St. Sepulchre-Without-Newgate, watching the last of the workmen pack their tools for the evening. Crouchley was clutching his own set of tools: wooden ones, not metal, so the sound wouldn’t alert the night guard. The sun had almost set over London. The church and the workmen were only shadows, their long, black figures set off by the gaslights which had been set around to light the renovation.

Crouchley listened as the voices got farther away, their heavy footsteps fading into the night. Without the lamps, it was almost completely black now. The only light was a dim glow from the nearby prison. He took a look around one more time and then ventured into the graveyard. It took him most of the night, but his spade finally hit something hard, making a soft thud as wood hit wood. He pried open the lid of the coffin. The stench was strong, and he tied a kerchief around his mouth and nose to keep from fainting. The woman’s body was soft in his hands, and she oozed thick liquid, which he wiped on his black trousers.

Crouchley stuffed the swollen corpse into his long bag, quickly tying up the end. Not a bad night’s work, he thought. This body should fetch good money for the surgeons needing a dissecting dummy. He heard footsteps in the distance. Peering over the edge of the grave, he saw a policeman walking with another man, presumably on their way to Newgate. Crouchley held his breath for a moment. The two men did not even pause at the cemetery gate. He let out his breath and began the walk to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.

II.

Mr. Booth had not been happy.

“Wha’ is this coopered old thin’?” he demanded, after opening the sack. He pulled out the woman’s hand and waved it around. It flopped back and forth, making a sickly slapping noise. “I can’t ’ave this, take ’er back,” Mr. Booth said, shoving the lump to Crouchley.

Two burly men came through the door, smelling of strong liquor. One of them snarled at Crouchley.

“Got a new one fer you,” he said, thrusting out a dirty sack, remarkably smaller than Crouchley’s load.

The other man smiled. “It’s a baby, fresh too,” he said, in a deep, lazy voice.

Mr. Booth took the sack and looked inside. He smiled briefly, before closing the sack. “Al’ight,” he said. “Sack-’em-up, gentlemen.” He took some coins from his pocket and tossed them to the first man. “That’s two pounds each.” The men nodded and left the room.

Crouchley stood, sheepishly holding out his hand.

“Well, you ol’ codger, ge’ out of ‘ere,” Mr. Booth said, dropping four shillings onto the floor.

“Four bob?” he asked, looking at the small coins. “’S that all? I brought ye a missus, just buried today, like ye wanted.”

“Ye brought me un that’s good ’n rottin’,” he said, turning his back to Crouchley. “Bring me a fresh un, and I’ll give ye more.”

III.

Crouchley stood close to the window, just beneath the open latch. Thank the stars it had been a warm night. The young woman inside blew out her candle. Crouchley put one hand in the window and then the other, pulling himself up quietly.

She barely even made a sound as he crept past her bed, his spade raised above his head.

He peered over the edges of the whitewashed cradle. The sleeping angel had the same red curls that framed her mother’s face. She opened her eyes and cooed at him, stopping Crouchley in his tracks, but only momentarily. A fresher one, he thought. He shook off his terror and brought the spade down quickly and aggressively.

It made a sick crack against the infant’s skull.

The mother stirred in the bed beside him, but did not wake up.

Crouchley clutched the warm bag against his body. Mr. Booth will be happy tonight, he thought.

I.

It had been a difficult winter. The biting cold had brought famine and illness to Roanoke, but the wind was perhaps the worst of it all. The hard, fast gusts of air destroyed any will to live. The sickliest died first, their corpses turning blue-black with ice. Those that were left–the once-burly men and the stronger of the women–now looked pale and dangerously thin, their features drawn long with hunger. They had no strength to bury their dead.

II.

They call me many names. Yehasuri. Widjigo. Wisakedjak. Skin Walker. Some call me Trickster or “The Flatterer,” as if these happy little monikers will protect them from my true nature, my avenging spirit. I am not the jolly little gnome they portray me as in their dances and songs. I am something much, much worse.

III.

The Croatan boy, at thirteen hardly a man–though they named him one–heard the wail first, a sound so loud that it could rattle your brain inside your skull and so terrifying that it would haunt you the rest of your days. Then came the footsteps breaking through the brush in the woods, coming closer and closer every day. The tribal leaders met, and needing to pacify their increasingly terrified people, they put the boy out of their lands. He would be a good sacrifice for the wood spirit, they said, since he heard the cry before anyone else.

It was not long before the boy heard his name whispered from deep within the forested land.

The transformation was quick but not painless. His limbs grew long and thin, and grey-white fur covered his body. Sharp yellowed fangs descended from his gums, hanging over his dark lips. They ached in his head; he bit his lips in agony, sending a deluge of blood from his mouth and streaking his matted fur with gore.

IV.

A young woman saw him first. She was clutching her half-dead child in her arms, desperate to give him the warmth he needed, if she could give him nothing else. She was too weak to resist the yellow-eyed monster hurtling towards her, though he was too quick for her even if she had been strong and healthy.

The rest of the hunt was just as easy. An entire village–men, women, and children–gone in less than half a day.

The nearby tribe waited and listened to the cries of the pale-faced colonists with a resolute indifference, knowing this was the price of the sin of cannibalism.

The boy, satiated, used his razor-sharp talon, now dripping with meat and tendons caught underneath his fingernails, and carved a single word into the tree to mark his victory: Croatoan.

“Just put your feet in those bowling shoes, Scott,” Jayme said, pulling the socks out of Scott’s hands and swatting his shoulder with them.

“Come on,” Scott said. “This isn’t funny. Give ’em back.”

Jayme stood up and dangled the socks over Scott’s head, yanking them just out of his reach as he tried to grab them.

Jayme jumped back as Scott stood up, holding out his hand. “I’m not kidding.”

“Me neither,” Jayme said, smiling as she stuffed the socks down the front of her shirt.

Scott rolled his eyes. “Really? You’re going to act like that?”

“Act like what?” Robbie asked, walking up with a pair of bowling shoes in his hands. He sat down in the plastic red chair and bent over to take off his Keens. He took a pair of balled up socks from his pocket and began to put them on.

“See! Robbie is wearing socks,” Scott said, watching Robbie lace up the brown and cream bowling shoes.

“Who doesn’t wear socks?” Robbie asked.

Scott started to speak, but Jayme put her hand over his mouth. “Scott wants to turn his socks inside out while they’re in the shoes.”

Scott pushed her hand away. “They’re rentals,” he said. “If I turn the socks inside out now, then only the inside touches the shoes. Then, when I turn them back right side out, my shoes will stay clean.”

“But then your feet are touching the tainted side of the socks,” Jayme said, throwing her hands up in the air. “It makes no sense.”

Robbie stood up, walking toward the lanes in front of them. “I knew you had a thing with germs, Scott, but this is rubbish. Just put your feet in the shoes and let’s go.”

Jayme smiled and followed Robbie, who was already stepping up to the lane, a bright blue ball in his hand.

Scott sat back down and stared at his bare feet. Muttering under his breath, he began to unlace the clown-colored shoes. Cringing, his right foot went down into the shoe.

Scott unlocked the door to his home. His two dogs met him, jumping and wagging their tails.

“You guys must be hungry, huh?” he said, letting them in. It had been a late night. Robbie, always competitive, had insisted on four more extra games, only letting them leave when he had beaten Scott and Jayme. Then, of course, they had wanted dinner, which had evolved into drinks at the local pub. The whole night his feet had felt itchy, almost burning, something Scott attributed to his own irrational fears and morbid imagination. He knew there was nothing sinister growing in those rented bowling shoes, but his mind had some mental block that he couldn’t get past.

He fed the dogs and walked to his bedroom, wanting nothing more than a shower. He took off his watch, placing it on the bedside table. He sat on the bed and took off his tennis shoes before heading to the bathroom. Turning on the hot water, he let the steam roll into the bathroom, fogging up the mirrors and filling the room. He undressed, tossing his clothes into the laundry basket.

Scott stepped into the shower, letting the water run over his face. He wiped the water from his eyes and looked down, wanting the water to massage his aching neck.

Scott screamed and jumped back, his hands groping for the shower wall. Bright red blood, foamy with air bubbles, swirled around the drain, mingling with the water. His feet were eaten with holes from his toes up to his ankle, exposing sinewy muscles and pieces of white bone. His feet were hissing as the drops of water hit them, dissolving more skin as he watched. The pain hit him now; he slumped to the shower floor. The burning was crawling up his leg now, giving his skin the look of finely woven lace.

“Damn those socks, Jayme,” he cried, letting the pain overtake his body.

“That was ‘Fear of the Dark’ by Iron Maiden, rounding out another hour of all-horror, all-the-time. This is your master of the macabre, DJ Voyeur, coming at you with the Graveyard Shift, every night. It’s coming up on the witching hour, currently 2:51, which means I’m almost out of here.“But before I sign off, I want to send a special message out there to all those kids down by the levee. It appears local police have yet to catch what they are now calling ‘The Lovers’ Lane Killer,’ who has been responsible for killing more than a half a dozen teenagers in and around the Golden Triangle area. So, seriously, kids, lock those doors and hold that girl of yours tight, because you never know which night will be your last.

“I’ll leave you with ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper’ by Blue Öyster Cult. Keep it tuned right here to WGTR 96.6. I’ll be back tomorrow night, with a special recording of a classic tale of terror from Vincent Price’s own radio show. This is DJ Voyeur, signing off.

“And, remember, ‘someone’s always there.’”

The voice from the radio erupted in sinister laughter, which faded as the song began.

The girl hit the radio power button with the palm of her hand.

“Ugh,” she said. “Honestly, Dean, I don’t know how you listen to that stuff. That guy gives me the creeps.” She shivered slightly, drawing her arms around her body.

Dean unbuckled his seatbelt and slid closer to the petite blonde.

“Aww, that is so cute,” he said. “Is Trish scared of the big, bad boogeyman coming through the radio and getting her?” His voice had the mocking tone of a child’s nursery rhyme.

Trish swatted Dean away from her.

“No,” she said. “It’s not that…”

Her voice trailed for a moment. In the silence, frogs and grasshoppers could be heard chirping their nighttime song.

She turned to Dean. “You think it’s true?” she asked. “The killer stalking those couples at night?”

Dean laughed. He pushed himself closer to Trish, as close as the gearshift would allow, and put his arm around her. “I’ll be here to protect you, baby.”

Trish rolled her eyes.

“Besides,” he continued. “That’s just local legend. It goes around every few years, but no one I know has ever…”

The sound of breaking glass interrupted Dean. Trish screamed as someone pulled a mask over her face and pulled her through the window into the darkness.

“Welcome back, my minions of mayhem. You’ve just been listening to the Psycho theme song, composed by Danny Elfman. All in preparation for tonight’s special presentation, ‘The Price of Fear.’ If you don’t have the creeps yet, you will. So sit back, turn out the lights–if you dare–and listen to the artful storytelling brought to you by that tyrant of terror, Vincent Price.“Enjoy this next hour, commercial-free, only on the Graveyard Shift. And only with your favorite DJ, the father of fright, DJ Voyeur.

“The scream you hear just might be your own.”

He gave his best villainous laugh, before he reached out and flipped a switch on the computer board. He took the earphones from his head and placed them delicately on the table beside him.

Swiveling his chair around so he could face the terrified blonde girl bound and gagged on his floor, he stretched out his hand to caress her head.

She looked up at him, muttering something between teeth clenched on the blue bandanna that had been tied tightly around her head. Her eyes were wet with tears, streaking black mascara down her red and swollen face.

“That should give us plenty of time, my dear,” the man said. He patted her head once more, taking time to wipe her eyes with his thumb.

He looked over the tray he had set, fingering the blades of all sizes, newly polished. He chose one, holding it up to the light.

“Now, where shall we begin?”

He woke up suddenly, T-shirt stuck to his back with sweat, his heart still pounding–a remnant of a bad dream. His eyes struggled to make out black shapes in the dark room. Everything looked unfamiliar–the pile of clothes carelessly thrown over the chair loomed large now, appearing more like the figure of a hulking man. He thought he saw it move for just a moment, but quickly realized it was just the night air rustling his wife’s dress, waving it in the breeze.

When had he opened the window?

He shivered now and moved to close the window, being careful not to wake his wife as he slid out from under the covers and got to his feet. The night air was icy, carrying the smell of snow. Leaning his head out of the window, he took a deep breath and then closed it soundlessly. Maybe he would find a winter wonderland in the morning and he could take Lisa sledding.

He tiptoed back to bed and climbed in. The bed was still warm where he had been sleeping. He lay back and closed his eyes, but a restlessness stopped any sleep from coming. His dream wouldn’t shake free from his mind–images of the farmhouse he was renovating with his wife, sounds of chainsaws and hammers. In his dream, he had been hanging drywall, until he heard his wife screaming. He had chased her voice through the house, but could never seem to find her.

He opened his eyes again and exhaled. The bad dream had to be a result of all his stress. He was working too hard, that was all. The new house, his new job at the college, married only five months, it was all catching up with him. He would take the upcoming weekend off, he promised himself. Rest. If the weather warmed, maybe fish the lake behind their house. He would drink beer and Lisa would read one of her books.

He rolled over and felt for his wife. Once his hands found her silky nightgown, he pulled her closer to him, nuzzling her neck.

But she didn’t respond. Normally, she would reach over and pat his leg, murmuring sleepily “love you” and nestling into his arms. Now she felt limp and, well, wrong.

“Lisa,” he whispered in her ear.

The silence sent a chill down his spine.

He reached over and shook her shoulder, not noticing how cold her skin felt.

“Lisa? Wake up!” His voice was growing more panicked by the second. He shook her violently, begging her to open her eyes. Afraid she wasn’t breathing, he fumbled for the phone on his nightstand, but knocked it to the floor, along with a book and his reading glasses. The phone’s dial tone cut into the stillness of the bedroom.

He switched on a lamp.

In the light, he could now see his wife’s twisted body lying lifeless in his bed. Her skin was pale, a blue color he had never seen before. And her eyes were locked in a stare. He leaned in closer, his heart stopped in his throat. Blood was streaking down her face, coloring her hair and staining the sheets beneath her. There was so much blood, he almost couldn’t tell where it was coming from.

He felt as if he were going to be sick and stood up from the bed. In the weak light of the bedside lamp, he could see more blood painted over the room. Blood was spattered on their headboard and the ceiling. Their wedding photo, framed above the bed, was dotted with red. On the window sash were two crimson handprints. He looked down and saw that he too was covered.

It was only then that he noticed the blood-covered nail gun neatly put away in the corner of the room.

And he remembered the loud popping of the nail gun as it had run through his dreams.