MicroHorror

It happened Friday morning when Ralph was into his morning shave routine.

It was on his upper right arm, a change that was not there the night before. He decided to wear a long-sleeved shirt to cover it. Then he hurried down to breakfast.

“Morning, dear,” Edna said.

“Morning,” Ralph repeated nervously, hoping Edna wouldn’t notice.

“Beautiful day…” she stopped. “Isn’t it a bit warm out for a long-sleeved shirt?”

“Well, I’m working on those darn hedges today and I don’t want to get scratched again,” he added. Ralph quickly excused himself from her company and darted out the back door.

By the second day, Ralph realized whatever it was, it was getting worse. It had spread to his left arm and to both of his legs. Most of his body had to be covered by clothing.

He retreated to his tool shed and hid to prevent Edna from seeing the sight of him.

He sadly peered outside his small tool shed window observing how much the yard needed him. The roses that needed tending, the bushes that needed trimming and the grass that needed mowing.

But he couldn’t.

He looked down at himself and helplessly watched what he was becoming. It quickly spread over every inch of him changing every part of him. It even affected his stature, shrinking him into something different from what he was before.

By the third day, Ralph was so disfigured that he could no longer enter his own house. And the voice of Edna’s calling out for him day after day made him weep for not answering her.

Every morning and evening, when Edna fed the stray cats, he lovingly watched her every move, desperately missing her company, desperately missing her touch.

One night, he dared to follow the stray cats to their free meal. His famished stomach had told him there was no other choice. Ralph had to patiently wait to eat last since he was an outsider.

A few minutes later, as he scarfed up the minute leftovers, Edna caught the sight of him.

“Ralph?” Her voice quivered.

He knew deep inside that she had recognized him.

He couldn’t help but answer. “Edna, please don’t be afraid.”

“What happened to you, Ralph?”

“I… I don’t know,” his voice trembled. “It’s something that’s overtaken me. I can’t explain it. It’s changed me.” He paused. “But I do know that I still love you.”

She turned away from him and quickly shut the door.

He wept over her rejection of him and even from the rejection of the mangy stray cats. And finally he wept for himself for what he had become.

His hungry stomach forced him to follow the cats again to their morning meal. They hissed and spat to keep him at a distance.

From several yards away he longingly gazed at the food.

As he crawled closer he could see one of the bowls had been separated from the others. Something had been written on it. With a black marker.

The name: RALPH.

“C’mon, Taylor,” Carl coaxed her. “It will be fun. Plus you told me you didn’t have anything else planned.”

She looked up at him. “Well, I guess it might cheer me up a little.”

“Great,” he exclaimed. “It’s a party like no other.”

They entered a beautiful mansion overflowing with birthday decorations. But Taylor noticed that the entire decor was in black.

“Carl,” Taylor remarked as she pointed her finger. “Even the cake is black. It has black frosting.”

“Cool, isn’t it?” he laughed. “The guy’s over the hill.”

After cake and champagne, Taylor was still wiping black frosting from her mouth as Carl led her into a large darkened room dotted with large sitting pillows.

“There he is,” Carl said. “See how old he is? He gets to go first.”

Taylor watched the old man approach a black counter and the person behind it gave him a black goblet.

They watched him quietly walk to the corner of the room, reach into the goblet, and put something into his mouth. Then he collapsed.

“What happened?” She whispered.

Carl grabbed her arm and they both approached the same counter.

“One razorblade and one cyanide please.”

The man handed Carl two black goblets. Carl smiled and gave one to Taylor.

“Well, Taylor,” Carl commented. “I told you there was no other party like this.”

As they sat down on the black pillows, he pulled out the razorblade from his black goblet and angled it against the inside of his thin epidermis.

“Here, you watch me first, and then it’s your turn.”

Before she could speak, he had the razor deep inside his flesh.

“Carl, no,” she pleaded as she turned her head away from him.

By the time she looked back, his second wrist was slashed and he was lying on the floor.

Taylor turned her head to and fro to comprehend what was happening. One couple was popping pills and guzzling them down with bottles of alcohol. Another couple was twisting rope around each other’s necks. Then Taylor saw a man who was alone, placing a gun inside of his mouth.

Taylor gasped at all the horrific sights that surrounded her. She was trapped inside a wonderland of death.

She quickly realized that it wasn’t a birthday party.

It was a death party.

That explained the black decorations.

She sobbed as she stared at Carl’s lifeless body. She knew that there was no chance of saving him. There was too much blood on the floor.

She knew that Carl had problems, but not to this extent. She thought she knew him quite well, but sadly, she didn’t have a clue.

But what about herself? She wildly thought. Carl knew about her problems and at least she was honest and up front about them. It wasn’t fair that Carl was hiding secrets from her.

She was alone now, disappointed and devastated.

What was Carl thinking? That they would both die here together? As she sat in the roomful of madness, it was all so clear now. After witnessing the countless people around her ending their lives in various ways, she saw this wasted insanity from a different perspective. It was horribly different seeing it rather than thinking of it. She was repulsed by the sight of it and covered her face.

Taylor ignored the black goblet that Carl had given her.

She knew deep inside that she had to escape the suicide room.

She slowly stood up and quietly walked towards the doorway, desperately depending on the darkness in the room to assist her.

Suddenly, a man stopped her.

“Sorry, lady,” he said. “Once you come into this room, you can never leave… alive.”

He pointed his finger. “The black counter is on your right.”

“My sister’s gone,” Andy whispered to the stuffed bear, as he lay alone sobbing on her bed. “I want to know why she died. You were with her in bed that night. What happened? You must tell me. I know she loved you very much. Out of all her stuffed animals, you were her favorite. I know she talked to you, she told me herself,” he said, petting its soft right ear. “No one can give me an answer, not even Mommy.”

He looked deep into its black button eyes.

“You were always there for her, day or night. When she was alone, or scared, I know you were there where she could hold you. You gave her someone to talk to, to tell her secrets to. She could trust you.” Andy paused. “She could count on you for anything.”

His eyes reflected desperation and sorrow.

“I believe in you.”

He wrapped his arms around the plush bear, and allowed his fingers to glide through its soft fur.

“I need your help,” he whispered into its furry ear.

Andy tried to remember every moment that night his sister died.

He remembered peeking inside his sister’s bedroom, where he could see Mommy tucking her into bed, reading her a bedtime story, and offering her a cup of hot cocoa. Everything seemed to be okay, he thought. He still couldn’t understand it.

Andy watched as Mommy entered his bedroom.

“Well, I see you have your sister’s bear all tucked in with you,” she commented as she stood over him. “How sweet.”

She sat down on the side of his bed to read him a bedtime story.

“Mommy’s going to get you a cup of hot cocoa.”

Under his blanket, Teddy suddenly poked its paw into Andy’s stomach.

He sucked in a deep breath.

As Andy stared in disbelief into her dark eyes, he spoke his answer very slowly.

“No… thank… you.”

She stabbed it several times with her silver fork, but she could not find any proof that she had succeeded.

What was the damn thing anyway? And in the salad? Did the cook purposely put it there?

She searched again, using her fork to separate each leaf of lettuce, tomato, cucumber, and crouton.

Nothing.

Suddenly, it was nowhere to be found.

Her eyes filled with fear, not knowing where it crawled to.

Was it still in the salad bowl? Or did it crawl out and escape? Was it under the bowl?

She anxiously observed her clothing and hands.

Where did the damn thing go?

She saw a glimpse of the thing. There were no words to describe it. It was something that should never be in a bowl of edible food.

It was there a couple of minutes ago.

She sipped her drink of water and quickly asked for the check.

As she left, she thought of the slice of lemon that floated in her glass of water. She fearfully realized that she did not check the lemon. But she would have definitely noticed if the thing had crawled up the clear glass.

But what if it was behind the lemon? It could have squeezed itself inside the sour fruit before she could have noticed because her mind was on the salad bowl! She covered her mouth.

She entered her home, throwing her purse and coat on the bed.

She grabbed a flashlight, went into the bathroom, and examined the inside of her mouth. She exhaled a breath of relief. Nothing was found.

As she lay there that night, she couldn’t forget the terrible experience earlier that day.

She put on her robe and went into the kitchen.

Maybe a nice cup of tea to relieve the nerves, she thought.

As she held the warm tea she became aware of every little thing she did. She found herself looking for that thing again. No, she thought, it couldn’t have followed her home. Or could it? She recalled that it didn’t seem to have wings.

But it could attach itself to something. Something that she could carry home with her.

She sucked in a deep breath.

Her coat and purse! She laid them on her bed.

She abandoned the warm tea and quickly ran back to her bedroom.

She lifted the sheets and explored every part of her bed. Then her coat. Then her purse.

Nothing.

She panicked.

Maybe it already detached itself and it was somewhere in the house.

She felt nauseous.

She would have to search the whole house now. That meant no sleep. And it would take hours.

She ran to the bathroom covering her mouth and began to vomit. She peered into the putrid toilet water, observing what appeared to be her salad. And something else…

She heavily breathed in and out as she stared at the full view of it. She had swallowed it. That’s why she couldn’t find it.

It wasn’t dead. It happily swam in the filthy water.

She held her throat, disgusted that the thing had been inside her.

Her shaking hand quickly flushed the toilet.

She was relieved to see it swirl down with the vomit and disappear.

She told herself everything was fine now, that it was over, as she climbed back into bed.

The next morning she stood in front of the bathroom mirror, her eyes frozen in terror. She could only breathe through her nose.

Her mouth bulged with hundreds of hatchlings that fell into the bathroom sink.

There was no room to scream.

After school, Kelly quickly ran home, trying to escape from Chrissy. She ran into her grandma’s garden, hiding among the large fruit trees and vegetable plants.

She exhaled a deep breath, hating herself for being the new girl in school.

Kelly crouched down behind a tree. It was peaceful here, she thought. A place to get away from her troubles. She decided that Grandma’s garden would be her special place.

Suddenly, a patch of ground slid back, exposing what looked like a mouth with small rocks as teeth and a moving plant as its tongue.

Frightened, Kelly jumped back. She snapped off a tomato and threw it into its mouth. It didn’t seem to care for the fruits and vegetables that surrounded it. She saw how it peered at her leg. She sensed it preferred meat instead.

Kelly thought of something. She ran back to the house and sneaked out some raw hamburger.

She went back to where the thing lived.

Its mouth quickly opened wide, its frenzied tongue flailing for its long awaited meal. She was right. Definitely a carnivore.

Suddenly, Kelly heard footsteps approaching her.

“Hey, little shit.”

It was Chrissy.

She quickly tried to hide.

Then she noticed the thing had opened its mouth, as if helping her to escape.

No, she thought. She couldn’t trust a thing like that. It might devour her. But as the footsteps came closer, and scarce hiding places left, she desperately jumped in.

“Kelly?” The taunting voice asked. “Where are you, little shit?”

She remained silent inside her new hiding place. But for her enemy to come this far back into the garden worried her.

She waited for freedom as she quietly sat inside the darkness of its mouth.

Chrissy’s horrible voice fainted away into the distance.

Then the thing spit her out.

Her dress was drenched with its saliva, her matted hair soaked, but Kelly didn’t care. She was just relieved that the thing didn’t eat her.

The next afternoon Kelly didn’t have a chance to hide.

As she leaned against the tree in front of the thing, two arms grabbed her.

“Hey, little shit.”

“Stop,” she said loudly, as she struggled.

The thing opened it mouth, its tongue reaching for Chrissy’s ankle. She screamed as it pulled her in, then Kelly felt a pull on her ankle and they both fell inside of it.

They sat there, in the darkness of its mouth, sitting on its herbaceous tongue.

“Is this thing for real?” Chrissy fearfully asked.

“Yes,” Kelly said. “It’s my new friend and it’s not eating you because you pulled me in.”

“Will it let me out?”

“I don’t know,” Kelly paused. “You’ve been mean to me.”

“I’m sorry,” Chrissy said nervously. “Let’s be friends.”

They both shook hands on it and the thing slowly opened its mouth.

She noticed how quickly Chrissy scrambled from the thing’s gaping mouth, and then repaid Kelly’s kindness with a swift kick to her face.

A wrinkled hand pulled Kelly out.

There stood an old woman with a hoe.

“Chester, you better start minding your manners,” she said to the thing as she shook her stern finger.

Kelly watched as Grandma stabbed Chrissy in her sternum with the hoe and pushed her body into the thing’s mouth.

“And Chrissy,” Grandma added, “you have no manners.”

Kelly heard the sound of crushing bone.

“Grandma?” Tears flowed from her eyes. “She was going to be my friend.”

“No, child, she wasn’t. She would have said anything to get out of Chester.” She nodded toward the thing. “This is your friend now.”

They both stood there, hand in hand, as the chomping sound continued.

Suddenly, a low rumble was felt below the earth as Chester spit out an indigestible shard of bone.

After he finished butchering her body with his favorite knife, he unclasped the silver charm bracelet that surrounded her delicate wrist. He wiped his bloody knife with her shirt, kissed her lifeless lips as he gazed into her light blue eyes, and then pushed her partially clothed body into the cold murky water of the lake.

He arrived home, jingling the small silver charms on the bracelet as he entered the front door.

He walked into his bedroom and pulled out a wooden box from under his bed. He opened the lid and admired his growing collection of female mementoes: earrings, rings, bracelets, barrettes. He jingled the silver charm bracelet one more time before he could drop it into the wooden box.

He smiled to himself as he strutted into his bathroom to clean up. He looked into the bathroom mirror and laughed.

Suddenly, he stopped.

His eyes were no longer brown, but light blue.

He yelled out as he stared into the mirror. “What the hell?”

He knew that they were her eyes. Impossible, he thought, as he examined them. Then he realized in some strange way, just as he took a memento from her, she took a memento from him.

He smirked at the situation. “So, you liked my brown eyes, huh? You even gave me another souvenir.”

He admired his new light blue eyes.

“Out of all the other girls,” he whispered to himself, “this has never happened before.”

He couldn’t understand it, this strange exchange, but it excited him.

He quickly awoke, sweat dripping from his face, his breathing frantic.

It was a flashback of him forcing her into his van, but it was from her perspective.

He could see a dark stranger quickly approaching, feel the painful grip on the arm, and experience the terror of being thrown into a van.

Through the day and into the night, he began to see each stage of his actions of abducting and murdering her.

He took the silver charm bracelet from the box and threw it across the room.

“You bitch,” he hissed.

Quickly, another flashback filled his head. His frightened body being dragged toward the cold murky water of the lake.

He held his head.

“Damn you.”

The flashbacks grew worse. They started to affect his daily routine. He had trouble driving his van, trouble planning another murder, trouble living his sick life. When they came, they blinded him to whatever he was doing.

He stood in front of the bathroom mirror and glared into it, scowling.

Suddenly, another invading flashback. The brutal butchering of flesh. He could feel each and every painful thrust from his own favorite knife, in and out, in and out. He fell onto the linoleum floor, his body twisting and wrenching in excruciating pain.

“You fucking bitch,” he yelled, his hands reaching toward his light blue eyes, desperately trying to tear them out.

After several agonizing minutes of attempting to pop his eyeballs from their sockets, he sadly realized they wouldn’t come out.

He knew deep inside that they liked their new home in a nice warm head rather than the cold murky water of the lake. He reached for his favorite knife.

The sound of his screams echoed inside of his bathroom.

As Megan held the shiny razor blade near her wrist, she looked around her bedroom for the last time. Her beloved poetry books, a makeup table overflowing with cosmetics. Her floor strewn with sketchpads and CD cases. Shelves full of stuffed animals, ceramics, trophies…

Megan stopped. She noticed her very first rag doll on the wooden shelf.

She stared at it for a moment–its cloth dress faded, one blue button eye slightly hanging from a thread, its yarn hair dirty and matted.

Megan tried to remember back. Yes, it was one her favorites. She smiled about all the moments in her life when her doll was always there to hug, to hold, to comfort her whenever she was sad or lonely.

“My boyfriend left me for another girl,” she said to the doll, as she gazed at the razor blade. “I’m older now.” Her voice trembled. “Your hugs can’t help me with this.”

The doll’s eye appeared to glisten.

“You can’t comfort me anymore.” She shook her head. “I’ve outgrown you.”

She went into her bathroom where she could be alone.

As Megan angled the razor blade against her flesh, she heard a thud from the bedroom.

She quickly hid the razor in a drawer, thinking of her parents. She peeked out into the bedroom, but there was no one.

Just a missing spot on the shelf.

She slowly walked out of the bathroom and around to the other side of her bed.

Megan gasped in horror.

Her old rag doll was lying on the floor next to a pair of small scissors. Its wrists were ripped open, its stuffing spilling out onto the pretty pink carpet.

As Ryan sat in the patio chair that morning, he remembered the nightmare that happened so many years ago. The year of the fire that had consumed their trailer home. He still retained the image of his Dad’s hand clutching his and his brother’s, quickly lifting them off of their feet as they scurried out. There was no time to take anything but themselves.

He could still see himself standing there, watching the tall flickering flames melt their small trailer and the smell of the black smoke. And the fireman that held him back.

He wasn’t allowed in, but Mama was still in there. He wanted to see her one more time. Ryan didn’t understand what death was at such a young age, only in his mind that the flames had taken her and he didn’t know why. Why would the fire do such a terrible thing to him when he loved her so much?

That’s when Ryan began to start fires. He believed the flames held the secret to her mortality.

“Ryan,” his brother said to him, as he sat in a patio chair nearby. “When are you going to realize that Mama’s dead?”

He stared back at Danny. “Don’t you say that. Mama wants out of the flames and I want her out too.”

Ryan struck several matches and inhaled the sulfur.

“Don’t you know when I light a fire it helps her find her way back out?” He dropped the matches on the pile of cardboard boxes that were stacked next to his chair. “I’m opening a door for her, don’t you understand?”

“No, I don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head as he stood up. “You’ve really lost it.”

He approached his brother, chest to chest. “Well, Danny,” he said as his anger reflected in his eyes. “It’s obvious you don’t give a damn about Mama anymore.”

“Don’t you see?” Danny said, trying to explain. “Out of all these years that you’ve started fires, Mama hasn’t returned.”

Ryan walked away and retreated to his bedroom. No one seemed to understand his actions or dilemma. He sat on his bed, thinking. Everyone in his family, his brother and even his own Dad were forgetting about Mama. He started to secretly light fires in his bedroom. He was the only one that could save her now.

He crumpled up a mass of papers in a metal wastebasket. He lit several matches and threw them in.

“C’mon, Mama, come out,” he said.

He gazed into the colorful flames, searching for her.

Ryan started to cry.

The flames began to attach themselves onto his bedroom curtain but he didn’t seem to care.

“Mama,” he begged. “It’s been so long.” He cried harder. “I can’t take it anymore.”

As his tear-streaked face looked around, he saw that his bedroom was fully engulfed in flames. More flames, he thought, more room for Mama to get out. That’s it. He thought. All these years, he had always made small fires, never big ones.

As he stood in the corner of his room, he realized that he never came this close to fire before and now he could truly experience its power.

But it held something that he wanted back.

He heard a voice yelling at him outside his room but he did not answer.

Suddenly, the shape of her smiling face was floating in the flames before him.

“Mama? You came back for me.” Tears ran down his face. “Come out now and hold me… it’s been so long.”

He waited for her but she did not step out from the flames.

“Mama, there’s nothing to be afraid of.” His voice firm. “I’m here.”

The closeness of the fire made his face sweat.

“Maybe,” his voice trembled, “you can’t come out.”

He paused for a moment, and entered the beautiful flames.

Arms wide open.

Amy sat in the bathroom, door closed, alone in silence.

She exposed her left arm as she pushed back her long sleeve and stared at her row of scars.

It was like a timeline of her life. Each scar had its own memory and they were all painful. That’s why the cutting began. To release her pain. Quiet screaming, they called it. An act of anger. An act of punishment. A release of anxiety. Stress. Being overwhelmed. Feelings that could not be fully expressed. A sense of being alive. Yes, cutters had many reasons. And Amy had chosen hers.

And she wasn’t finished. Pain kept interrupting her own life. That’s when she took on another name. Cutter.

Just bleed, Amy thought. Let it all pour out. The father that couldn’t love her, and no longer wanted her in his life. The problem child that almost pushed her to suicide. Let it all go away. Let her body run dry. Nothing but emptiness. Nothing but bones.

Pain, she thought. Amy sobbed. There was so much of it.

Amy took out her razorblade and held it in her hand. She knew that every cut was a chance of either bleeding to death, or permanently destroying the area that she sliced. That’s why she carried a first aid kit and sugar in case she went into shock.

She had another horrible and painful memory that had to be added to the other scars that were notched into her flesh.

The date rape. A date in a motel room? How could she be so fucking blind? You didn’t even call the police, her mind screamed at her. Even when you had the proof of him within you! She sliced her razorblade into her flesh. She started to cry as she punished herself. This cut was deeper. Deeper pain with this memory. But you! You kept your mouth shut, her mind screamed at her again. Why? “I was afraid,” she whispered to herself. That’s not good enough! You didn’t do a damn thing! Her mind lashed at her again. Another cut for this one! Go ahead! This terrible memory and her cowardice drove her to five deep cuts.

She sat there watching the blood flow like a small waterfall over her wrist as it splattered onto the white linoleum floor.

“You son of a bitch!” She yelled out to him, her breathing heavy, her eyes wet. “You have stolen a piece of me!”

Suddenly, Amy became quiet. She quickly realized that the fault was hers. Amy’s fault. Amy’s fault. Amy’s fault. Those words repeated themselves inside her head. She cried some more.

Several minutes later, Amy felt dizzy, weak.

As she opened the bathroom door, Amy slowly glanced over at the counter where her first aid kit sat. The cube of sugar sitting inside it. But it was too far away.

Her painful life was slowly fading away into the shadows.

When Amy opened her eyes, she didn’t know where she was. She was lying on her back. She sliced at her flesh again with her razorblade, but no blood flowed.

She heard a voice from another room.

“I’m almost done with the embalming, Ed. Just a few more minutes.”

She didn’t want to look, but had to. In disbelief, she lifted up her head and slowly looked down towards her abdomen.

Her eyes grew wide as she saw a large bore-needle inserted into her naval, pumping her blood and waste from the inside of her abdominal cavity.

She screamed. But nobody heard Amy’s screams.

She had lost her other name.

Cutter.

Bo entered Charlie’s living room with a disturbed look on his face.

“I know what you’ve been doing with my woman.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“What? You’re going to sit there and lie to your best friend?” Bo winked his right eye. “You know what I’m talking about.” He sat down on the sofa, across from Charlie, the coffee table in between them. “But I’m going to forget about your big mistake if you can name the eight deadly sins.”

“But, Bo, there’s only seven.”

“You’ve got five minutes.”

“Uh, uh, gluttony.”

“Yep, and?”

“Um, wrath.”

“Okay, next?”

“Oh, greed.”

“Yeah, next?”

“Sloth.”

“Not bad. Next?”

“Envy.”

“Almost there, Charlie. Next?”

“Pride.”

“And?”

“Lust.”

“I’m impressed,” Bo commented. Then he stared into Charlie’s eyes. “What about the last one?”

“I told you earlier, but you wouldn’t listen.” Charlie shook his head. “There’s only seven, Bo, seven.”

“But I know the eighth one.” Bo waited. “Don’t you know it? You knew the others.”

He smiled as he watched Charlie sweat, trying to grasp the answer.

“There is no eighth deadly sin.”

“Do I have to tell you?” Bo paused for a moment, keeping Charlie in suspense. Then he spoke it. The name of the eighth deadly sin.

“Heartlessness.”

“Heartlessness?”

“You know the code, Charlie. You don’t mess around with your best friend’s woman.”

“Sorry, Bo. I may be weak and human, but I’m not heartless.”

“Well, best buddy. You are now.”

Bo slid out a shimmering butcher knife from his long coat pocket.