MicroHorror

“How about we begin with, ‘Every day when I get home, I find a naked body in the bed’?”

“I don’t understand why we have to begin with that line. Where are you going with all these bodies? It just doesn’t make sense!”

“Look, you promised you’d help me with my novel and now you’re arguing with the very first line.” Richard’s whine suddenly turned to something harder. “The line is staying!”

“Okay, okay, don’t get pissy on me.” Peter raised his hands in a placating gesture. He knew they’d make no progress if Richard got into one of his snits. “Just tell me where you’re going with this. Help me understand.”

“I tell you it does make sense. The housekeeper comes home and finds a naked body in the bed…”

“I have no problem with one dead body. It’s the every day part that I have a problem with. Look, let’s relax for a bit. We’ll get it straightened out. You’ve just been working too hard. Come on, Dickie, sit over here with me.” He patted the sofa invitingly.

“Okay. But I’m very upset, Peter. You’re making me feel ill. I’m beginning to think you don’t care for me at all. You’re just using me.”

“Now why would you think that? Come here and tell me all about it. You know I adore you, you silly old thing.”

“I think you only want me for my book. You’re jealous of my talent.”

“But you were the one who suggested we work together…”

“But you argue with everything I say.”

“We can’t have more than one body.”

“But having only one body is too close to what really happened.”

“So?”

“I know the people involved, okay?”

“But you said you read about it in the paper.”

“I did. But I still know the people, all right?” Richard’s face was feverish now, and his whine had become a wail. “I need to be alone. You’re giving me my nervous tummy…”

“You can’t write the story alone. You said yourself you need help with the police part. I’m the one who’s the expert on crime scenes–that is why you need help, isn’t it?”

“Ooh, hoity-toity. You’re only a police photographer. You’re no expert on procedures. Hah!” Richard, expression spiteful, left the couch and pranced towards his desk.

Peter’s sigh was of the long-suffering kind. “You’re annoyed about that boy down at the gym, aren’t you, Dickie? I told you he meant nothing to me. I need a diversion sometimes is all.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“How come all of a sudden you don’t need my help? And what do you know about crime scenes? You’ve had no experience. Anyway, how about, ‘The other day when I got home there was a dead body in the bed’? Will you quit playing with that letter opener? It’s annoying!”

“No. We can’t do that.”

“But why, Dickie? We can work with that! Why do we need more than one dead body? We need to be realistic.”

Richard stabbed the letter opener viciously into the pad of paper that lay on his desktop. “I don’t want realistic…” He made a futile attempt to curb his rising hysteria.

“But why –? Hold on a minute… There’s more to this than you’re telling me, isn’t there? Who is this friend of yours, anyway…? Now wait a minute, Richard… Richard–”
But it was too late. The letter opener had found a target far more satisfying than the pad of paper.

“I said there was more than one body…”

The housekeeper was most distressed the next day when she entered the apartment. It was just too upsetting to keep finding these dead bodies in the bed.

“Did you see that, Fred?”

“Did I see what?”

“He gave her two of those pills. He’s only supposed to be giving her one!”

“Are you sure, Flo? How d’you know how many she should have?”

“I was sitting on the wall right above the bedpost, and the doctor’s instructions were clear. He said to be careful to give her only one! I don’t know what they’re for, though. I’m going to fly down and take a peek.”

“Be careful, Flo.”

But she was gone already. Fred watched her hover around the bedside table for a few seconds, then fly back to join him on the wall, clearly agitated.

“There are two bottles down there. One contains tranquilizers and the other says something about ‘heart.’ I was afraid to land and so couldn’t see the label clearly. D’you think he’s trying to get rid of her?”

“I don’t know… Hey, there’s somebody coming. Let’s get out of here before we get swatted.”

They flew out the open window.

The next day Flo and Fred took up position on the wall a few feet above the bed. The doctor arrived to check on his patient. He admitted to the woman’s husband that he was at a loss as to how to diagnose her illness and suggested that she be taken to the hospital for tests. The husband was adamant in his refusal, saying that his wife would be miserable in the hospital and that he was more than capable of caring for her himself. The doctor shrugged and left.

Flo and Fred were discussing this latest development when all of a sudden there was a rush of air and something big and flat landed on the wall. Splat! The two flies barely dodged the blow. They decided to move to safer quarters before the man came at them with that can of really foul-smelling stuff that had overcome some of their friends last summer.

Once safely outside they resumed their conversation:

“What are we going to do, Fred? We can’t let him off her!”

“Don’t use that word around me, Flo!”

“Sorry… We can’t let him kill her.”

“What can we do? We’re just two flies. Nobody is going to listen to us. We’re just pests!”

Flo didn’t answer. She was deep in thought, her antennae jiggling. Then suddenly she took off, leaving Fred to follow.

A few hours later the patient was lying in a stupor. Her husband came into the bedroom to check on her. He was just reaching for the pill bottle when he looked up and noticed what looked like a black cloud approaching the open window. He replaced the bottle and went to take a closer look. Just as he was reaching to close the window, a thick swarm of bluebottles came at him, engulfing him with their iridescent blue-green bodies. They wandered over him with their black hairy legs, invaded his nostrils and gaping mouth.

A little later the man was found dead of a heart attack by his cleaning lady. There wasn’t a fly in sight. The patient had not yet regained consciousness and so hadn’t seen her husband’s demise. Relatives were called and it was decided that she should go into the hospital. Tests were run, and her heart and diabetes medications were adjusted. She was home again only days later, and at last report was managing well with a little daily help.

The cleaning lady was annoyed by two pesky flies that flew in through the bedroom window every time she opened it a crack. No matter what she did she couldn’t get rid of them.

Somewhat self-conscious, Ambrose studied the menu. Wonder why there are no other customers? he mused. Then he remembered, it was Halloween. Everybody was out trick or treating.

“What is your selection, sir?”

Ambrose started, not having heard the man approach his table. “I’ll have the Chicken Francais.”

The waiter’s frown was regretful. “I’m sorry, sir, we’re out of that particular dish. Might I recommend the day’s special–we have a very nice ‘Chef’s Surprise,’ that we serve only during this season.”

“What is it?”

“What is what, sir?”

“The Chef’s Surprise.”

“Well now, sir, that’s the surprise.”

Seeing the conversation was going nowhere, and since he didn’t have a lot of time, Ambrose conceded. “Bring me the surprise, as long as it can be served right away.”

“Excellent choice, sir. I’ll have it right out for you.”

In less than five minutes the waiter was back bearing a tureen of dark brown stew, from which arose a tantalizing aroma of thyme, rosemary, and other pungent herbs. Deciding he was fortunate in finding such an excellent place in which to dine, Ambrose scooped a heaping spoonful onto his plate.

The meat was the most succulent and tender Ambrose had ever tasted, the gravy a rich deep brown, appearing almost red in the fluttering candlelight. I must ask whether the chef will part with the recipe, he decided.

With his next greedy mouthful, Ambrose’s tongue encountered something sharp and crunchy. Thinking it to be a piece of bone, he spit it back onto his spoon.

“Good grief,” he spluttered.

“Is something wrong, sir?” Startled again, Ambrose dropped his spoon onto his plate, spattering gravy every which way.

“There–There’s a fingernail in the stew!”

“A fingernail, sir? Oh, I do apologize. I’ll bring you another portion right away.”

“No, just bring the check.”

“But I must correct the error, sir. Chef insists that all our customers get the entire digit with their meal.”

Lying in the shadow of a tor, the house’s ugliness is blatant–a conglomeration of crude, sharp angles; the whole rendered in grimy, gray slag; turrets and spikes sprouting from unlikely locations, with no apparent purpose other than to impart an air of sly lunacy. I adore the place.

There’s no need for a key. The heavy oaken door swings open at my approach–swings open and back so quickly it captures my toe in passing. I chuckle in appreciation.

The interior is every bit as delightful as the exterior. A great staircase zigzags to the topmost turret, then ceases in midair causing the unwary climber to fall several hundred feet to the stone floor below. I remember that years ago we lost Great-Aunt Mildred in just that way.

And I remember the dining room. The humongous rectangular table would rotate faster and faster until all seated around it were spun out and thrown against the wall. There were some memorable family dinners in that room. Outsiders rarely accepted invitations to dine.

Each bedroom has its own characteristic: a ceiling that sinks, a wall that oozes a sewer-water stench, and a puddle of blood that refuses to congeal. I used to be particularly enchanted by the master suite where, parallel to the bed, lies a child’s white coffin complete with satin crimson lining. It’s whimsical, and awfully convenient, there not being a nursery in the house.

Uncle Tobias’s sense of humor was not universally appreciated. Many of the family deny being related to him at all, and I expect that’s why he left this place to me. Cousin Corny sneers and claims he had no place to leave–that he lived in a council flat in Cobthwarton before his entry into the asylum. The lies are most amusing. Ah, I hear the telephone.

“Hello. Yes, Uncle, it’s me. I’m relieved you were able to get through, there being no way for me to contact you under the circumstances. Yes, I should have more confidence in your abilities. What? Yes, I shall issue the invitations at once. It is definitely time for a family reunion.”

“You boys may think I’m old-fashioned, but I do think murder should be tastefully done.”

“But, Gran…”

“But nothing, Brad. All that shooting and people stabbing one another isn’t pleasant.”

“It’s just a TV show,” piped young Seth. “Mom always let us watch Miami Vice.”

“Your mother left me in charge, God rest her soul.”

Brad suddenly looked triumphant. “Hah, you watch that stupid Miss Marple all the time, and there’s always murders on there.”

“Yes, but they’re nicely done. Now, go wash up for dinner.”

Both boys cast their eyes to the ceiling.

As she set out plates for dinner, Gran smiled to herself. She’d done the right thing in ridding the children of that hussy daughter-in-law of hers. A dab of rat poison with lunch, a smidge more with dinner, and voila! Job completed in two weeks with blood and gore nary a part of it. Oh, how she abhorred violence, and she was darned sure she’d raise the boys with as little of it as possible. She frowned. It was disturbing that Seth resembled his mother, and was developing the same sassy mouth. Something might eventually have to be done about that. Then she shrugged, dismissing the worry. She’d take steps if she had to. Hadn’t she always dealt with things with a minimum of fuss?

“Now let’s see who’s got the cleanest hands,” she said, as her charges trooped into the kitchen.

Joe assumed there would be some guilt. Nothing he couldn’t deal with, but a few pangs of remorse were to be expected. He was pleasantly surprised when there were none.

Forty years of incessant nagging. Forty years of Edna controlling every aspect of their lives, including their finances. Especially their finances. He had nothing. In the end she’d left Joe no choice but to get rid of her.

He’d smothered her with a pillow. He was doing her a kindness really. She’d been miserable while living, so she might appreciate being dead. No mess involved. “A bloodless coup,” was how he liked to think of it.

One hot night several weeks later, Joe stood beneath the cool spray of the shower, eyes closed in ecstasy. But, wait, what was that rusty odor? The water seemed cloying too. He opened his eyes and wailed in horror. His body was cloaked with something red and viscous. The shower stall was streaked with blood running down the walls and pooling about Joe’s feet. In panic he tried escaping the stall. His feet slipped out from under him and he fell, face first, into the puddle of thick blood.

The body was discovered by the cleaning lady. It was pink and puckered from hours spent beneath the shower. The authorities assumed that Joe had suffered a heart attack brought on by the recent loss of his wife. Of course, in a sense, the authorities were right.