MicroHorror

After a long period of stress in my life, I decided–on a friend’s advice–to find a relaxing hobby, and I thought gardening might suit me. So the next weekend I rented a van to go to a hardware store on the outskirts of Dublin and buy everything I’d need. It was a disturbing surprise when I saw the back of the van was lined with wood, filled with slaughterhouse tools and coated in blood. I called customer service, obviously upset, and they told me they’d take care of it and throw in all the extras as compensation. As promised, they took the vehicle and left the new van parked outside my house. When I opened the back, it was clean and spotless.

In the end, it turned out that gardening wasn’t for me, but thanks to the rental company’s extras I’ve found my vocation. I still rent vans from time to time, and I’ve even joined their weekenders’ club. The company’s bold business strategy really hooked me–a van, all the tools and a victim for one price! I’m looking forward to joining their customer loyalty program.

“So Little Red Riding Hood was sacrificed to the God of the Forest, right?”

“Yes, she was. And now the time has come for you to go to the forest.”

“Will they write fairy tales about me, too?”

Sleeping Beauty wasn’t an enchanted princess, but a weaver of shadows. With every dream she created forests, and inside them worlds and characters to delight children. The Charming princes knew that by waking one of these weavers, they could own vast kingdoms as long as the weaver remained awake. So without a moment’s hesitation, Prince Charming convinced Sleeping Beauty of her “salvation.” She forgot who she was and what she did while she slept. Prince Charming grew powerful, and his kingdom was as limitless as his greed. Now Sleeping Beauty is dying, and her heartbroken husband has gone in search of a new weaver before his kingdom fades away.

Dear Sir:

I am the mother of one of your eleventh graders, Vincent Clemm. Recently my son has undergone a change that I’m not quite able to understand. Instead of being a happy child, he has become a gloomy teenager who only dresses in black, and he wakes up every night crying and drenched in sweat. “I don’t want to be buried alive,” he says over and over again, until he wakes up, and then he looks around uneasily. Last week he threw away all of his old toys and belongings, and now he just sits in front of the computer all day. I try to tell myself he’s just a teenager, and he’ll grow out of it, but he’s become obsessed with one silly assignment in his literature class. For this reason, I’d like you to speak to Miss Raven–Lenore Raven–and have him moved to a different teacher’s class.

Actually, I decided to write to you because my son has had a black raven tattooed on his back. Of course I’m not so naive as to not realize the obvious reference to his teacher. Having said that, I don’t have any proof that this is anything more than a boy’s crush on his instructor, but I don’t want this to go any further. I expect you to do something about it, or I will be forced to take this issue to the PTA.

I am looking forward to hearing from you.

Yours sincerely,
Virginia Clemm

“The nightmares are getting worse. It’s always the same–I look in the mirror and I see my head explode in the reflection. I turn on the TV and see the same thing–my own head, exploding. In the magazines I read, it’s the same. Doctor, you have to help me. I haven’t slept in days. I’m too scared of seeing it again.”

“Maybe your nightmares have a meaning.”

“Is it a premonition? Is that how I’ll die?”

“What makes you think you’re seeing the future?”

When our dreams are lost in a doze, and our minds drift languidly, that’s when the world dies for an instant, leaving the monsters we have created to rule it. Then, they cast lots to determine whether their creators should live or die. If, in the morning, any of us don’t wake up, we know that we have lost the bet. We don’t have any option other than to keep writing and creating new beasts.

Sometimes I wonder what’s wrong with us.

My hands are stained with blood–Mother’s blood. He took away her body and left me here. I’m cold.

It all began two weeks ago, when I saw Mother sad for the first time. I thought it was a happy occasion, but when I showed her my first blood, she wept the entire night. Father, although he didn’t weep, wasn’t happy either. They said we should hide it for as long as possible, while I wanted to shout it out loud and start looking for a husband. I was a woman. That night, the women of the village met and whispered until dawn. I knew it was wrong, but I hid so I could listen. They talked about Reverend Brady’s private sermons and they talked about me. They shuddered.

The next Sunday, the reverend told me he would have a special sermon for me in his cabin after the sun set.

Mother tried to kill him when he had me naked. Now I’m sitting surrounded by her blood and I can hear him coming. He’s coming satisfied and content, but he doesn’t know that I still have her knife.

My mother fell in love with that house at first sight. She bought it without thinking twice. For her it meant the start of a new life, and I never meant to ruin it, but there was always something that worried me about that place. She didn’t listen to me when I told her about the shadows in my bedroom. She didn’t believe me when I told her about Steven. It wasn’t my imagination or bad dreams when I would hear my name being called every night after midnight. She accused me of just wanting attention when I told her how the shadows had scratched me.

She almost went insane when she came home after work that day, and didn’t see me in the house. She didn’t like living there anymore; she said everything reminded her of me, and she couldn’t take it. She moved a little while later. I was so sad that I wept all night, but I have to stay here with Steven in the corners of the house. Only the mirrors can see my face.

When I was just a kid, what I wanted more than anything was to have a friend. A pet. My mother said no, and said they were very dirty. “Not this one!” But no matter how much I begged, it was all in vain. Time went by and I still wanted a pet. One day, while walking home, I found a dead dog, hit by a car. I felt so sorry for it. “I’ll love you, even though no one else cares!” I dissected it, removed the blood and viscera, and filled it with sawdust. Now I’m happy because I have a pet, and Mother is happy because it’s not dirty.

I sometimes think I need a girlfriend, but Mother says that women are dirty.

I love my job. I’ve worked in the Lost and Found office for ten years so far, and I can’t say it’s ever been monotonous or boring. Every day new deliveries arrive and surprise me. Like the time when the children committed mass suicide, and shortly afterwards we received nineteen wills to live. Those kids should be more careful with their belongings.

I also remember when we found the virginities of fifteen seven-year-old girls. None of them ever came to claim them, but their mothers did come to ask about their innocences, which never arrived. They must have stayed with the rapist.

Today, no less, we’ve received three hearts. That means that soon we’ll receive some revenges and some desires to live. But I fear that most of what we’ll receive will be memories.