MicroHorror

Yesterday, I arrived in this nowhere desert town. I found an oasis called Harry’s Bar. I drank hard and fast and got a long-lasting buzz.

I left, checked into a motel, slept, and woke up this morning. I made a long-distance call to my ex-girlfriend. She hung up on me. I walked around town and killed time until Harry’s Bar re-opened.

After midnight, I was still in Harry’s Bar, slowly drinking Johnnie Walker Red and dreaming of young beautiful women in bikinis when the two young men at the other end of the bar got into an altercation and almost killed each other. I sat on my stool and watched. Then the tall muscular blond with dark blue eyes pulled out a knife on the shorter guy. Both men were probably in their mid-twenties, pumped up on testosterone and macho bullshit. And someone was gonna get hurt.

Abruptly, I stood up and hurried toward them. “Stop!” I cried out.

The blond man turned toward me, smiled sardonically, and brandished the shiny knife. “You want a piece of this?”

He stabbed me three times before I lost consciousness. They say he strolled out of the bar with the other guy by his side. At the local hospital, they operated on me and saved my life. Afterwards, I stayed there three weeks.

Now, I’m back on the streets. I’m searching for the blond guy. I’m gonna kill him.

I travel from town to town. My wounded body is healing. But my rage is devouring me. At night, I look in the mirror and see a twisted face of hellfire. When I fall asleep, I’m back in Harry’s Bar and the fellow is sticking me with his knife. Blood is gushing from my chest. I’m dying. I wake up screaming.

I enter Paradise, a small town about a hundred miles from where I got stabbed. I’m hungry and thirsty so I look for the nearest bar/restaurant. A local guy gives me directions and I find the place easily. I park my car and saunter to the bar.

Above the entrance is a neon sign flashing Harry’s Bar. Am I going mad? I enter, clutching a .38.

He’s there, in the back with his buddy. And I’m sitting on the stool in the front. He takes out a knife and my alter ego rushes toward him.

I follow. “Stop!” I cry out.

The bum lunges at me with his knife and cuts me. With one shot, I blow his head off. Then I black out.

I wake up at the hospital again. (Or is it a prison?) In a few days, I get out of bed and stagger to the bathroom. I look in the mirror and shriek: “Who am I?”

Inside the mirror, the blond guy with dark blue eyes gazes at me. He smiles wickedly.

“I’m possessed!” I screech.

Tomorrow, we’re gonna take the long walk down Death Row. At noon, we’re gonna sit in the Chair together and get fried. We killed the Good Samaritan.

I wake up screaming. I’m back in Harry’s Bar, clutching a slick glittering knife. Am I dreaming? Do I wear the black shroud of guilt? Or am I a ghost of a ghost?

In a little town called Paradise, I wander in a dark wasteland from which there is no escape.

I’ve been traveling on the antediluvian Mother Road for days, sometimes sleeping overnight in my ’66 Plymouth Fury, listening to eerie sounds whirling and swirling in the pitch-black windy night. These strange sounds, accompanied by the foul odors of urine, feces, and decomposing corpses, have followed me since the beginning of my journey. Still, I continue on.

My journey began in Chicago and I’m heading for Los Angeles. Now, I’m in Holbrook, Arizona. Tonight, I’ll stay at the Wigwam Motel, where I’ll sleep inside my private concrete wigwam. The alien sounds may return, but I need to be here.

Late at night, I lock myself inside my wigwam and read Kerouac’s On the Road. I’m searching for myself and I’ve got a rendezvous with Destiny.

After midnight, I hear the cutting, uncanny sounds in the distance outside the wigwam and smell the suffocating odors of death. I feel safe inside the concrete wigwam. Yet something dark inside me urges me to go outside and face the intrusive invisible enemy.

Clutching a flashlight, I open the door, step across the threshold, and saunter off into the night. About fifty feet from the wigwam, the sounds are harsh and painful to my ears and the scents burn my nostrils and lungs, gripping my throat like the Hangman’s noose. I gasp for air. Why did I come out here? What dark force compelled me to leave the wigwam?

Turning around, I scurry back to the wigwam. But a crushing pain on the left side of my chest assaults me. Abruptly, I stop and listen to my howling heart, beating and thumping and rushing out of control like a runaway train.

I try to move, but I can’t. Yet when the unearthly sounds and oppressive scents surround me, my legs move again and I hurry back.

Back inside the wigwam, I feel safe. I will not venture out again until the morning. I’m very tired and need to sleep, but the pain is unbearable. Still, I close my eyes and pray.
When I open my heavy eyes, I look at my watch. Only three minutes have passed.

Now, I feel the crushing pain in my chest. I try to breathe. Yet with each breath, the pain is excruciating.

Locked inside the wigwam with ghostly sounds and lethal scents, I clutch my chest. My cell phone is a few feet away. I must reach it and call 911.

I crawl toward the phone. Alien sounds blare like trumpets, whirling and swirling in my brain. They bore a dark hole deep into my wounded soul. And pungent odors of decay make me vomit.

Breathless, nauseous, and tortured by unbearable pain, I stop moving and silently scream: What are you? Why have you stalked me on Route 66, the Mother Road? Or have I traveled on a different highway? Where am I?

With all my willpower, I continue to crawl toward the phone. Will I reach it before I lose consciousness? Will I?

Once a month, for an hour, in a town of relentless darkness, the sun rises in the east and lights up this dark place. And the old house on the hill, otherwise invisible in the pitch-black darkness, can be seen from the center of town.

During the hour of light, we also see an old man inside the home. He always sits by a window and smiles at us. Looking through my precious binoculars, I see his warm gold eyes and I’m filled with hope. We believe he is the key to our freedom. But we will only travel to him in the light.

Now, the sun is emerging, illuminating our eerie town again. One of us must volunteer to climb the hill, speak to the old man, and find a way to freedom. Perhaps there is a universe of light beyond the house. The old man will know.

We are trapped in a world of relentless, cold darkness, rain, and snow. During the day, which is indistinguishable from the night, we walk the streets with flashlights and candles when we go to work, or shop, or visit with our friends.

Last month, we lost electricity and heat. Wearing winter coats, we sit inside our buildings with flashlights and candles too. In our homes, we sit by the fireplace to keep warm and dream of a soothing world of light and the old man whom we believe is our salvation.

Shall I climb the hill and speak to him? Many have volunteered in the past. Yet no one has returned to save us.

I ring the church bell, letting the townspeople know that someone is about to climb the hill. The others look out their windows and wave to me as I begin my journey. The sun is rising in the east and soon I will bask in a sprawling sun. I take my first step and hurry off. There is less than an hour of light remaining before we are prisoners of the darkness again.

I climb the hill. In the distance I see glittering objects and suddenly, the smell of vomit wafts down the hill with a zephyr. I gasp for air. My knees buckle. I crouch. Slowly, I rise and take a few shallow breaths. And I continue up the hill.

The sun is beating down on me. It is a beautiful sun, but I am sweating profusely and breathing heavily. And now the wind carries the scent of rotting flesh to my nostrils. I bend over and vomit. Then I continue on.

Now, I see them–the familiar bones, skulls, and rotting flesh of humans who climbed the hill but died before reaching the top.

Beneath me, the pulsating, hungry earth, a seething cauldron, feeds on the human debris. Soon it will no longer hold my heavy body, for a brutal sun is transforming it into quicksand. Yet I continue on.

Near the top, I discover more bones, skulls, and rotting flesh. Where is the house and old man? My eyes flit and dart across the glittering structure. Oh, my God! What do I see? I hear a distant shriek. The horrific voice is mine.

Too late to retreat into the dark universe I left behind, I struggle to remain afloat above the melting earth. I stagger toward the imaginary house and old man.

Sweaty and breathless, my skin roasts beneath a relentless sun that burns and eats my flesh. I reel toward the town’s illusion. If I can pass through the gold eyes of the sun and survive, I may discover a world beyond the darkness and an unbearable sun where humans can live. If not, I will die beneath this monstrous sun.

When night falls, I sit on my balcony and gaze at the streetlamp below. A week ago, I kissed Maria beneath its globe. A cop, with a twisted smile, arrived and warned us that the curfew would soon begin. Anyone found on the street would be arrested.

Maria had to prepare a lecture on Freedom. So she rushed to her apartment three blocks away, vanishing into the darkness. The cop left too.

Maria is missing. The officer’s back, looking up at me, and wearing his twisted smile. Our eyes meet. Later, we will share the abandoned streets and THE TRUTH. Perhaps, even death.

I woke up a few minutes ago, alone in the master bedroom of our mansion by the sea, sweating and trembling and cringing like a little boy, curled up in a fetal position in a corner of our king-size bed. Something horrific happened last night, but I blacked out. Can’t recall a bloody thing. My name’s Jack Hunter (a.k.a. Jacob Horowitz), the CEO of a cutting-edge consulting firm.

My wife Carole is the loveliest lady on this planet. My son Eric’s away at college, majoring in political science and pre-law at Harvard. My daughter Julia is a straight-A premed student at Yale.

Last night, Carole and I celebrated our silver wedding anniversary. But something bad happened. And now, I’m alone in our bed in our Manhattan Beach house in Brooklyn. Where’s my wife Carole?

The room is dark. Is it still the middle of the night? I stumble out of bed. My legs are wobbly and my breath reeks of Johnnie Walker Red. I trudge through the thick darkness and turn on the lights. Carole is not here. Perhaps she is in the bathroom down the hall or downstairs in the kitchen.

My frenzied eyes dart and flit across the room, stop, and gaze at the flowing white curtain covering the bay window. Then they sail around the room, landing on the family picture on the night table. I see a man and woman in their twenties and two toddlers, a boy and a girl, smiling generously at an unknown photographer. I don’t recognize the couple or the children. Who are they? Why do I have a family picture of strangers in my bedroom?

My mind drifts and I stagger to the white curtain. Looking behind the curtain, I discover black shades that cover the window. When I peek behind the shades, a fiery blast of sunlight assaults me.

I rush away and notice a six-foot mirror covered in black cloth. In my religion, when a loved one dies, the mourner sits shiva for a week. During this period, we cover the mirrors in the house. Has someone died?

Like a feeble old man, I totter to our bed and see it. There’s blood on the bed and on my hands too.

“Carole!” I cry out. “Carole, are you okay?”

I flounder and reel toward the door. But I drift back to the bed and lie down. I gaze at the family picture that looks strangely familiar. Who are they? Who am I? What year is it?

I fall asleep and dream two dreams. In the first dream, I’m driving on an old country road in Maine late at night. Carole is sitting between little Eric and Julia in the back. We’re heading to Ogunquit, Maine for our summer vacation. Suddenly, a car comes out of nowhere and crashes into us.

The first dream merges with the second one. Carole and I are in our Brooklyn home. We’re drunk and angry with each other. The anger turns to rage and we get physical. I grab a knife and… I’m back in my room and awake.

The truth lies beyond the bedroom door. I must search for Carole in every room, alcove, or hallway of our labyrinthine mansion. If someone has hurt her (us), I will hunt him down.

I will find Carole. And later, I will call Eric and Julia. But who am I? Am I guilty of a heinous crime?

Listen. Can you hear someone crying out there? Listen to the ghostly shrieks. I must go.

After driving north for hours on Route 1, I took a wrong turn and now, I’m lost. It’s the middle of the night and the road is pitch-black. I’m not going to make it to Bar Harbor, Maine tonight. Hope there’s a small town nearby and a motel with a vacant room. I’m real tired and need to sleep.

The dark road seems endless but there’s a sign all lit-up in the distance. It says: THE TOWN OF HA 1/2 MILE. I laugh anxiously and almost hit the ugly dog that leaps across the road, but the dumb creature vanishes into the night. I take a few deep breaths and continue driving toward the Town of Ha.

It looks like a ghost town. Yet it has a motel with a light on in the lobby. When I knock on the door, there’s a long, chilly silence. I wait. Maybe no one’s there. But when I knock on the door again, an angry voice cries out: “Come in.”

An old man is lying on a black leather couch in the lobby. He sits up and barks: “You woke me up!”

“Sorry.”

He’s got dark brown eyes and a brick-like head like a Pit Bull. He stares at me as if he were penetrating my flesh, bones, and soul.

“What do you want?”

“Got a room for the night?”

“Yeah. What brings you here, mister?”

“Got lost.”

“Well, you’re in luck. Come, let me check you in. Check-out time’s 11 a.m.”

“I’ll need directions to Route 1.”

“No problem. I’ll give you directions in the morning.”

The old man gives me the key to Room 13.

“Room 13?” I mutter.

“Are you superstitious, mister?”

“No. Room 13 is fine.”

“It’s on the first floor in the back. Go to the end of the parking lot and make a right by them trees. It’s the first room on the other side of the building. Here’s the key.”

“Thanks a lot. See you in the morning.”

I saunter off but the old man cries out: “Don’t go out tonight.”

“I’m going straight to bed.”

“Just don’t go out. We got some dangerous creatures in them woods.”

From the main office, I stroll along a dimly lit path. Near the woods, it’s pitch-black. Got no flashlight on me. Gingerly, I walk to the other side of the building. I hear something in the woods–shrill sounds I can’t identify. I keep trudging across the thick darkness that surrounds me. My heart beats rapidly and my body shakes. I want to run. I can’t.

For a moment, I stop. My legs are heavy. I’m paralyzed. Then suddenly, I hear the piercing cries from the woods again and I rush forward. Around the bend, I find Room 13.

Don’t recall what happened next. But I’m awakened by harrowing shrieks that seem to come from Room 12. I hurry outside, look into Room 12, and see the impossible–a phantom flying around a room on fire! It looks at me and shrieks. My trembling hands cover my eyes. Yet when I look again, the room is empty and shrouded in an eerie silence. Soon, I hear the piercing shriek again in the next room.

I stagger along the faintly lighted path and compulsively look into each fiery room. The ghosts beckon me. I twist around and fall. On the ground, I discover the discarded sign. I read its dark words. WELCOME TO HADES.

I gaze into the shroud of darkness beyond. The monsters are lurking there. Breathing heavily, I step into the darkness. Got a rendezvous with an old man and company.

The old man had the same intrusive, reverberating nightmare five nights in a row. In the phantasmagoric wasteland of his implosive psyche, he entered a dark cul-de-sac at midnight in a deserted section of the city. He sauntered to an abandoned building of broken glass, detritus, and human debris where the foul scent of urine and feces assaulted him.

The front door was ajar and he slithered into the antediluvian edifice. A tiny glowing light bulb dangled from a low ceiling in a narrow vestibule. He opened the inner door, staggered down the hallway and slowly climbed the creaking stairs until he reached the seventh floor landing.

Gasping for air, he crept toward apartment 7J and knocked. His heart beat rapidly and he felt a heavy pressure on the left side of his chest. He could barely catch his breath.

Eventually, the other opened the door. He gazed at the old man and smiling sardonically, he announced: “One of us must die!”

The old man woke up. He was sweating profusely and his heart was beating rapidly. The dark dream had lasted only a few seconds. Although it rushed through his ancient brain like a wild black stallion, the old man had experienced an eternity of Hell.

On the sixth night, the other called him.

“Hello, Janus.”

“Who is this?”

“J.”

“J? Do I know you?”

“Yes. We’ve met five nights in a row.”

“You?”

“Yes.”

The old man started gasping for air. His right hand clutched his chest.

“What do you want?”

“One of us must die! Thus, we must meet tomorrow night at midnight.”

“Where?”

The other told him the address and gave him directions. Then he hung up.

The old man entered the cul-de-sac at midnight in a deserted section of the city. He slithered and slinked to the abandoned building, slipped into the condemned edifice, and stepped over dead rats and mice in the narrow vestibule. A naked light bulb hung from the low ceiling. He opened the inner door, drifted down the dim hallway and climbed the stairs, stopping at each landing to catch his breath.

On the seventh floor landing, he staggered to apartment 7J and knocked on the door. While he waited for the other to come to the door, he took out his pocket mirror and gazed at himself. Breathing heavily, he studied his image. It was fading. Soon, there might be nothing reflected in the mirror.

The other opened the door and spoke: “Hello, Janus.”

“Hello, Janus,” the old man echoed.

“Please come in,” the other beckoned.

And the old man entered, clutching his pocket mirror, leaving his familiar reality behind. He had a rendezvous with Fate.

“Doc, I keep having this crazy-freaky dream in which I kill this stranger.”

“Tell me the whole dream,” the shrink commands.

“It’s real vague, doc. I’m lost in this mansion, rushing from room to room in search of something or someone. And when I enter the thirteenth room, I find him. He looks familiar but I don’t recognize him.”

A vast silence separates the doctor and patient. Eventually, the patient breaks the silence and speaks.

“The stranger wants to tell me something. He mutters a few words and… before he finishes the sentence, I shoot him, blowing his brains to Kingdom Come. What does it mean, doc?”

“According to Freud, each dream represents a wish or fear.”

“Don’t think I wished to kill him. I wanted to hear what he had to say. But I was compelled…!”

“Perhaps, you were afraid to hear his insights.”

“No, doc, not afraid. Just disgusted!”

And in a flash, he shoots the shrink who resides at 1301 River Side Drive in Manhattan. Standing over the fresh corpse, he says: “Like everyone I cared about, you disappointed me. And you see, I’ve got these evil voices in my head and they compel me to kill. Sorry, doc.”

Afterwards, he jogs along River Side Drive Park, exorcising the demons in his head until the voices emerge in his psyche and speak again.

The little man, shriveled up and hunched over in his metal cage, stares vacantly into space. Mindlessly, he touches the scar on his left cheek and contemplates his incarceration. He does not recall who imprisoned him. When was he arrested? Why? Has he been convicted of a crime? A misdemeanor or a heinous crime? He does not recall. Trapped within a square cage fit for an alley cat or a stray dog with rabies, inside a dank and dimly lit room, he is lost and claustrophobic.

Periodically, he is assaulted by violent panic attacks and he breathes heavily, as he listens to the relentless palpitations and the fierce pounding inside his chest. He feels faint but can’t fall. Perhaps he’ll black out or die. Death would be sweet. Yet he does not die. And so he contemplates his incarceration.

Will they release him? Or can he escape? Once more he stares vacantly into space. But when his fugitive mind returns, he notices that the cage is not locked. What kind of trap have they set for him?

If he leaves his cage and perhaps this tomblike room, a sarcophagus for the living dead, where shall he go? Is he above the earth or below? In an attic or basement or subterranean structure? In an old-fashioned prison or an eerie futuristic one with new forms of torture? How shall he find his way home?

He drifts off again and wanders in a barren wilderness of his mind where he dreams dark dreams. When he returns, he will crawl out of his cage or crumble into a ball of terror from which he may never return.