MicroHorror

When the New York Transit cop moved to the next subway car, the skinhead with a swastika neck tattoo approached an old woman. She frowned and waved her hand as if shooing a horsefly.

I moved toward him. “What’s your problem?” I asked.

“Nothing a few bucks can’t fix,” he said. “Can you spare some?”

“I don’t give money away. But, if you’re hungry, I’m good for a burger and fries.

“Yeah, I’m hungry. I ain’t et all day.”

“I know a good burger place at the next stop,” I said.

***

“This country’s turning into a third-world toilet,” the skinhead said, his mouth full of greasy fries. “Only the Master Race can save it.” Popping open a battered wallet and flashing a photograph, he added, “This is one who should be running the country. He’d shut the borders, put up a fence, and get rid of all the mongrel vermin–overnight.”

“I knew him well,” I said, pointing to his picture of Adolf Hitler.

“You knew the Fuehrer?”

“Yes. Actually I still do.”

“Bullcrap. He’s been dead over sixty years. And you don’t look more than forty.”

“You can’t tell a book by its cover. I was his personal physician. In fact, I’m twenty years his senior.”

“What the hell are you talking about? That’d make you way over a hundred years old.”

“Correct. You see, I made a monumental discovery back in 1935. Something the world has been seeking for thousands of years–the Fountain of Youth.”

“You’re kidding me,” Skinhead said.

“I can prove it. How’d you like to meet the very man whose picture you have in your wallet–whose symbol is emblazoned on your neck?”

“What? Meet Hitler? Oh, man, I’d give my left nut if that was possible.”

“Then get a knife and slice it off, because he’s alive, and living right here in Manhattan.”

I pressed a key on my cell phone. “Hello? Mein Fuehrer? Do you have a moment to speak to an ardent admirer? He’s fallen on hard times, but I think he may be of great service in your plans to resurrect the Third Reich.”

I passed the phone to Skinhead.

When he pressed it to his ear, his scowl changed to awe. His slumped body suddenly stiffened. “Yes, mein Fuehrer. I would gladly lie, cheat, and steal for you.” After a pause, he added, “Yes, I’d gladly risk my life for the glorious Reich. What do you want me to do?”

Skinhead listened, said goodbye to his hero, and passed me the phone.

“This is awesome! He actually wants to meet me, outside. He said he’ll be here in a few minutes.”

“You’re tremendously honored,” I said. “Very few ever get to meet him. It’s too dangerous. Spectacular lies that were spread about him have poisoned the minds of billions.”

“He said he’d meet me behind the dumpster. I wonder how he knows one’s there?”

“He comes here often. He likes their French fries. Says it reminds him of his triumphal entrance into Paris.”

“Don’t people recognize him?”

“No. Long ago he had plastic surgery. Well, perhaps we should leave. We don’t want to keep him waiting.”

We went out and waited behind the dumpster.

Skinhead looked from left to right in anticipation of his hero’s arrival. Consequently, he didn’t see the black form descending from the night sky. The impact knocked Skinhead to the ground. Before he could react, the form’s teeth pierced his jugular.

“Delicious,” said my Master. “The blood of these skinheads is simply divine. I’m shamelessly hooked. I do hope the supply is plentiful.”

“From what I’ve seen in this city, Master, there’s enough for years of wonderful feasting.”

“You’ve earned a bonus,” he said. “Expect to see two extra mice in your dinner tonight.”

I found myself salivating, as I headed for the subway to snare another skinhead.

• Copyright: © 2008 Michael A. Kechula

I’m showering at the Bates Motel.

Through the shower curtain, I can see a form moving toward me.

“Who’s there?” I scream.

“Mother Bates,” a cackling woman’s voice says.

“Do you have a big nasty knife?”

“Yep.”

“Is it real sharp?”

“Incredibly.”

“Let’s see,” I say, pulling open the shower curtain.

She hands me a nasty-looking butcher knife.

She’s right. The blade couldn’t be sharper.

“Wanna change places?” I ask.

“Sure,” she says, stepping into the shower.

I slash her, Norman her loony son, the entire cast, crew, and Alfred Hitchcock.

I never saw so much blood. Too bad I’m not a vampire.

While you’ve been reading this, I’ve been hacking your computer. Now I know who you are, where you live.

I just took your picture with a camera hidden inside the period at the end this sentence.

Make my day. Leave all your doors open whenever you shower.

• Copyright: © 2008 Michael A. Kechula

When Martian hordes invaded, we fled to the forest.

“What will we do?” sobbed my wife, Lisa.

“I don’t know. Did you grab any food before we left?”

“Just this,” she said, extending three cellophane-wrapped crackers.

“You eat them,” I said.

“No, we’ll share like we always have. Do you want your cracker-and-a half now?”

I declined. I’d save them for tomorrow. Dammit. How the hell am I gonna make it tomorrow on one-and-a-half crackers?

“I wish it was safe enough to make a fire,” Lisa said.

“But it ain’t. Those Martian bastards would be on us in a minute. Did you see all that green muck running from their mouths? Can you imagine what it’s like to be covered with that slime before they eat you?”

“Don’t remind me. It’s bad enough I saw those monsters eating our neighbor’s kids. I’ll never forget it.”

Then out of nowhere, she started to scream.

I had to punch her. She didn’t come to for several minutes. I musta hit her pretty hard. Can’t let myself feel guilty for hitting her. If we’re gonna survive, I gotta have a clear mind. I’m so exhausted after running for miles. I don’t know how long we can last without food and water. Don’t know where we can get any. Ain’t even sure where we are.

“What happened?” she asked, rubbing her jaw.

“You got dizzy and fainted. Your face hit that boulder.”

“My jaw hurts bad. Wish I had some water to take aspirins. Oh, Frank, what are we gonna do?”

“Let’s see if we can find some Morganites.”

“Who’re they?”

“A religious sect. I hear they store lotsa provisions for emergencies. They’re supposed to have lotsa guns, too. Maybe I can get one from them and start fighting back.”

“How are we gonna find them?”

“A guy in a bar told me they paint big Ms on their barns. Tomorrow morning, we’ll start looking for them. I’m sure they’ll share their stuff with us.”

We lay on the ground, covered ourselves with leaves, and spoke in hushed voices. Next thing I knew, it was dawn. I ate my crackers, then woke her.

Continuing our trek through the forest, we found a brook. First water we had in two days. Could’ve been contaminated, but we didn’t care. We might not survive long enough for a bad infection to take hold.

When we finally reached the edge of the forest, Lisa said, “Look! I see a barn! It has a big M painted on the roof!”

“You sure? I can’t see that far without my glasses.”

“I’m positive. Oh, how wonderful!” She started to run toward the barn.

“Wait,” I hollered. “My knee hurts. I can’t keep up.”

“I’ll run ahead and see if anybody’s home,” she yelled.

Though I called out a few times asking her to stop, she didn’t listen. She disappeared in a cornfield.

When I reached the cornfield, I saw the barn roof with the big M. Lisa was right. Good thing her eyesight was better than mine.

I felt hopeful for the first time in two days. Rushing through the cornstalks, I wondered if the Morganites had apple pie. I was dying for something sweet.

Approaching the end of the cornfield, I heard a blood-curdling scream. Peering through the stalks, I saw two Martians pulling Lisa apart and jamming her into their filthy, green dripping mouths.

Horrified, I fled back to the woods.

I didn’t know which was worse: the hunger, depression, or terrible guilt I felt over Lisa’s death. She never would have run to that barn if I hadn’t told her how Morganites marked their buildings.

I had no idea Martians did the same thing.

• Copyright: © 2005 Michael A. Kechula

“How do you really feel about me, Chester?” Cindy Sue asked.

Shy Chester wasn’t sure how to answer. But an inner voice told him what to say. “I think you’re the most fabulous woman on this campus. You’re beautiful, extremely intelligent, a fabulous writer. When I see you in Creative Writing, my heart pounds, and hot lava races through my veins.”

Chester’s outpouring of verbal love electrified Cindy Sue’s soul. Overwhelmed with passion, she opened herself to him.

Chester sighed deeply. His daydreams were out of control again. If only I could walk with her after class I’d have a chance to articulate my feelings. But her nasty-looking boyfriend prevents any possibility of realizing my dreams. The bastard waits for her outside the classroom every damn day. How the hell am I ever gonna talk to her when King Kong hogs her time? Doesn’t he ever get the flu? Doesn’t he ever fall and break his neck, or crash his car into a pole?

The voice told Chester, “There’s only one way to get what you want… kill Kong.”

He chided the voice for suggesting such an immoral, illegal, but fabulously delicious idea.

Every day, the voice urged Chester to take action. Soon, the idea of nudging Cindy Sue’s boyfriend into eternity seemed logical, reasonable, necessary.

One day after class, he stalked them. They lunched in the student lounge, then strolled to the parking garage. When they entered a pickup truck, they kissed.

“You should be in that truck kissing her,” the voice said. “I’ll bet they’re gonna do more than just kiss. Yep. I was right. Look–the truck’s jiggling.”

The sight sickened Chester. He regurgitated, then and ran from the garage.

The voice gave Chester lots of ideas on how to kill Kong. Chester got so desperate he acted on one of them. However, he didn’t count on Cindy Sue being with her boyfriend when the pickup’s brakes gave way. The truck sailed over a cliff.

With Cindy Sue gone, Chester nearly died from grief. He cursed the voice.

Cops interviewed every member of the Creative Writing class. They spent extra time with Chester when he slipped and said he loved Cindy Sue.

“Did you do something to the truck, Chester?” a detective asked, searching Chester’s eyes. “Maybe to get rid of her boyfriend? To have her all to yourself?”

“Me? Kill somebody? Oh no, sir. I couldn’t kill a fly.”

“But you did time in the State Boys’ School for killing things.”

“I got cured while I was there. Dr. Manning said so.”

“Are you really cured, Chester?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll never strangle puppies again.”

The interview shook Chester to the core. That detective’s sharp. I think he’s on to me. I’ll get the gas chamber for sure. I gotta hide somewhere.

The voice suggested dozens of hiding places.

Taking the voice’s advice, Chester ran to the cemetery at midnight and opened Cindy Sue’s grave.

“Hi, Cindy Sue,” he whispered, swinging open the coffin lid. “It’s me–Chester. We sit across from each other in Creative Writing. Would you like a Tic Tac?”

He thought she nodded. The voice confirmed it.

Climbing into the coffin, he lay on top of her. Embracing her tightly, he kissed her cold, fetid lips, and passed the mint from his tongue to hers.

“Hope you don’t mind that I’m so sweaty,” he said. “The lid’s so heavy. Feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. It was harder to open than I thought.”

After more passionate kisses, he confessed his deep yearnings.

“But I’m not eighteen yet, Chester,” she seemed to say. “I’m jail bait.”

The voice whispered, “Tell her nobody will ever find out.”

“Who’s gonna know?” Chester asked, holding her tighter. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

He thought she giggled.

“This beats the gas chamber any day,” he said, reaching up to close the lid.

• Copyright: © 2005 Michael A. Kechula

I’m in Haitian territorial waters. Destination: Miami. A Haitian patrol boat is coming with sirens blaring. They fire a shot over my bow. I quickly stop the engines. Four sailors brandishing machine guns come aboard. General LeHate follows.

“What’s your cargo?” he snaps.

“Cadavers,” I say, passing the manifest. “For American medical schools.”

“What’s their degree of putrefaction?”

“Advanced. The refrigeration units are busted.”

“Let’s see,” he says.

I hope he doesn’t inspect too carefully. Millions in illegal drugs are stuffed inside the cadavers.

He opens the hatch. Greenish smog escapes. The stench is nauseating. Suddenly, a female corpse sits up and moans horribly.

“A zombie!” LeHate yells. “You’re carrying contraband. Zombies are Haiti’s national treasures. They attract tourist dollars. Kidnapping her is like stealing our Big Ben, our Eiffel Tower, our Mona Lisa. This crime is punishable by death.”

“Don’t arrest me,” I plead. “I didn’t know she was aboard. Here’s $5,000.”

He pockets the bribe. “If she were your wife, there’s no crime. For $5,000 more I can give her a travel permit.”

“Then I’ll marry her immediately,” I say, handing him another $5,000.

After he leaves, I’ll toss her overboard.

We stand in front of him, holding hands. Her hand is slippery. It’s leaking green goo.

He pronounces us married. Good grief! What have I done?

“Kiss the bride,” he orders, pointing a pistol at my head.

Her eye falls out as she faces me. She grabs me and bites my lips off. While chewing, she drags me into the hold, and throws me to the floor. I land on squishy corpses.

“Honeymoon time,” she cackles.

• Copyright: © 2004 Michael A. Kechula

While resting at the top of a mountain trail after an arduous climb, Bill heard a horrible scream coming from the bushes.

“Who’s there?” he yelled.

No answer.

Bill drew a pistol from his backpack. “I have a gun. So don’t screw around. I’ll use it if I have to.”

A rotting corpse came out of the bushes. One arm and the top of its head were missing. It moved toward Bill.

“Stop or I’ll shoot!”

The grinning zombie didn’t stop.

Bill fired eleven times. Still, it moved forward.

“What the hell do you want?” Bill hollered, swapping the empty bullet clip in his pistol for a fresh one.

“Root beer,” the thing gurgled.

“Phew. For a second, I thought you wanted to eat my brain.”

“I hate brains. I want root beer.”

“Would ginger ale do? I have two cans in my pack. You can have both if you leave me alone. Promise?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll throw them to you. Can you catch them—considering the fact that one of your arms is missing?”

“Yeah,” the zombie said, crouching like a catcher on a baseball team. “Show me how fast you can throw it. C’mon. Burn it in. Give it all you got.”

Bill had a lousy throwing arm. But he didn’t want to antagonize the zombie. He wound up and threw a can as hard as he could. Unfortunately, it sailed over the zombie’s head, fell into the bushes, and exploded on impact.

The zombie sprang to its rotting feet and growled.

“Wait!” Bill yelled. “I’ll throw this one underhand and real slow.”

“No. Hand it to me.”

Bill waited until the thing was within spitting distance, then extended the ginger ale.

The zombie grabbed Bill’s arm, and pulled it out of the socket.

The shock threw Bill to the ground. While fading in and out of consciousness, he saw the zombie munching on his bloody arm as if it were corn on the cob. In minutes, only the bone was left.

When the zombie raised the arm bone to whack his head, Bill gasped, “Please don’t… you’ll… fracture… my skull.”

“What better way to get at your brains?”

“You… said… you… hate brains.”

“Did you really expect a one-armed, rotting corpse with the top of its head missing, on a lonely path in the middle of nowhere, to tell the truth?”

• Copyright: © 2007 Michael A. Kechula

Haitian zombies love chocolate chip cookies. When discovering Americans spent billions on Halloween treats, they assumed treats meant cookies. Consequently, 372,928 zombies hired Mexican coyotes to smuggle them into America.

Homeland Security found out. The President canceled Halloween. Congress provided chain saws to every household. Zombies didn’t know–they don’t watch TV or read newspapers.

Halloween night, zombies went trick-or-treating for chocolate chip cookies. All were destroyed by chainsaws.

Putrid zombie remains were collected, ground, packaged. Falsely labeled “Prime Ground Beef,” 20 million pounds were shipped to China. One pound for every poisonous toy China exported to America.

• Copyright: © 2007 Michael A. Kechula

“Scary zombie costume!” Harry said to the trick-or-treater at his door.

“It’s not a costume. I’m a real zombie.”

The zombie jumped Harry and bit his skull. Inserting an ice cream scoop into the wound, he removed Harry’s brains. Forming the brains into bite-sized balls, he put them into Harry’s freezer.

When kids knocked, the zombie said, “I don’t have candy, but I can give you ice cream. It’s a new flavor. Do you want it in a plain or sugar cone? Single or double dip?”

Kids loved the chunky, gray-colored ice cream. Especially those who were real zombies.

• Copyright: © 2007 Michael A. Kechula

After the séance ended and the others had departed, Ed asked Madame Glory for a refund.

“I don’t give refunds,” she said. “If the spirits said something you didn’t like, that’s not my problem. I don’t control them, they control me. However, sometimes they get out of hand. Tell you want I’ll do. I’ll let you attend my next séance at no charge.”

“When’s your next séance?”

“Next full moon.”

“That’s a month away!” Ed hollered. “I can’t wait that long. Not after what you said.”

“What did I say?”

“Don’t you remember?”

“I never remember what the spirits channel through me while I’m in a trance.”

“One of your spooky-sounding spirits said I’d die within twelve hours.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir. The spirits never lie. If they say you’ll die, that’s your fate. Prepare yourself for the end.”

“That’s just what I wanna do. I wanna die making love to a gorgeous woman. It’ll cost a hundred bucks for a good-looking streetwalker. I’m almost broke. So give me a refund.”

“No refunds. I cannot be held responsible for what spirits say. You took the risk to hear the truth. You heard it. Now you want your money back. You’re wasting precious time. If you have less than twelve hours to live, perhaps you should be partying right now instead of harassing me.”

“I’ll give you harassment!” Ed’s fist knocked her backward. Her head slammed the pointy edge of a weird, demonic statue. The shock of seeing spurting blood cooled his rage.

“Dammit! She doesn’t have a heart beat. Funny, but I didn’t hear a spirit say she’d be dead within an hour. Maybe it was all a sham–that it was her making up things. Just to give folks the willies and make them feel like they got their money’s worth. Yeah, that’s what it was. Hell, I ain’t gonna die. I better get out of here. But I ain’t going without my refund. Hmm. Nice ring on her finger. That oughta get a few hundred at a pawn shop.”

Ed didn’t stop with the ring. Ransacking the apartment, he collected a fistful of jewelry and a pocketful of cash.

When he yanked open her front door to exit, he was shocked to see a huge dog blocking the way. Its red eyes and greenish glowing face froze Ed in his tracks.

“You killed my best channeler,” the dog said.

“She’s not dead,” Ed said in a quivering voice. “She’s unconscious.”

“I wouldn’t be here if she was unconscious. As a matter of fact, she sent me to avenge her. She’s waiting for you in the pit. I think you should join her. After all, you were told you’d be dead within twelve hours.”

“Can’t we make a deal? I’ll sell you my soul for twenty more years of life? I’ll be your slave. I’ll do anything you say.”

“Won’t work. Madame Glory lied. My spirit doesn’t control her. She controls me.”

The beast sprang at Ed and ripped his throat.

• Copyright: © 2007 Michael A. Kechula

“Waiter!”

“Yes, sir.”

“There’s a fly in my soup!”

“That’s true, sir.”

“Aren’t you gonna take it away and bring me another bowl?”

The waiter chuckled. “Perhaps you think this is the kind of fly that hangs around garbage cans and dog droppings. Perish the thought! Since its conception, this fly has been fed the finest, organic, Iowa corn and raised according to exacting, scientific standards in an ultra-sanitary laboratory. It’s been genetically engineered as a condiment for culinary use. This fly, sir, is an insectus deliciosis. That’s Latin for ‘delicious bug.’ It tastes sweeter than gourmet honey.”

“Really?”

Bite the head off and see for yourself,” the water said. “However, if you prefer, I’ll decapitate the head for you.”

“That’d be nice,” said Harold.

The waiter removed a tiny, silver, scimitar-shaped decapitator from his vest pocket. One quick stroke severed the fly’s head.

“What’s the proper way to eat this?” Harold asked.

“You may use your soup spoon, or sip it through the straw I placed next to your salad plate. Either way is acceptable.”

Harold noticed three women at the next table sticking straws into soup bowls. He did the same.

Munching the fly’s head, Harold said, “Mmm. This is delicious. Bring me another bowl. Make sure it’s loaded with flies.”

“Unfortunately, diners are allowed only one fly per day.”

“How come?”

“I don’t know, sir. I’ve never asked.”

“Well, perhaps you should.”

“If you’d like, I’ll take you to the kitchen, and you can ask the chef yourself.”

“Really? That’d be great.”

“We do have one very special request, sir.”

“What’s that?”

“To avoid potential contamination, guests must wear special, sanitary attire over their street clothes before entering our highly sanitized kitchen.”

“What kind of attire?” Harold asked.

“A laboratory smock. Fits right over your clothes. Also, when you speak to the chef, the first thing you must say is ‘Trick or treat.’”

“Sounds kinda weird, considering Christmas is a week away.”

“I agree,” said the waiter, “but rules are rules.”

Overcome with intense curiosity, Harold followed the waiter into a room filled with smocks.

“What size, sir?”

“Forty-four oughta do it,” Harold said.

The waiter slid the garment over Harold’s head.

Looking at himself in a mirror, Harold said, “This looks like a Halloween costume. It makes me look like an ear of corn.”

“A very stylish one,” said the waiter. “Don’t forget to say ‘Trick or treat’ when the chef speaks to you.”

Entering the kitchen, Harold couldn’t believe his eyes. The huge, immaculate room reminded him of scientific laboratories he’d seen in sci-fi movies. White-clad employees gazed at dozens of gauges, and pressed vast arrays of blinking, multi-colored, console switches.

“Good grief! What’s that?” Harold asked, pointing to a huge, greenish, undulating blob.

“Our head chef. She produces all the flies for our award-winning fly soup.”

The greenish mass, to which dozens of stainless steel tubes were attached, suddenly snorted. At that moment, the glutinous blob expelled a fly directly into a soup bowl.

Employees applauded.

Harold almost threw up. “I’m getting outta here,” he yelled, heading for the exit.

Several waiters grabbed him. They bound his wrists and ankles with sterilized tape, then placed him on a stainless steel table inches from the undulating blob.

“Hello,” it gurgled. “You’re the cutest hunk of corn I’ve seen all day. What’s your name?”

A waiter whispered into Harold’s ear, “Say ‘Trick or treat.’”

Quivering, Harold repeated the words.

“Now nice of you to offer,” the blob said. “A treat would suit me just fine.”

A monstrous tongue lashed out. Harold disappeared.

Minutes later the mass snorted and expelled another fly into a soup bowl. Everyone applauded.

Before adding broth, a technician with a magnifying glass and tweezers plucked miniscule fragments of a man’s suit from the fly’s body.

Ten minutes later, a diner asked, “What’s this floating in my soup?”

“An insectus deliciosis,” replied the waiter. “It’s wonderfully sweet. And extremely fresh.”

• Copyright: © 2007 Michael A. Kechula