MicroHorror

“Quick! Press the REANIMATE switch!” yelled Dr. Zilch.

Illiterate Igor pressed DECONSTRUCT.

Lightning struck the corpse. It transformed into a brown blob.

“What happened?”

“Don’t know, Doctor.”

Igor approached the blob cautiously. “This smells good. Yum. Tastes like chocolate candy.”

“Argh! I’ve failed again!”

“But you’ve discovered a new recipe: corpses plus lightning equals chocolate candy. Halloween’s coming. Use this for trick-or-treat.”

“There’s not enough. Hundreds come every year.

“Make more candy. Plague rages. There’s plenty of corpses.”

“Good thinking, Igor.”

Trick-or-treaters LOVED Zilch’s chocolates.

Zilch decided to export, worldwide.

All of America’s chocolate candy now comes from Zilch’s laboratory.

• Copyright: © 2007 Michael A. Kechula

“Dammit!” Harry yelled. “I didn’t find a soul walking the streets. What’s a guy supposed to do to get some hot chow?”

“I didn’t find anybody, either,” Charlie said. “I’ve never been so famished. I spent hours combing the railroad yards. Damn place was empty. It ain’t right.”

“Screw this,” Moe said. “I’m heading back to Haiti. Never missed a meal the whole time I lived there. There’s plenty of hot chow over there. Somebody’s always getting lost in the jungle.”

“Let me know when you’re leaving,” Charlie said. “I’ll go with you.”

“Hold on,” Harry said. “I still have the cell phone I took from that guy I ate last week.”

“So what? You don’t know anybody’s phone numbers. And even if you did, the way you growl when you talk, you’ll scare the hell out of whoever answers. Next thing you know, the cops’ll be after us.”

“Suppose I call 911 and say there’s a bomb hidden in the mall? I figure hundreds of shopper will run out of the mall.”

“Good idea,” Charlie said. “The parking lot ain’t lit very well. If we play our cards right, we can yank a few shoppers into the surrounding bushes. Then it’ll be PARTY TIME!”

“But if we get caught,” said Moe, “the cops’ll shoot us.”

“So what? They can’t kill us twice.”

“True. Which makes me wonder—if I’m dead, why am I so hungry?”

“Who knows? Who cares? All I know is I’m starved.”

“Then we all agree that I’ll call 911 and say there’s a bomb in the mall?” asked Harry.

Moe and Charlie nodded.

“OK,” Harry said. “Let’s head to the parking lot. Once we get to the surrounding trees, I’ll make the call.”

Before long, they arrived at the tree-lined perimeter. All three carried ice cream scoops, the edges of which had been honed to razor sharpness.

“Get ready,” Harry said. “I’m gonna call. Here goes. Hello, 911? There’s a bomb in the mall.” He hung up fast.

Moe tapped his scoop against a tree to mark the passing seconds. When he reached 247, shoppers poured out the mall.

“Be very quiet, and don’t make a move until somebody gets real close to the trees,” Charlie said.

Green goo dripped from their salivating mouths onto the ground, a sign of excruciating hunger.

Three unlucky shoppers moved too close to the trees.

Harry, Charlie, and Moe munched on fresh, hot brains they quickly scooped from crushed heads. When sated, they slipped away and headed for their night’s lodgings. Along the way, they traded tidbits about the meal they’d just enjoyed.

“Man, those were the sweetest I had in ages,” Moe said. “Reminded me of candy canes.”

“Mine were slightly salty—just the way I like them,” Charlie said. “But now I’m thirsty.”

“I sprinkled some garlic powder on mine. Dee-licious!” Harry said, picking a few gray morsels from his putrid teeth for additional chewing.

“Too bad we don’t have a freezer,” Moe said. “We coulda stocked up real good tonight. At least a week’s worth.”

“Wal-Mart has lotsa freezers, ” Charlie said. “Maybe we can build some surplus, then find a way to hide it in their freezers. It’s something to think about tomorrow. The cemetery’s just ahead. Let’s get a good night’s sleep and work on that one with fresh minds.”

“Minds?” asked Moe. “None of us has any brains left that ain’t petrified by now.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” Harry said. “I often wonder about the irony. We don’t have brains, yet we eat them hot and fresh every chance we get.”

“Speaking of brains, I could go for a gray matter pizza with extra cheese,” Charlie said. “You know—for a change of pace.”

“We’ll work on that tomorrow,” Harry said, as they entered a moldy crypt.

• Copyright: © 2007 Michael A. Kechula

“Hey, Sue, look what I got at the flea market for a buck,” Harry said, putting a black metal box on the table.

“How exciting! I can’t wait to see what’s inside!”

Harry slammed the rusted padlock with a hammer. After a few whacks, the lock fell off.

Removing the lid, Sue screamed when she saw a woman’s head.

“Take it easy,” Harry said. “It ain’t real. Looks like it’s made from wood.”

“What an ugly-looking hag. What’s that button for on her forehead?”

“I don’t know.”

When Sue pressed the button, the head’s eyes popped open. An old woman’s voice cackled, and said, “Put a penny in my mouth, if you dare, and I’ll tell your future.”

“How neat,” she said, reaching for her change purse.

“Don’t do it! This thing gives me the creeps. It might be haunted. Look–it just smirked at me!”

Ignoring his pleas, Sue inserted a penny into a slot between the hag’s lips. Whirring sounds filled the room. The thing’s eyes rolled backward. Only the whites showed.

“You will die in five minutes,” a screechy voice said.

“I told you it’s haunted!” Harry yelled. “Did you hear what it just said?”

“Yeah. It’s the best thing I ever heard,” she said, jumping up and down. “Yeee-haw! I’m gonna win Power Ball, tonight.”

“That’s NOT what it said.”

“I gotta buy a ticket. Power Ball’s up to a hundred million. I can’t believe it! I’m gonna be rich! Wa-hooo!”

Grabbing the box, Harry said, “I’m gonna burn this damn thing.”

“No you’re not! You might screw things up. If you ruin this for me, I swear I’ll cut your heart out!”

“Listen to me. It didn’t say you’re gonna win anything. It said you’re gonna DIE in just a few minutes.”

“You’re nuts. You’re just jealous that I’m gonna win a hundred million. What are you afraid of, Harry? That I’ll collect the money and run off?”

“No! I’m afraid for your life.”

“Stop acting so jerky,” she said, heading for the door.

Harry shoved a penny into the thing’s mouth.

“You will be hanged for murder,” said the voice.

“Hear that?” Harry said. “Can’t you see what’s happening?”

“All it said was: you’re a jerk,” she replied. “And if I stay with you, you’re gonna wreck my future.”

“You evil fiend!” Harry yelled, pounding the wooden face with his hammer.

Sue tried to stop him. He shoved her aside.

“Look what you did!” she screamed. “You killed it. You rotten bastard! You ruined my future!”

She grabbed a pot and slammed Harry’s head with all her might until he collapsed.

Cursing him, she tried to insert a coin between the smashed lips, but it wouldn’t go into the slot. She tried to pry the lips open with a screwdriver. “Please take my penny. Please tell me you’re not mad, and that I’m still gonna win the lottery.”

Suddenly, she screamed. Blood streamed from her hand.

“Why did you bite my fingers off?” she shrieked before fainting.

***

The jury thought the evidence against Harry was overwhelming. He’d cut off his wife’s fingers. Then her head. Since two psychiatrists affirmed his sanity, all agreed this was a case of premeditated murder.

Harry described the head in the box to detectives and how it could have maimed and murdered his wife while he was unconscious. They thought he was nuts. Especially when they searched his apartment and found nothing unusual.

Before sentencing Harry to death by hanging, the judged asked if he had anything to say.

“Yes, Your Honor. I want everyone here to listen very closely. It’s a matter of life or death. If you ever find a black box with a wooden head inside, don’t smash its face with a hammer.”

• Copyright: © 2007 Michael A. Kechula

I thought my best friend, Dr. Harry Harlow, was nuts when he told me he was going to Haiti to capture a zombie.

“Whadda ya gonna do if you actually find one?” I asked with a snicker.

“Bring it back to the university and run some experiments.”

Harry sent emails regularly from Haiti. Suddenly they stopped. After two months, I contacted the American Embassy. They had no knowledge of his whereabouts. Concerned for Harry’s welfare, I hung a CLOSED FOR VACATION sign on the door of my private investigator office and flew to Haiti.

Harry’s last email had mentioned Hotel Balzac and Bahody, an old native chambermaid who’d befriended and mothered him. I headed for the hotel to find her.

“I miss my white son,” Bahody said, eyes filling with tears. “Every full moon, I sacrifice a chicken, begging the gods to bring him back–even if it be from the dead.”

“I promise I’ll find him.”

“You’ll never find him. My sister speaks to voodoo gods. They told her he’s lost forever. Zombies stole him.”

Ignoring her superstitious comments, I asked, “Tell me about the last time you saw him.”

“The moon was full. The air was foul. The drums spoke of doom. I begged him not to walk to Café Blanc alone. He wouldn’t listen.”

“Why’d he go there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where is it?”

“Don’t go there. You’ll lose your soul.”

“My soul? Stop talking nonsense and tell me how to get to Café Blanc!”

“No! It’s an unholy place. Even rats die when they get too close.”

“Then I’ll get directions from the concierge.”

“If you must go,” she said, “take this for protection.” She tried to push a small, black, red-eyed statue into my hand.

I called her a stupid, superstitious woman and stormed out.

A waiter at Café Blanc remembered Harry. “He drank much rum with a voodoo priest from Destrudo. A very dangerous man. They left together.”

“Where’s Destrudo?”

“In the jungle. A most terrible place with zombies and terrifying voodoo ceremonies.”

I couldn’t find anyone who’d risk driving me anywhere near Destrudo.

“Perhaps Mulu will take you,” someone whispered. “They say she’s from Destrudo. Some say she is a zombie. Others say she is wife of a white zombie. There she is now.”

I approached her battered jeep. “Take me to the white man who lives in Destrudo,” I said, waving twenty dollars.

“You… do… not… fear… to… ride… at… night… with… a … zombie?” she asked. Her breath reeked of jungle rot.

“Save the baloney for gullible tourists,” I said, boarding the jeep.

“You do not believe?”

“Nope. Let’s go. I don’t have all night.”

“Foolish… American,” she mumbled.

I snickered at her ludicrous words and slow speech.

Ten minutes later, I was on the verge of screaming. While driving manically through jungle paths, her skin took on a greenish glow. Before I could jump from the jeep, she slammed the brakes.

“There’s… the… white… man,” she said, pointing to a jungle clearing.

Something with a greenish glow approached. It had Harry’s face!

“Harry,” I called. “It’s me–your pal, Charlie.”

Moaning, he approached and touched my face. His fingers were icy. The stench sickened me.

As I tried to grab and handcuff him, his putrid teeth ripped flesh from my cheek. The pain was horrendous. I tried to get away, but tripped. Suddenly, both were biting my face like mad dogs.

I broke away and raced through the jungle like a madman until I blacked out. I don’t know how I got back to the city.

Since that horrible night in Haiti, my cheeks have dripped pus continuously. Modern medicines can’t stop the flow.

Many shamans have exorcised me. I’ve sacrificed countless chickens to voodoo gods. I’ve consumed putrid hoodoo potions. But nothing heals my wounds, or stops Harry and Mulu from invading my dreams and feasting while I sleep.

Yesterday, I woke up hemorrhaging. My right hand was gone!

I don’t wanna die. Please help me. I’ll pay anything.

• Copyright: © 2007 Michael A. Kechula

After three commercials, the TV host said, “Welcome back to Hedonist for a Day. Every week, we select a winner from three unfortunate men who’ve had lives of unspeakable misery. Each contestant gets eight minutes to tell his story. Meanwhile, everyone in our studio audience is fitted with tear-o-meters. As each contestant tells his tale of woe, our computer tracks the studio audience’s tear volume. The contestant eliciting the most tears is the winner. For his prize, we’ll put the winner inside our Pleasure Palace where he’ll enjoy incredible pleasure provided by fabulous women, machines, and pharmaceuticals. And now… let’s meet our final contestant!”

A dazzling model set a large glass jar on a table. The jar contained a severed head immersed in yellow liquid. Dozens of multi-colored wires ran from the top of the head to speakers mounted on the jar.

Removing the lid, the host spoke into the jar. “What’s your name, Sir?”

“Howard,” the head gurgled.

“Why do you want to be named Hedonist for a Day?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Sure is. But there’s a devastating story here. Tell us about your unspeakable misery.”

The head told a tale so shocking, thousands of home viewers fainted. Several had heart attacks. Dozens in the studio audience had to be revived by paramedics.

“Phew!” said the host. “What an incredible story of tortuous suffering.”

The camera switched to a large computer loaded with blinking lights. A bell sounded, and a slip of paper fell into a hopper. The host removed the slip and held it to his eyes.

“Based on our computer’s measurements of tear output, I’m pleased to announce this week’s Hedonist for a Day is… Howard!”

Howard’s grinning head bobbed so violently, it almost flew out of the jar.

The show ended when a model carried the jar into the Pleasure Palace.

Entering the palace, the host told Howard, “This is the first time a decapitated head ever won. Frankly, since you don’t have a body, we’re not sure how to apply our mind-blowing pleasure techniques. Let’s try an erotic massage by three professional geishas and see what happens.” Pointing to a topless pleasure provider, the host added, “Take his head out of the jar and put it on the massage table.”

“No!” Howard yelled. “If you pull my wires and remove me from the fluid, I’ll die within three minutes. How about putting me on the pleasure machines?”

“That won’t work. If we immerse pleasure probes in your fluid, you’ll be electrocuted.”

“Dammit! I won fair and square. You better find a way to give me the intense pleasure you promised, or I’ll sue!”

The host took the show’s producer aside. “This guy’s a royal pain in the ass. Maybe we can say we had a computer error, and that he really didn’t win.”

“Good idea,” the producer said. “I’ll toss him a few bucks. Then we’ll get him outta here.”

When Howard heard the producer’s offer, he screamed, “Keep your freakin’ money. I want to feel every ounce of pleasure you owe me.”

After the host and producer conferred again, the producer said, “Howard, we think we found an answer. We’re going to put fish in your jar.”

“How are fish gonna give me a good time?”

“The kind we have in mind wiggle frantically when they swim. When they brush against your face, their wiggling will give you exquisite pleasure.”

“Sounds good to me,” the head said.

The host dropped six fish into the jar and replaced the lid.

“Mmm,” Howard gurgled. “Good choice. This is sooo nice.”

Seconds later, his screams could be heard for miles.

“Look at those cute tropical fishies,” squealed a pleasure provider, as she stared at the skull in the jar. “What kind are they?”

“Piranha,” said the smiling host.

• Copyright: © 2007 Michael A. Kechula

Robert saw an ad in the paper. “Loved Ones Returned. Minimal Cost. Why Be Alone?”

The next day, he sat in Madame Majestic’s musty parlor.

“I want my girlfriend back,” he said, “but she’s dead. Can you bring her back?”

“Yes,” Madame said. “But I’ll need a hundred dollars and a piece of her finger.”

“I’d gladly dig up her grave right now and get it for you, but she’s buried overseas.”

“Then I need a piece of YOUR finger.”

“When can you do this?” he asked.

“Now. Do you have the money?”

Robert gave her two fifties.

“Put your finger here,” she said, pointing to a cutting board. “Bite hard on this sponge.”

He’d never felt such horrendous pain.

“Drink this whiskey,” she said, binding his wound. “It’ll deaden the pain. Go home, turn off all the lights, and wait for her in bed. She’ll come at midnight.”

Driving home, he noticed heavy bleeding. He rushed to a hospital.

“This is a nasty wound,” said a doctor. “How’d you cut off the tip of your thumb?”

“The knife slipped when I was slicing meat.”

“Frankly, this looks like a ritual cutting. I’ll have to report this to the police.”

Robert ran for the door, but slipped and crashed headfirst into a gurney.

Next thing he knew, he was in a hospital bed. Though dizzy, he got up and went to the bathroom. The mirror showed a bandaged head. Then he remembered: Sandy was supposed to show up at his apartment at midnight.

Scrambling into his clothes, Robert bolted from the hospital.

It was 11:35 when he floored his Mustang.

He managed to get into bed with only two minutes left. Trembling with sexual anticipation, he thought of the things they’d done so many times before she died. A year without her had made him ravenously hungry.

As the clock struck midnight, a glowing green mist appeared on the ceiling. It grew larger as it moved toward Robert.

“Sandy, my love,” he called softly when a face began to form, “I’ve missed you terribly.” Closing his eyes, he spread his arms.

When soggy, cold lips pressed against his, he gagged from the stench. Pushing her away, he was startled when realizing he’d kissed a rotted corpse full of leaking cavities.

“Get outta here! Go back where you came from!”

“It’s too soon, my love. I’m yours until daylight. The only way I can return before then is to bring a sacrificial offering to the Gatekeeper of the Eternal Pit.”

“What kind of offering?”

“Your flesh.”

“Take your piece of flesh,” he said, spreading the fingers on his good hand. “Then get the hell outta here.”

He shuddered when a cleaver appeared in her putrid hand.

Closing his eyes, he gritted his teeth and braced himself for the horrific shock. The chop came so swiftly, he didn’t feel the slightest pain in his hand. That’s when he realized she’d chopped of something more precious than a finger.

• Copyright: © 2007 Michael A. Kechula