MicroHorror

A sickening crunch. A searing bolt of agony. Delilah fell onto the kitchen floor, sending her coupons flying with a single reflexive sweep of her arm. She had never felt such pain. It raced like fire up and down her spine and sent needles of torment through her limbs. She wanted to scream, but couldn’t find her breath. A crack, and another spasm. Her eyes bulged as she twitched and writhed on the linoleum. Blood began to well up in her mouth. Another crunch, and all sensation began to fade into an icy anesthesia. She couldn’t feel her arms or legs. Her vision turned to blackness, and as she died her lips silently formed the name of her young son. James…

Outside the house, James hummed a tuneless melody as he skipped across the fragmented sidewalk tiles towards home.

I loved you all through high school, but you never noticed me. I was too shy to talk to you, and you were so popular.

I asked you to the prom, and you laughed. That’s why I went home and put the shotgun in my mouth.

I still love you, here in the ground. I’m not as good-looking as I used to be, but I know that I just have to be patient. You’ll join me eventually, and then we can be together forever.

It can’t see me, but it’s going to find me. It can’t hear me, but it’s going to find me. It can’t do anything except stagger around the room, waving its arms and crashing into the furniture, but it’s going to find me.

As for me, I’m stuck here. I can’t move at all. I’ve got a perfect vantage point, though, and I can see everything it does. Sometimes it gets close, very close, before it wanders off in some other direction, but it can’t keep this up forever. Sooner or later it’s going to get lucky and find me.

And I’ll be thrilled when it does, because I’ve got nothing to do under this desk but wait until my body finally picks me up and puts me back on its severed neck-stump where I belong.

“Freddy!” whined Sunflower. “Gimme that roach!”

In the driver’s seat, Fat Freddy dodged Sunflower’s grasping hands long enough to take one last hit off the dwindling joint before passing it over. Sunflower inhaled the smoke deeply and gratefully.

Freddy and Sunflower were the only ones awake as the bus rolled down the dark interstate. Behind them, Claude and Mary dozed in an intoxicated haze, nestled in each other’s arms. The upholstery reeked with the mingled scents of marijuana and patchouli. On the radio, Superman and Green Lantern had nothing on Donovan.

“I’m hungry,” Freddy announced.

Sunflower giggled. “You’re always hungry!” She laughed at her own observational wit.

“No, I’m serious,” protested Freddy. “If I don’t get something to eat soon, I’m gonna waste away.” To illustrate his point, he rubbed his massive belly, which strained against the fabric of his dingy tie-dyed T-shirt. “And anyway, I’m driving, so we’re gonna stop and get a bite if I say so. ”

Sunflower leaned over the seat. “Good morning, starshine! Fat Freddy says we’re stopping to eat.”

Claude yawned as he extracted himself from Mary’s embrace. “Groovy, man. I’m starving. I was just dreaming that I was hugging these two giant marshmallows…” He pawed at Mary’s chest. Mary slapped him.

“Where are we going to find food this time of night?” Mary mumbled, straightening her granny glasses.

Fat Freddy pointed at the glowing lights of a gas station. “Check it out, ladies and germs. Zion, the Promised Land.”

At the gas station convenience store, Dre the night cashier could barely believe his eyes. He’d seen pictures of Volkswagen buses before, but couldn’t recall ever seeing one in person, least of all one painted from top to bottom with psychedelic swirls of color. It was a real live hippie bus, just like the one his parents had ridden around in before he was born. It rattled to a halt in the empty parking lot, and the doors swung open. The bus’s four occupants emerged and stretched their limbs in the cool night air.

Dre knew without a doubt that these were no poseurs on their way to a retro costume party. They were the real thing. He stared up at Claude, nearly seven feet tall with a beard and hair down to his waist. He tried to avoid looking too obviously at Mary’s white peasant blouse, which barely restrained her earth-mother bosom. He grinned.

“Man, you guys are awesome. Keeping the dream alive! You guys look like you walked right out of 1967!”

The four looked at him with uncomprehending bloodshot eyes. Dre stammered. “Um, I mean, it’s 2006 now. You don’t see a lot of hippies around anymore.”

Fat Freddy cut him off. “We’re hungry.”

Dre’s grin returned. “I bet you are. The hot food is down for the night, but help yourself to whatever we got. Pringles, Doritos… I think I saw a box of Abba Zabbas around somewhere…”

Sunflower stepped around the tie-dyed behemoth that was Fat Freddy, and shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry, man. You seem real hip and all, but we’re hungry.” Her fangs extended as she advanced on the cashier.

They drank only enough to sate their hunger. The boy would wake up with a headache in three or four hours, and if he was lucky he’d find the fat joint that Sunflower slipped into his pocket. If he smoked it while his blood was still low, he’d get a high like never before.

The foursome passed a bowl around as they drove away. A stray thought found itself at the surface of Claude’s smoke-filled brain. “Did that cat say it wasn’t 1967 anymore?” He took another hit off the pipe.

Mary shook her head. “No, man. He said it was two thousand something.”

Claude pondered this. Only one suitable response came to mind.

“Far out.”

And the bus drove through the night. On the radio, the beat went on.

Our father rarely goes out in search of souls himself these days. He prefers to leave such tasks to underlings, and concentrate more on administration. But he’ll go out on a job himself if a prospect particularly interests him, like the girl in California who swore she would sell her soul for a car.

A little bit of paperwork and a signature in blood later, our father gave her the car she wanted. And what a car it was. A Thunderbird, a convertible Flair Bird, cherry red with white leather interior. A 427, no less, the most powerful of them all, capable of zero to sixty in six seconds flat with a top speed of 135 miles per hour. Oh, it was a beautiful machine.

And she was beautiful when she drove it, too, with her red hair streaming behind her. The boys couldn’t resist racing her, but they never caught her, no. Her T-bird was her life, her joy, her one true love.

But she drove that car too fast, too hard. She was going northbound on Highway 1, doing a hundred and ten, when she misjudged a hard left turn. The beautiful car and the beautiful girl fell over the cliffside and into the steely gray waters of the Pacific.

So she didn’t get to enjoy that Thunderbird for very long, but a contract is a contract. Her soul belongs to our father now, and the caverns of Hell ring with her screams as we apply our pitchforks and white-hot brands to her tender pale flesh.

And we’ll have fun, fun, fun, now that Daddy took the T-bird away.

He wasn’t a very good magician at all. You spotted the gaps in the linking rings. You saw the extra handkerchief in his jacket. The dove he pulled out of his sleeve didn’t look at all healthy, and you wondered how long it had been crammed in there. You would have walked out if you had had anything better to do.

So if he was such a lousy magician, why did you join him on the stage when he looked you in the eye and asked for a volunteer from the audience? Why did your body obey him, and not you, as he readied his props and described his next trick? You never wanted to climb into the box, but you did it anyway. Why?

These questions, and more, race through your mind as he closes the lid, trapping you with your head sticking out one end and your feet out the other. Now he’s picking up the saw, the blade gleaming silver in the harsh stage lights. A dark stain mars the serrated edge. And you’re not at all confident this trick is going to work out the way you’d like.

“Virginia is for lovers,” said the old tourism slogan, and you’ll hear no objection from the thousands of couples who flock there each year, lured by the cozy accommodations and Southern hospitality offered by the bed and breakfast establishments that dot the length of the Shenandoah Valley. And so it was that one of these couples was Marshall and Debbie, young, budget-conscious newlyweds from nearby Silver Spring.

They arrived at the bed and breakfast shortly after sunset, looking forward to spending the first night of their honeymoon engaged in some strenuous conjugal activity, but when they entered their room their gazes fell upon the king-sized bed. It was an antique four-poster, with a dark wooden frame clearly a century old. All thoughts of amorous athletics fled as Marshall and Debbie realized just how exhausted they were, from the drive as well as the pent-up stresses of months of wedding planning. With barely a word, they stripped and collapsed into the giant bed, sinking into the soft down mattress, and into a deep, comforting slumber.

Debbie woke up with the light of the full moon shining in her eyes. She looked over at her husband sleeping beside her, his body nestled in the soft bed. She smiled at the sight of him, lying there so peacefully, but then something caught her eye. Something wasn’t quite right. Slowly, impossibly, she realized what it was. Marshall wasn’t merely sinking into the mattress. He was sinking through it. Most of his left leg had already vanished below the surface, and the rest of his body was following.

Debbie screamed, and lunged towards her husband to shake him awake. He didn’t stir. She grabbed his shoulder and shouted his name, but still he remained sound asleep, sinking into the massive bed. Terrified, Debbie leapt onto the floor… or, rather, she tried to. Her legs, like her husband’s, were already being absorbed into the mattress, trapping her. She screamed again, and struggled, but she couldn’t tear herself out of the bed’s grasp. Slowly, inexorably, both Debbie and Marshall sank deeper. Marshall was the lucky one, for he never woke up as he disappeared beneath the surface of the bedclothes. Debbie, however, was fully conscious when her face, bug-eyed and gasping for breath, finally vanished from view. Her outstretched hand was the last part of her to disappear.

When the sun rose, not a trace of Marshall or Debbie remained, except for their clothes and luggage on the floor. Birds sang melodically outside, greeting the new day. The morning was peaceful. The bed had had its breakfast.

Dr. and Mrs. Schneider were enjoying their evening out. For the first time in months, they had been able to leave their five-year-old daughter Naomi with a sitter and enjoy a leisurely dinner at one of the nicest restaurants in town. The entree dishes had been cleared away, and Dr. and Mrs. Schneider remained at their table in pleasant anticipation of dessert.

Dr. Schneider reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his cell phone. His wife glared.

“Simon, what are you doing? It’s rude to use that thing in a restaurant. Put it away.”

“I just wanted to give Rebecca a call and see how Naomi was doing.” Dr. Schneider’s casual tone concealed his worry. Rebecca had been the only girl in the neighborhood available to sit that night, and she had never sat for the Schneiders before. Privately, Dr. Schneider didn’t fully trust her, and suspected that she might even use drugs.

“Well, it’s still rude to talk on the phone. If you’re so worried, why not send her a text message?”

“I’ll do that.”

As Mrs. Schneider sat back in satisfaction, her husband painstakingly entered a message into his phone. “Dinner was good. Everything ok? How is naomi?” He pressed the Send key.

Several minutes later, a reply made his phone beep. “Everything fine. I put roast in oven for you. See you soon.”

Dr. Schneider relaxed. “She says everything’s fine. She even put the roast in the oven for us. That was nice of her.”

Mrs. Schneider looked confused. “Roast? We didn’t have any roast at home. What’s she talking about?”

A horrible thought occurred to them both. They bolted upright. Dr. Schneider threw some cash on the table, they ran out of the restaurant, and they drove home as quickly as they could.

The instant they opened the door, they smelled the unmistakable odor of slowly roasting meat. In terror, they entered the house. Mrs. Schneider ran straight for the kitchen, and in her fear she never even noticed young Naomi sitting peacefully on the couch, toying with a cellular phone.

“She’s fine!” Dr. Schneider called out. “She’s sitting right here! But what’s in the–”

He was cut short by a blood-curdling scream. He ran into the kitchen, to his wife’s side.

Stuffed awkwardly into the oven, the corpse of Rebecca the babysitter was just reaching a golden brown.

It was two o’clock in the morning when the zombies came into the lobby of the Diamond Motel. Their skin was rotting and their flesh was torn, their eyes stared blankly and their mouths gaped. The night clerk stood terrified, rooted to the spot as they approached the desk.

“It’s okay, we’re not zombies,” said the tallest, who sported a ragged throat wound. He smiled. “Got you good, didn’t we? My name’s Bill.”

“I’m Carlos,” said another. “Sorry. Yeah, we’re just actors. We’re shooting a movie just up the road, in Pasadena.”

The clerk’s heart slowed as he surveyed the motley group. With a clearer head, and free of his initial terror, he could see the seams of the latex appliances, and the small spots where the makeup artist had missed. Despite himself, he smiled back. “Cute, really cute. So, do you guys need rooms?”

Carlos stepped forward. “Actually, no, but we were hoping you could help us out.”

A short while later, the gang of actors emerged from the motel. Their clothes were splashed with fresh bloodstains. Bill thoughtfully picked a shred of flesh from between his teeth.

“Stringy little guy, wasn’t he? But he sure helped us get into character.”

Henry didn’t think the spell would really work, but he had already pulled the book out of the stacks in the university library, and his roommate had headed off to some big frat party, so what better way to kill a Friday night than by trying to summon a demon in his dorm room?

After kicking some textbooks under the bed and deflating the couch, there was enough room on the floor to draw the pentacle with the chalk Henry had swiped from the English building. Meticulously following the book’s directions, Henry inscribed the designs on the gray industrial carpet. Once that was done, he placed the candles, lit them one by one, and chanted the incantation.

When Henry pronounced the last syllable, there was a flash of light and an odor of brimstone. Within the pentacle stood a hideous being with bright red skin covered in oozing pustules. Two twisted black horns erupted from the creature’s forehead, shadowing narrow yellow eyes. The less said about the condition of its teeth, and the stench that emanated from behind them, the better. Henry stared.

“WHO DARES DISTURB THE SLUMBER OF CZERGOLOK, DUKE OF HELL?” roared the demon.

“I–er, that is–”

“SILENCE! CZERGOLOK IS DISPLEASED! CZERGOLOK REFUSES TO NEGOTIATE UNTIL HE IS PROVIDED WITH THE BLOOD OF VIRGINS!”

The book hadn’t said anything about virgin’s blood. Henry began to sweat.

“Um, Czergolok, sir… um… what do you mean by virgins?”

Czergolok stared. “WHAT CRETINOUS MORTAL IS THIS THAT KNOWS NOT WHAT IS A VIRGIN?”

“No, no, I know what the word means, it’s just that… well… how do you really define that? What counts as sex?”

Czergolok, Duke of Hell, Devourer of Souls, Son of the Thousand-Eyed Goat, had no reply. His jaw hung open in amazed silence as Henry continued.

“I mean, does someone have to have had, you know, actual intercourse, or does just, like, fooling around count, or, I mean–you know, a few years ago the President got into trouble because he didn’t think that oral was real sex. And how about, say, lesbians? I mean, they have sex, but if the, you know, hymen is still intact, then are they still virgins? I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to be more specific.”

The demon tried to wrap his tongue around unfamiliar syllables. “LESBIANS?”

“Well, yeah. This is the twenty-first century, did you know that? People have sex with each other in all kinds of ways, and there’s all kinds of arguments over what’s really sex, and who’s really a virgin. I just don’t know what you need.” Henry found himself taking pity on the confused demon. “Here, let me show you something. This is called the Internet…”

Several hours of browsing later, Czergolok emitted a howl of agony. “CZERGOLOK CAN TAKE THIS NO LONGER! CZERGOLOK CANNOT COMPREHEND THESE… FETISHES… PONYGIRLS… FURRIES… LADYBOYS… MILKS?”

“MILFs,” corrected Henry sheepishly.

“CZERGOLOK’S HEAD IS SPINNING! CZERGOLOK RETURNS NOW TO HELL, WHERE THINGS MAKE SENSE!”

And with that, there was another flash of light, and only a hint of sulfur in the air remained as evidence of the demon’s presence. Henry blew out the candles, rubbed out the pentacle and flopped onto his bed, amazed by the complexity of the world.

A key turned in the lock, and Henry’s roommate Shaun walked in, shutting the door behind him. “Hey. Lousy party. You didn’t miss anything. What were you up to while I was gone?”

“Oh, nothing. I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.”

No further words were spoken as the two men locked in a passionate kiss.