MicroHorror

He awoke. The moon and stars in the sky, waiting for him to regain consciousness. He bolted upright on his bed of dirt.

“How long have I been out?” he asked, looking anxiously at the trees that surrounded him.

“Eight hours,” she replied from the tree tops.

“Why did you let me sleep so long?” he asked, rising to his feet, looking above for her. “We’re not safe out at night, we need to find somewhere secure, fast.”

“No need,” she replied.

He heard a branch snap to his right. Another to his left.

“We’re here.” She cackled, falling from the tree, and sank her fangs into his skull.

“They come in the night,” Turk told his son as he tucked him into bed. “They cut off your arms to use as backscratchers,” he said, leaning in closer to his son, who was pulling the cover up to his eyes. “They turn your hair into coats. They take your teeth for pendants, your ears for good luck charms, all before they kill you and turn your insides into soup!”

His son, Pon, pulled the covers over his head, shivering at the picture his dad had painted for him.

“It’s okay, son,” said Turk, as he pulled back the cover, giving Pon a kiss on the forehead. “I’ll protect you. As long as you don’t wander in the dark of night, you’ll be fine.”

“You promise, Daddy?” asked Pon, with a scared look in his eyes.

“Of course,” Turk replied softly. “Now go to sleep, little one.”

Pon closed his eyes and snuggled into his bed, as Turk blew out the candle on the small bedside table, and quietly left his son to his dreams.

Pon was woken by a muffled scream, coming from the darkness beyond his window. Quietly climbing out of bed, he walked over to the window and pushed it open. By the faint glow of a dropped torch, Pon could see his neighbor, Fol, crawling across the ground, leaving a trail of blood behind him, weaving between the trees like a drunken slug. Then Pon saw the monster, walking up to his fallen neighbor from behind, holding a severed arm.

Crouching down, the strange creature grabbed Fol’s hair, dropping the gory arm and producing a rough blade. He hacked away at Fol’s scalp. Pon’s neighbor screamed in pain as blood flowed down his face.

The monster was hideous. It was the ugliest thing Pon had ever seen. It was covered in smooth pale pink skin, with most of its hair on top of its head. It had only two arms, which only seemed to bend one way, and only two eyes. There was no sign at all of any tentacles on his chest; how did it eat properly, Pon wondered. He figured that the beast’s small nostrils were to keep blood from spraying in them, as they tore into their prey. The beast picked up the carcass, flung it over its shoulder, and walked back into the shadows of the trees.

Pon crawled back into the security of his bed, got under the covers, and tried to shake the image of the monster tearing his neighbor to pieces. Pon stroked his tentacles soothingly, and tried his best to sleep.

Vince could feel it inside him. He could feel it slithering through his intestines, like a conger eel through a shipwreck, in the dark depths of the sea. It was a strange sensation, feeling the creature’s ribbed body gliding though his internal organs. Vince knew that he couldn’t vomit, although it was growing harder and harder not to, holding back the spasms that were shooting up from his stomach.

“You’re doing well,” said the old lady sitting by Vince’s side, mopping his chest with cold water that smelt of stale urine. She had insisted it wasn’t urine, but a mixture of special herbs and spices, but the smell still wasn’t helping his stomach. She seemed a frail old thing, black lace covering her head and face. “The Joonx is almost in position.”

“How will you know when it is?” asked Vince, squirming on the hard mattress the old lady had led him to.

“I’ll know when you know,” she replied, picking up some tattered cords to bind his wrists. Vince had been told to let her do what she had to. When he first saw the Joonx he had nearly turned and left, but he knew this was his only option now.

“How will I know?” he asked, as the old lady tied his wrists and ankles to the bed.

“You will know,” she replied, sitting back in her chair, dipping the cloth in the dire liquid, and mopping his stomach. At that moment Vince felt a searing heat in his stomach, where the Joonx had settled only seconds previously. He clenched his teeth and his fists, feeling his nails cutting into the palms of his hands, but the pain was overwhelmed by that of the Joonx in his stomach. Through the unbearable heat, he could feel the slimy intruder gnawing at his flesh with its small sharp teeth. Vince opened his eyes, and saw blood seeping up through his navel, mixing with the broth the old lady had applied. The old lady was hunching over him, whispering to the Joonx, inches from his stomach. She turned to look at Vince.

“Sit back, close your eyes. It’s not over yet,” she said in her soothing, grainy voice, and Vince did as he was bid. For a second he thought the creature had stopped, and he was about to speak, as the heat in his stomach grew in intensity to such a degree that he lost consciousness.

When Vince awoke, he was lying on the bed, his hands and feet now free. After a few seconds he realized all pain was gone. Sitting up, Vince felt a stabbing pain in his stomach, and looked down to see a fresh cut, stitched up and cleaned from the old lady’s concoction and his own blood. Vince figured that was where she had had to cut out the lifeless Joonx, after it had chewed away the cancer from his stomach. There was no sign of the old lady while Vince stood up and pulled his shirt on. He had paid her in advance, and she clearly hadn’t felt the need to hang around afterwards. He put on his coat, and ventured out into the cold night air, grateful to the old lady for saving his life. As he made his way down the alley, his thoughts turned to that weird creature, the Joonx, that he had swallowed, and that had made its way to his stomach, where it had found the cancer and eaten away at it until all traces were gone. He had been told the creature would die afterwards, which was a sad thought. It might have been an ugly, disgusting thing, but it had saved his life.

So Vince made his way home, knowing that he was now cancer-free. Unfortunately he was not Joonx-free, and in five to six months he would be giving birth to a new generation of Joonx. At that point, he would be praying for the cancer.

If Old Mr. Dane is anything, he is definitely old. No one knows just how old, but the best guesses would be around one hundred and twenty years. One thing few people know is how he keeps on living. In his late eighties, Dane had his heart replaced with a clockwork heart of his own creation. It is made out of copper and brass, attached to a brown leather harness, strapped around his chest. Brass pipes from the “heart” entering his chest. Although this marvelous contraption allows a prolonged life, there are a few setbacks…

On a chain around old man Dane’s neck is an ornate key. With this key, he must wind the “heart” three rotations, every six hours, or the clockwork will stop ticking, and his blood will stop flowing. Four times a day, he takes the key and turns it in the keyhole. Clickclickclick clickclickclick clickclickclick, and he can go on living for another six hours. He has done this every day, four times a day, for the last eighty-six years.

One morning, in the early hours of a cold day in November, Old Mr. Dane was woken by the slamming of his front door. He sat up in bed and put his glasses on, reaching for the short blade he keeps behind his bed side table with the other hand. Rising from his bed, Dane realized something wasn’t right. His left hand reached up to his neck. The key was gone. Panic struck Dane like a club to the chest. Looking at the timer on his wristwatch, he saw he had only fifteen minutes before he would need to make another three turns. He threw on his musky dressing gown, and hobbled downstairs, blade in hand, heading straight for the front door. The cold air took him into its frozen embrace as he stepped out into the alleyway outside his house. Frantically looking left and right, he caught a glimpse of a shadow down one end, rushing out of sight. “Wait!” Dane croaked, chasing as quickly as his tired legs would carry him. As he reached the corner, leading into a dead end, he heard a deep, breathy voice.

“Tick, tock. Tick, tock,” came the voice, though Dane could not make out who it belonged to.

“Who’s there?” Dane asked, trying to put an edge of authority into his voice. “What have you done with my key? I’m warning you, give me it back now!” Dane raised his short blade, the rising sun glinting off its polished surface.

“How long have you now, old man?” asked the mysterious voice. “Ten? Nine minutes? Thought you could avoid me forever, did you?” The voice seemed to be getting closer, but still no one could be seen. “Your time ran out a long time ago, Mr. Dane, and now I’m here to collect what’s mine.”

Dane turned round to face a tall figure, dressed in a long black cloak, flowing in a non-existent breeze. “I… I have nothing of yours. You have my key,” replied Dane, his voice now barely a whisper, any edge now lost to the chilly morning air.

“Ah yes, your key,” replied the dark stranger. “I appear to have the key to your heart.” His voice now took on a charming, yet menacing tone. “The ticking of that unnatural device has been mocking me for a long time. I’m sure you too will enjoy the silence when it comes.”

“Who are you?” asked Dane, as the alarm went off on his watch. One minute. “I need my key!” Scared now, he lashed out with his blade, stabbing into the cloak, the cold steel finding nothing but fabric.

Death took a long sigh. “I am the harvester of souls, old man, and yours is long overdue.”

Silence filled the alleyway. There was no tick. There was no tock. Only the sound of a limp body hitting the cobbled street, and Death taking an old soul into the abyss of eternal darkness.

The front door was bolted shut. The small filthy windows were also bolted, and behind thick black iron bars. There was no chimney. Nor was there an external door leading to the basement. There was no apparent way into the small house at all, but he knew that if he couldn’t get inside it, he may as well slit his wrists now. That would be a much more appealing way to die than what was in store for him otherwise. He tried kicking in the front door, but there was no budge. He saw a large dead tree standing beside the small square house, and started to climb it to see if there was a way in on the flat roof. After carefully crawling along a rotting branch, he could see a trap door on the roof. He slowly got to his feet, and threw himself off the branch, landing clumsily, twisting his left ankle. Ignoring the pain, he stumbled to the trap door and pulled at the handle. Locked. Clenching his teeth, he stamped his right foot down onto the wood. Feeling it creak, he fell as pain surged through his sprained ankle. He gingerly stood up, feeling the cold night air against the sweat on his face. He stood for a few seconds, nostrils flared as he caught the smell of death on the breeze. With all his might he jumped onto the trapdoor, and straight through it, tumbling down a flight of moss-covered stone stairs. The new surge of pain that flooded him as he tried to stand, his freshly broken ribs grinding against each other, made him forget about his ankle, and he fell against the wall. Grinding his teeth, he limped along the short corridor and opened the door at the end of it.

The stench of mold and rot flooded his nostrils as he stumbled into a small dark room, partially lit by a single candle sitting on a stack of yellowed papers in one corner. He tripped on something and landed on a damp rotting rug, moisture rising between his fingers. In the flickering candlelight he saw the thick black fluid dripping from his fingers. Blood from a cut to his temple dripped to join the black puddle on the floor. As he looked around the room, he became aware of another odor, mingling with the mold and rot. Again, it was the smell of death. At that moment he knew it was too late. He could feel the pressure building behind his eyes and in his ears, as a black liquid started running from them. The black liquid in his eyes made him blind. In his ears, it made him deaf. As he sank to the floor, all that was left was pain and the growing stench of rotting flesh, magnified by the loss of the other senses. He started choking and coughing up fluid as it filled his lungs and filled his nose, leaving only pain and the feeling that someone was putting their hands on his shoulders. The last thing he knew, as his internal organs turned into a foul black soup, was that he was being pushed down, to join the black puddle.