MicroHorror

June had been hot. Records had been set in the northern hemisphere: a high of 130 degrees in Cornwall and holding all along the south coast. Now, with the July sea warmer than it had ever been, holidaymakers flocked to the beaches, stripped off, dived in, paddled the shallows, ate ices, injected cash into neglected seaside towns. This could be it. No more having to go abroad to get the sun. Vines producing real plump juicy grapes. Olives growing in Wiltshire. An end to the miserable British saga of soggy summers.

Ben Seward jackknifed in the water. His friend saw this and went to his aid but never reached him and was not seen again as he too convulsed and slipped under the surface. Ben made it somehow to the shore and raised the alarm. He collapsed but not into unconsciousness as he wanted to. Into pain. Indescribable pain, unbearable.

It was at first local to the skin like a slick of white-hot ash spreading outwards and eating upwards. He wanted to tear his hair out, tear the skin from his arms, rip his face off. If only he could get rid of his skin the pain would abate. But no. It delved inward. It curled about his spine, searing and crushing and trying to make powdered charcoal of his bones and there was no escape, no antidote, no thought, just anguish.

Ben did not recognize that he was being spoken to, that he was in an ambulance, that someone was restraining him, that an hour had already passed in this hell of torment, that he’d been given a cocktail of the strongest of painkillers known to mankind. He knew only agony and the dearest wish he had was to die.

As a marine biologist, Ben had measured the rise in sea temperatures over the past several years. It was not that great in the great scheme of things but the trend had concerned him. Whole species were migrating northwards into colder coastal waters. Those that could not adapt might well die out.

Jellies were always ready to adapt. Their spawning places were well seeded and waiting for just such a threat. In benign waters they did not need to procreate aggressively but now more and more young were hatching that had long lain dormant beneath the waves.

Reports were coming in. Sheets of jellies thick as pack ice out at sea. One such colony had been observed from space. Aerial observations had reported the entire surface of the water heaving with them as if they were one gigantic beast. And judging by the increase of attacks, they seemed to have some purpose of intent. Yachts had disappeared without trace. Shipping lanes had been closed.

Ben recovered slowly. He was glad he hadn’t died. He had to warn people. Just before the attack, he’d felt something very strange, an animosity and greed, a malevolence that in all his years of contact with marine life he’d never experienced before. He was convinced. The jellies were on the move. And he was not at all sure they would remain in the sea.

Tuan had built the forest cabin with his own hands. It was his retreat from the modern world, the dog-eat-dog of city life. He kept it stocked and spent as much time as he could there but in between, it was not empty.

On that wet summer night, when he woke up to find his walls and ceiling crawling, black with cockroaches, he brushed them down and put them outside. They too were God’s creatures. He had never knowingly killed or eaten another living being in his life.

Unfortunately the cockroaches, not being intelligent, had no such scruples.

Twilight picked out blue forget-me-nots straggling the downward path. The rockery took on a somber air and evensong absolved the day. Maud and her shadow, both of them grey, swept ghostlike towards the water’s edge where she stooped to lay flowers, picked along the way. This was where he’d proposed: her first husband. Mist covered the water and mallards settled onto the bank, their familiar calls like laughter. She thought she saw a rippling of the water, heard a faint plash but there was no breath of wind. It had been a long while since she’d taken the boat out on the lake. Well, not tonight. Dear Spencer… He’d never really understood her.

Summer always reminded her of Frederic–the most gracious host. There were post holes where the marquee had stood, first, for their wedding, then for anniversaries, birthdays, parties… Their last, according to Frederic, had been the best–a hundred guests, champagne, sparkling music, salmon, ices, strawberries… How Frederic had celebrated life! Maud had retired early with a headache but could hear laughter and music and ducks, protesting at the invasion of their territory. Later he’d come making conjugal demands. She’d suggested taking the boat out for a romantic view of dawn. She’d warned him to be careful. The rockery steps were treacherous enough when sober. Any little trip up could result in a tumble. She’d held a memorial in the marquee, had worn black that day. It would have pleased him–at least a hundred guests. Later, alone by the lake, she thought she saw someone waving across the water. It was just an illusion of the gathering fog.

The shed among the oaks was not a favorite spot for Maud but it had come in handy more than once. Saws were stored there, spades, hoes, sacking. There were… unpleasant associations. Maud had had a row with William here. About money, of course. The upkeep of the house and garden were enormous. She’d been quick to point out that it was her house and that the expensive furnishings and artworks were heirlooms but there was no reasoning with him. He knew a good dealer who would give them top price. She knew how to wield a pickaxe. She sawed off his head and buried it with the others by the lake. Then she rowed out to the middle and heaved the weighty sack overboard.

Maud looked up at the house. The rockery somewhat overgrown was still impressive. The bulbs she’d just planted would cheer things up in spring. She washed the dirt from her hands and contemplated the steep path from the lake. Maud’s trim figure belied her age. Her grey hair swept into a bun at the back was streaked with white. She had never used to think about that climb. Now she sighed. Something sighed back, the wind. She observed the trees. There was no wind. Out on the lake a miasma grew… the plish of an oar. Someone was out there. She saw an arm, a torso.

Quack ack ack ack ack. An arrow of mallards trailed a black slick across the surface of the lake. The ducks were green–green, jellied and putrefying, laughing as they came. Maud stumbled back from the water’s edge and felt a searing pain snap her ankle. She fell onto the burials of her three husbands’ heads. Spencer had that hurt look, always wanting love. Frederic’s sickening, convivial smile. William who’d married her for money only to discover that she’d married him for his. Their faces rose from the soil towards hers. Black daffodils grew from their eye sockets. Their hands reached for her across the oily black water. The high, sickly smell of decaying flesh was all around and the gelatinous horrors that approached laughed no more. She could not escape.

Maud looked up at her only true love but the house was shrouded from view. Her assailants drew close. She had corrupted all and corruption would take retribution.

Bill and Dave studied the photograph–taken at a distance using outdated equipment and processed by an amateur. For now it was all they had.

“We have to assume they are lines of communication.”

“Assume makes an ‘ass’ out of ‘u’ and ‘me.’ It’s a weapons system.”

“What’s the spearhead of any campaign, Dave– establish lines of communication, right?”

“Well, I suppose they do look like satellite dishes but they could be part of a guidance array.”

“Did the boys at WADAS come up with anything? Do they know what they’re made of?”

“Nope. Stronger than steel, though, and flexible. Could have all manner of applications from medical to aeronautics and of course other properties.”

“And they just appeared overnight?”

“Three near every major city. Whatever else they’re doing they’ve grounded flights, jammed satellite signals, fried telecommunications, and radar might as well be scrambled eggs this morning.”

“Wasn’t it the solar flare did that?”

“We’re not sure, to be honest. Whoever put these there could have used the solar flare for cover but global communications are still down– local too, radio, TV. The good thing about that is panic hasn’t spread. The bad thing is some pretty wild rumors have.”

“Best we get over there and take a closer look,” said Bill.

The streets were deserted. The airport had been evacuated and they used one of the baggage trucks to approach the three dishes glittering out beyond the end of the runways. At this distance they reminded Bill of something but he couldn’t think what.

“They must be twenty feet in radius.”

The closer they got the less like dishes they looked. The construction wasn’t solid. Each was made up of silvery threads of wire so thin that the morning rain had weighted their bowls into a parabolic shape. Near the base of each connected to the ground, a single cable ran beneath the trees.

Bill got out of the truck to take pictures and Dave followed. He wasn’t sure he’d brought the right tools to get a sample. A sudden breeze shook the whole structure and it skewed then settled back into shape like it was elastic.

Dave was in position.

“Don’t touch it, Dave!” screeched Bill, realizing what it reminded him of.

“Why not?”

Bill had paled. “These things catch more than messages. Look at the birds stuck in it. If that’s the size of the web… what size is the spider?”

Colm was soaked through and his satchel was heavy, otherwise he’d never have taken the shortcut his mother had warned him against–through the fairy field.

He entered the field through a hole in the hedge. It was a big wide field and he reasoned that if he stayed right in the middle on the trodden path, he’d have time to run away from anyone suspect. Anyway, he could see the housing estate through the hedge and he was twelve years old now. It wasn’t as if he was a little kid.

The rain continued steadily and a thick fog filled the space between the hedges on three sides and the tree line. Colm ploughed on. He should reach the gap at the diagonal any minute now. The road home always seemed longer in evil weather. But this was not just evil weather. He couldn’t find the exit. He walked up and down the length of the hedge. Still he couldn’t find it. He patrolled the entire field boundary. There was no sign of the way he’d come in, either. As he walked, a green light grew in the middle of the field, glowing golden at the centre, and expanded towards him.

Colm found himself sitting by a fountain in the shopping mall. It was full of shiny coins that people had thrown in. Why did people just throw away money like that? He rubbed his face with his hands and felt a hint of stubble.

“Are you all right there, Colm?” asked the security guard.

“Aye, only where am I?”

“You’re in the Braid Centre. Are you okay?”

“And who are you?”

“Come on now, Colm, sure you see me every day. Michael. Michael Duffy. We were in the same class all through school.”

Colm looked at the tall man in front of him, who bore little resemblance to his old school friend. “No, you’re not,” he said.

“Well, I was this morning. Maybe you’d better get yourself away on home, Colm. And dry out.”

Colm followed the exit signs to a door. He could see the trees of the park. This was the wrong exit. He went back in the opposite direction and found another door. Stepping out, he found himself enveloped in a green mist.

“Father. Father Colm?”

“What the devil…?”

“Father, we’ve been looking for you all over,” said Cecelia Rea.

“Is it me you’re talkin’ to?” asked Colm, looking around for another addressee.

“Surely you haven’t forgot? You promised you’d give the St. Patrick’s Day blessing to the people carrying the pot of shamrock to the top of the mountain for charity. They’re waiting for you to go with them, so they are.”

Colm looked at his hands. They were the hands of a middle-aged man, not a twelve-year-old boy. He covered his face with them and a vague memory stirred of sitting in a shopping mall by a fountain, of trying to find his way out of a field, and of a thick green mist swallowing him up.

He looked at Cecelia.

“How long has this church been here?” he asked.

“Why, Father, ever since they pulled down the old shopping mall–twenty years at least. Before that it was just a field, I’m told.”

“Just a field–aye,” he said ironically. “And I’ve been here all that time?”

“Yes, Father, ever since I was a wee’un.”

A shopping mall, then a church, it made sense–two perfectly sound commercial ventures.

“Maybe it’s time to move on, then,” he said.

They wouldn’t abduct a priest, would they? He said a prayer and crossed himself just to be sure.

Outside the main door, it was a bright St. Patrick’s Day morning. He could see the houses and the trees in the park. Colm breathed the clear air in deeply. Maybe later on he’d pay a visit home.

Florrie Budd turned the key and heard the familiar ding of the bell as she opened the door. She punched in the alarm code, closed the door and filled the kettle. The little gas heater out back didn’t penetrate the morning cold so she kept on her coat and scarf, only she exchanged her outdoor glove for the gardening glove she always wore, just one on her left hand. The right hand needed to be free for more delicate tasks.

The kettle hissed and she filled a cup with herbal tea and sipped at the hot liquid. She lifted the black bucket of red roses onto the workbench by the window. An angular shaft of frosty light cut across their stems. Florrie stopped suddenly and bent low with the pain stabbing like a dart through her belly. In her bag she found the prescription tablets and took three instead of two.

As the pain subsided she breathed deeply the scent of all the greenery and flowers. It was a heady mix–a curative potion. There were the two bouquets, some sprays and plants on order. The wreath was still to finish and a few bunches to make up for general sale. Then of course the single roses—long-stemmed for Valentine’s Day. She hated it.

The shop door dinged.

“Is that you, Caroline?” The girl was late again.

“Yes, Mrs. Budd.” Caroline came puffing into the back full of fret and excitement. An envelope dropped out of her pocket as she removed her coat. Florrie could just see the edge of the syrupy card peeking out pinkly.

“I don’t really need you today, Caroline.”

“Oh, but I’m sorry–it won’t happen again, Mrs. Budd.”

“I’m not giving you the sack, Caroline. I just don’t need you today. Be early tomorrow and don’t call me Mrs. Budd.”

“Well, if you’re sure…”

“Go or I’ll change my mind.” What it was to be young. Florrie relocked the door. She didn’t want to open before she was quite ready.

Sitting on the chair by the bench, Florrie took a little bottle from her handbag. It was one of those plastic holiday bottles, small and convenient. It contained just a few milliliters of a brown liquid–a distillation that had been years in the making. She propped a cone of clear cellophane into the neck of a bottle, shook the liquid to mix the sediment and carefully dipped one of the small brushes she used for removing pollen.

A knock at the back door startled her and she knocked the bottle over.

“Oh, you gave me a turn!” she said, greeting the delivery man. “Two bouquets, a few pot plants and sprays. They’re all ready in the corner there.”

“No Caroline today?” he asked. Caroline always offered him a cuppa.

“No sign of her,” said Florrie. “Probably canoodling with that young man of hers.”

“You’re busy,” he said, looking at the roses. “I’ll just get on, then.”

Florrie returned to her task. None spilled. She took a long-stemmed rose by the neck and painted the stem, brushing over the thorn. The liquid was a concentrate of the root of a Pareira Vine which she had grown herself–planted it, tended it, nurtured it, made her greenhouse into a rainforest so that it might thrive. And as it grew, her plan grew, coiling ever more tightly around her heart until it was the only thing that held that heart together.

Fourteen roses she painted. Fourteen for the date that was never kept. Fourteen for the years she’d spent asking “why?” Fourteen for the steps she’d taken at the wedding rehearsal. Fourteen years since she’d made up her own bouquet and thrown it–in the bin.

Florrie finished the wreath, placed the roses on display and opened for business. Fourteen people were going to die today and tomorrow Caroline would find her grasping a rose–no longer in pain, and the wreath–her final floral tribute to love long dead.

The furor in the playroom couldn’t be ignored. Mother took the stairs two at a time.

“Okay, what is it about this time?”

“It’s Gilly,” protested Marta, letting go of her sibling’s throat.

Gilly coughed suitably hoarsely to indicate that she alone was the injured party.

“She keeps biting the heads off the Smiths at 41.”

Gilly coughed again and then smiled–a picture-book smile surrounded by blond curls and innocence.

“The Smiths at 41” was the name Marta had given to the family that lived in the rather splendid Victorian doll’s house she’d received for her birthday. It had windows you could look through and a front that opened right up. The rooms had authentic wallpaper designs, tiny candelabra, convincing fires and the most darling furniture–real porcelain washbowls and jugs. Best of all there was a family, a maid, a cook and a butler–“Butler,” Marta called him. Marta didn’t have a great imagination for names but the things that went on in that house were a constant source of amusement to her.

“That’s the third,” wailed a traumatized Marta. She blinked back the tears.

Daddy had stuck two of the heads back on but they didn’t look the same. Gilly had defiantly swallowed this one so that wasn’t going to happen.

Mother comforted her and promised to get replacement dolls, though she didn’t know how since they came with the house. “You, young lady, can go to bed now, and no supper.”

“No supper?” repeated Gilly.

“Well you can’t be hungry,” said Mother. “You’ve eaten.”

Gilly stomped out in a huff. Stupid doll’s house. Silly Marta treated them like real people. Don’t want to play this… don’t want to play that… I want to play with my doll’s house… nah, nah, nah!

Mother mentioned it to Daddy as they took their own supper later on.

“It’s just a spat, love. Sibling rivalry. All sisters fight, he said.”

“But biting their heads off, dear, I mean it’s horrible!”

He patted her knee. “If you ask me she’s only doing it because it got a great reaction the first time.”

She sighed, “I suppose you’re right.”

“You’ll see I am. It’ll work itself out. Children go through these ghoulish notions.”

Marta’s face beamed as she opened the doll’s house the next morning. They were all there–the Smiths! Mummy and Daddy Smith were there and Martina and baby Ronald. Butler was in his room below stairs and cook was in the kitchen and there was Grace the scullery maid and all with heads. And there was a new doll too–an older girl with blond curls.

“Thank you, Mummy!” she effused, coming out onto the landing to meet her.

“What for, darling?”

Marta dragged her in to look at the dolls.

“But I didn’t have a chance to…” Oh, clever man, she thought. He must have purchased a second set at the same time as the first.

Gilly came in. “Got more stupid dolls, I see,” she teased.

“And if you… do anything to them, I’ll not speak for the consequences. Do you understand?” said Mother.

“I wouldn’t touch her old dolls,” said Gilly, and she didn’t all that day.

“I think that’s done the trick,” said Mother at supper. “It was clever of you to replace the dolls so quickly.”

“I? The dolls?”

“Yes, dear. The new dolls in the doll’s house.”

“But I didn’t…”

His rebuttal was interrupted by a loud thud from upstairs. Both parents rushed from the table. The nursery door was ajar and inside stood Marta trembling, covered in blood. Strewn on the floor at her feet all the dolls lay headless and beside them was the torso of her sister Gilly. Her head had rolled across the floor towards the doll’s house. Her hand clutched fast the doll with the blond curls, still intact.

At twenty-one, forty years seems such a long time. Today Percy looked back on it as it were a heartbeat. This was the night–New Year’s Eve–forty years on. Surely it could not be.

“E’hem, Sir?” said his P.A. “Your wife on the phone.”

“Thank you, Harley… Elizabeth, darling…Yes, everything’s fine… No, no, you enjoy yourself. I just wanted to say Happy New Year… I know it’s not but I’m going out and… Of course, I won’t keep you… Give my love to…” and she’d gone and his life seemed as shallow as she.

He’d had it all just the way he wanted, married the debutante, been a great business success, wealth, power, women… Sir Percival Brunt looked at his greying temples and still finely chiseled features. Any other man would be counting his blessings but not he, for this was the night–forty years on.

In terms of the old calendar, Halloween used to be the final night of the old financial year when all debts must be cleared, all remunerations paid. Well, plain Percy Brunt might have made certain agreements but Sir Percival Brunt of Allingham had no intention of honouring them and he thought he knew a way out.

Dining at his club with a few business acquaintances seemed an ideal antidote to apprehension.

“Telephone, Sir,” interrupted Harley, “Gentleman wouldn’t give a name.”

“In that case, Harley, I am unavailable.”

“Very good, Sir.” Harley was the best man he’d ever had. He would handle it.

Dinner was unexceptional but a jovial affair and the port was always good. Percy felt its warm, affirming glow. “To good port and prosperity,” he offered and the others quaffed.

“Begging your pardon, Sir, but the gentleman says he needs to speak with you and that you know him from some time back.”

“His name?”

“He won’t give it, Sir.”

“Then I will not speak with him, Harley. Will you make that clearly understood?”

“Yes, Sir. Of course, Sir.”

“Can’t understand it,” he said to the others, “One can usually rely on Harley.”

The clock struck eleven. Percy’s heart raced. “Well, I must be off,” he told his companions.

“Off where, Percy?”

“Will you not see the New Year in with us?”

“No, I have other plans,” he said.

One of them tapped his nose. “Ah! While the wife’s away… eh?”

“Something like that,” said Percy.

There were handshakes all round and Percy left the club with Harley.

“The gentleman who phoned, Harley… How did he know I was at the club and not at home?”

“I thought of that myself, Sir, and I hope I didn’t do wrong but I took the liberty of asking.”

“And?”

“The gentleman said he knew where you were at all times and that he’d see you later.”

Percy quickened his step. The warmth of the port had gone, the camaraderie was quite dispelled and the night air clung to his very bones. He felt clammy.

Walking through the city streets should have been familiar and comforting but everywhere they passed there seemed to be a telephone ringing and his imaginings now told him that all the calls were for himself alone.

“Are we in a hurry, Sir?” asked Harley practically running behind.

“Yes, damn it, I have to be somewhere.”

They were headed away from home.

“May I ask, Sir, where we are going in such haste?”

“Church, Harley.”

“Really, Sir?”

“Midnight Mass.”

“I didn’t know you were a praying man, Sir,” remarked Harley and for the first time there was something scathing in his tone.

They were nearly at the church gates when the last thing Percy expected happened. Midnight struck.

Harley sprang in front of him, barring his entrance. “You must have mistaken the time, Sir.”

“Please, I must go in. Sanctuary… You don’t know what’s at stake!”

“Ah, but I do. It’s too late, Percy,” Harley said. “If you wanted to plead for your life, you should have spoken to me earlier.”

Lil wiped her hands on a bloody apron. She smelt of bird guts.

“Come just as soon as I could,” said Laroux.

“It’s happened again,” she said, “And it ain’t no fox. The hens is scattered all over and the house is wrecked. You’ll have to build me a new one.”

She had some gall, the old girl. Laroux was a neighbor and he didn’t have to do a goddam thing he didn’t want to. He scratched his head. It was the darnedest thing. Not a hen in sight and the shed skewed at a drunken angle about to topple right over. He could shore it up for now.

“Musta bin a tornado, Lil.”

“Weren’t no dang tornado. Didn’t touch nothin’, only the bird house.”

“Well, I can’t figure it,” said Laroux. “Didn’t you see nothin’?”

“Heard somethin’ like a wind but time I got out, there weren’t nothin’ to see but gone birds.”

Lil had got rid of the big livestock she couldn’t manage on her own. At first she kept wild fowl, geese, ducks, turkeys and capons just like she’d always done. Now she was down to hens and capons. With Christmas approaching they were her best hope of income.

Laroux did a good job. Lil rounded the birds up and put down extra feed she could ill afford. “Don’t y’all disappear now,” she said as she padlocked the door. “Tomorrow’s slaughter day.”

She hastened indoors out of the cold and dark. The smell of chicken broth was as appetizing as the smell of chicken guts was repugnant but you had to do the guts to get the broth. Lil had a strong stomach.

She woke in the middle of the night to a sound like a honking wind. It was moving eerie and swift towards the house. She stood by the window with the shotgun. And then she saw it. A mighty flock of geese, greater than any single flock she’d ever seen or heard, honking and flapping like a force of nature. She got a couple of shots off but they never wavered from their path right over the house. As she pulled down the sash window one slammed into it. One for the pot.

Next morning there was no sign of any of them. Damned foxes were doing alright, Lil reckoned. She went out to see to the hens. Only there were no hens. There was no hen house. It had gone. Gone–as in disappeared altogether. She phoned Laroux.

“I tell ya, Lil, I never knew a tornado be this vindictive.”

“Weren’t no tornado, Laroux. It was geese, I tell ya. Real mean geese too. Came at the house like they was on a mission. You musta heard them. Why, they flew right over your house too.”

“Never heard nothin’, Lil, I swear.”

“Well I’m ready for ’em tonight.” She propped the gun by the window.

“You holler if you need anything, you hear?”

Lil heard that honking sound in the dark and then the flap of wings like a rush of wind louder and louder, building and building until the house cowered under it. Lil waited until her aim was certain. She fixed on the first target–saw right through it, just like it wasn’t there. Fixed on a second–“What the…?” She targeted bird after transparent bird, recognizing every beak she’d forced, every breast she’d plucked, every neck she’d cleaved. Insubstantial as air, yet powerful as a storm they flew straight at the window where she stood–unstoppable.

Laroux found Lil next day in a pool of blood, the gun never fired. Sharp daggers of window pane had severed her head near off and the hair had been plucked from her bloodied scalp. A shard of broken glass had ripped her belly open so that guts spewed out onto the floor. He witnessed a white cloud moving away east against the wind, unlike any cloud he’d ever seen. Death’s avenging arrow. A gaggle of ghosts.

The clicking had been going on for a week–unmistakable in the hush of the night. The family decided to investigate together. It was too scary to go alone.

The office door swung wide as they approached and revealed Nana, sitting before a flickering screen frantically typing away.

“Nana?” said the youngest, full of hope.

His mother pulled him back. “It’s not really Nana,” she said. “It’s… Nana’s dead, sweetheart. Go back to bed.”

“She said she would be finished by Halloween. That’s tomorrow,” said Freddie. “Let’s leave her to it, Beth. Maybe then she’ll be at peace.”