MicroHorror

“Shhh!” Jen hissed at Bree, who caught her stupid nightgown on something in the dark. Everyone else was still but her, and Jen would have slapped her, but she was across the room. If Stacy woke it would be ruined. They all hated Stacy. And tonight was supposed to be special.

Huddled in the bathroom earlier, everyone held hands and chanted for Bloody Mary, Stacy giggling hard to fit in.

“Mary went to our school five years ago,” Jen intoned. “She was kidnapped, wrapped in a blanket…”

“And then she was buried alive,” Bree added, while the others pretended to shudder a bit, just like they’d practiced. Right after they’d finished rubbing the blanket in all kinds of dirt and putting it in the cellar with the trunk that was just the right size and had a good, solid lock. They weren’t going to hurt Stacy, of course. Not really. Not much.

In the basement Jen could hear Bree stumble again, and she wanted to kill her. She was so sure stupid Bree would wake Stacy, she came flying up the stairs drawing a bead on her in the corner with her back turned in that hideous ripped blue thing. And Jen was so mad she didn’t notice the lights were on and something bright as nail polish covered the walls.

A glove that wasn’t a glove lay staining the carpet and pointing to a tiny ball in the middle of the room. A ball with a spot the same hazel shade as Bree’s eyes.

It wasn’t Bree wearing Bree’s nightgown. It turned around, but then the lights went black, and the only thing Jen saw was Stacy sleeping deeply next to the others, who were not sleeping at all. A terrible smell wafted over as it glided in close, and Jen heard:

Shhh.

You recite the spell once at a party, hold your breath, and then… nothing.

Nervous laughter.

She never comes when others are around.

Years later you pass a mirror in the dark, see yourself in eclipse, and you remember. Maybe you smile. It’s then that you don’t say the name. You only think it, and that is so much worse.

She doesn’t appear right behind you in the glass, a woman in a bridal dress, eyes torn out of their sockets, nails rimmed red. That’s not how she works. That’s not how she kills you.

Instead you might stiffen. You might hear breathing in your ear. Someone’s strange thoughts in your head. But they’re easy to dismiss. Once again you forget about Mary.

And for weeks after you walk across busy streets. You drive your car. You handle knives, razors, electrical wires. You cook oil in a pan until you can smell the meat sizzle. Every time you’re careful, of course. Isn’t everyone careful?

It isn’t a ghost, or a voice, or a seizure. It’s so much simpler. A nudge. A slip. A forgetful moment. When the truck is close. When the pan is hot. A single terrible movement of the wrist, and the screams bring them right to your door.

You scream alone, but there are thousands like you. And no one ever knows.

Grandpa’s will left it to them, and a week after the memorial they moved in. The young couple and their infant son had little money, and except for that staircase the house was perfect. It was a common enough feature on a two-story house like theirs, common enough in New England. A door from the upstairs kitchen led to a long and narrow flight of steps built into the back of the house. Properly lit and properly maintained it could have been a rear entrance for tenants. But it wasn’t any of those things. It was unlit with both doors caulked off and the bottom half rotted out revealing a hole straight to an unused cellar, where the smell of old water suggested some passage deep into the earth.

The mother worried more than the father, and she made him put a latch on the door leading to those stairs, and the father did, and until the accident the latch was perfect. But of course, after the accident the couple left the house and didn’t speak of it again.

Their boy grew to be a toddler, and he climbed all over the furniture and made a great, big, cheerful mess of things. And he didn’t belong on the second floor, but the heat worked better there, and they didn’t have money to fix things. The mother knew the boy was big enough and strong enough to climb out of the crib, and he slept just down the hall from that latched door, but he’d never shown an interest. He’d never left his crib at night, she thought, and anyway she was sleeping next door, and she was a light sleeper. And until that night she was completely correct, but of course that was the night of their anniversary, and the man and the woman had a bit too much to drink, and the man snored, and the woman slept more heavily, and they didn’t hear their boy climb out, make a soft thump on the floor, and toddle toward that door.

She heard the scream, and she knew what had happened, and she dashed to the door, its wood softened with mold, which made the latch easy to rip out, and of course her boy was a very strong little boy.

But the woman found him sitting in front of the door, which was still closed. He was crying with a cut, a cut on his tiny hand. But he was fine, she sighed, fine, and she picked him up and patted his back, and when he was quiet again, and almost asleep that was when she heard the voice. Grandpa’s voice. Calling him from down the stairs.