MicroHorror

With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I watched the tax man’s black sedan pull into my driveway. He’d been doing that all morning, going from one house to the next, collecting the amount due from each neighbor he visited.

And now, it was my turn. I suppose I could have hidden inside my house, pretended that I wasn’t home or something, but the penalties for being past due had undoubtedly become much worse than last year’s. Nope, I would have to face the tax man on this day, as it was the Fifteenth of April.

Gently shutting his car door, the man held his briefcase in one hand while he adjusted his tie with the other. He began his short walk towards my front door, and smiled when he saw my form standing behind the screen door.

“Howdy, howdy,” the man greeted cheerfully, and I recognized him for what he was: one of those nerdy pencil pushers who was always dotting other people’s Is or crossing other people’s Ts. God, how I hated those fucking pencil pushers.

“I don’t have any money for you,” I answered gruffly. “The economy’s still down the shithole, and I haven’t worked in over eight months. So piss off.”

“Sorry to hear that, sir,” the tax man replied. “But the rules are the rules, and the government has to get its cut.” Undeterred, the man brazenly pulled open the screen door.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked as he shoved me back. He was much stronger than your typical bean counter.

“Do you know what the penalty is for not paying your taxes on time?”

“An arm and a leg in fines, I suppose.”

“Almost got it right.” The man smiled again, and I did not like what I saw in his eyes. “More like an arm or a leg.” Expertly, he flipped open his little briefcase and revealed a spotless and shiny hacksaw. “One way or another, the government will be getting its cut.”

The screen door slammed shut behind him, and I screamed.

Leaves, moldy and discolored, lay spread across the threshold. This gave my usually confident footfalls a momentary pause, as if the refuse were collectively trying to forbid my entry.

Glancing behind me, I took in the entirety of the decrepit yard. It stared back at me with its vast and impersonal countenance. The once majestic iron gates had long since lost their imperiousness, and were now meaningless and rusted wrecks. The formerly robust and thriving landscape had become a handful of barren and twisted trees, dotted here and there with clumps of yellowed and dried grasses. Everything within view, it seemed, had some time ago given up the will to live.

Turning back towards the edifice before me, I found this observation included the mansion as well. Its bricks were faded and sickly, its windows either cracked or shattered, and its open doorframe exposed its naked interior to the world. Where once was a bold and impervious front, only a desolate and barren shell, an ancient illusion, remained.

Emboldened, I dared a single step inside, finding the atmosphere to be infinitely darker and colder than outside conditions warranted. For the next few seconds, I gauged nothing save for the dusty floor and the blotched walls, but this too proved only an illusion.

Like a creeping rot, the Evil began to stir within the foundation of the structure. It emanated from the walls like a toxic cloud, reaching out towards my body as if it were a pet yearning for its master. I knew full well which of us would be serving the other.

Nevertheless, I allowed the Evil to reach out and grasp me. It swirled crazily about my form as if it were a pack of dogs gripped by bloodlust, ready to confuse me with its deceptions, to tantalize me with its readily available carnal temptations, and ultimately, to corrupt me with its promises of power and grandeur. And I, after a multitude of dejections and failures, was all too eager to give audience to its hollow and meaningless diatribe. Too eager to participate in the mansion’s wicked schemes.

A single female hand, tinged a deep and clammy blue, formed from within the malicious mist. With sharp red fingernails, the hand hovered to me, anxiously reaching out to caress my chest. The cold fingers next ran down the length of my arm, snaring my own hand and drawing me, ever so gently, further into the merciless clutches and inner workings of the residence.

Although I realized this to be nothing less than a demon’s handshake, I found myself unable, even unwilling, to resist. For I had been away for quite some time, and wasn’t this my home, my true home, that I was now standing in?

The Devil came to visit me last night, rapping loudly at the front door as if trying to evade some pursuant mob of rabid Jehovah’s Witnesses. I stared at him through the peephole, my observant eyes catching his wary glances to the side, his immaculate slicked-back hair and his neatly trimmed black goatee. Then, his penetrating gaze stared back, and I knew he could see right through the door, right into the depths of my very soul, and since I wasn’t doing anything anyway, I went ahead and slid the deadbolt open.

We had our customary handful of King’s Ale, but it wasn’t until we were a good two hours at the PlayStation that he finally opened up and told me what was on his mind. Mr. Thomas, from across the street, was going to kick the bucket soon, and in a most spectacular fashion, Lucifer intimated. The middle-aged man seemed to me to be in perfect health, I countered, having witnessed him taking hour-long jogs every other morning. The Devil sat pensive a few moments, quietly irritated at my interruption, before he informed me that the impending demise was not to be of natural causes. The problem, he continued, was that he could not decide whom to enlist on his murderous task.

Together, we went through his short list of candidates, crossing each name off due to their various shortcomings; some were too naïve to get away with such a despicable act, or too complicated to be coerced quickly, or out of town for the next few days. When the Devil scratched a line through the final person, he casually leaned forward on the sofa, placing his elbows on his knees, and eyeing me anxiously.

Once the idea had crept past my alcoholic stupor, I could see what he was getting at, and since I wasn’t doing much at the time anyway, I said sure, I’d do it. The Devil smiled and told me that he knew I would, and just before he left he told me he owed me one.

I closed the door behind him, wondering what I would ask him for the next time I saw him. I still had enough money to last me quite a while, plus I had the new stereo system sitting in the living room, and that tricked-out Jet Ski in the garage. I’d have to think of something pretty soon, I figured, since the Devil was always dropping by and asking me for favors. And let me tell you, that guy was not one to be kept waiting.