MicroHorror

Carolyn felt the time even though she hadn’t looked at the alarm clock yet. Her body clock told her that her session of warm comfort and enticing dreams was nearing its end. A cold trip to the bathroom was what awaited her, and after that a redundant morning routine consisting of hair, a bad cup of coffee, and a boring ride in her 185,000-mile Toyota to her dead-end job. Lifting the fleece blanket off her body, she moaned as the dry chill of the darkened bedroom smoothly washed over her.

“Another day in paradise,” she whispered to herself.

In the kitchen, a sterile-looking newscaster droned on and on about the past day’s events: a 747 crashed off the eastern coast, killing sixty-nine; the price of crude oil was expected to top $140 a barrel; a house fire in Wabash Valley claimed the life of a young woman.

Carolyn shook her head in disbelief. Nothing but bad news. It seemed the whole world was going to hell. There’d be no need for a killer virus, or alien invasion, or doomsday asteroid. Mankind would be able to end the world all on its own.

Carolyn finished her cup of lukewarm coffee, and shuffled out the door.

It was a warm day with hardly a cloud in the sky. It was enough to instill envious images of tanning on a beach or sitting outside a downtown café sipping a cold margarita into the work-weary minds of rat-race slaves. And Carolyn was no exception. She watched the beautiful landscape rush past the car’s windows as she motored along.

While adjusting the radio something caught Carolyn’s eye in her rearview mirror: smoke. Her eyes darted between the road in front of her and the swirling column of jet-black smoke behind her. It seemed to be coming from The Hill, a recent development project of lower scale housing.

And then a strange sensation overcame her. She tried to ignore it, but it was insistent.

She felt warm. Too warm. Panic gripped her, and she immediately flipped on the A/C in a desperate attempt to cool down.

And then another feeling hit her, one of helplessness and resignation. She felt like a light switch being switched off. Or more accurately like a dimmer switch, slowly, gradually sliding down until the light surrendered to darkness.

With each passing second, Carolyn lost more and more of herself to the unnatural feelings. Her car rolled to a noisy stop, gravel on the shoulder crunching under her tires as she tried to focus on the familiar scenery outside the windows. Her purse fell off the seat, and spilled most of its contents across the floor. She gazed down at her belongings.

The first thing that caught her eye was her wallet. It was splayed open, revealing her driver’s license. She always hated her picture on the card. And below her picture was her address: 7401 Marian in bold, black lettering.

7401 Marian? Where was that? Was that where she lived? Why couldn’t she remember?

A glance in the rearview mirror revealed the rising pillar of black smoke again. But now it was closer, only a few hundred yards behind her. She could smell it too, an acrid, charred stench with a hint of burning flesh mixed in.

Was the fire spreading?

No, it wasn’t the blaze that was moving. It was her. She was steadily being drawn backward toward the inferno.

A peaceful revelation overcame her then, peaceful despite the dreadful realization that came with it.

7401 Marian was her address. It was where she lived. It was where she died.

A house fire in Wabash Valley claimed the life of a young woman.

Why hadn’t she realized it before?

A house fire.

The fire that she couldn’t escape. The fire that was pulling its own back into its deadly embrace. The fire that she had become a part of.

Carolyn closed her eyes as her car slid into the flames.

“Who do you think he is?” Cindy asked.

“Don’t know,” Anne replied, “but he sure looks weird.” She pointed at the boy. “See? Look at the way he’s sitting. We should try to talk to him. Maybe he’s sick or something.”

The two girls inched forward, cautiously at first, but when they saw that the boy either didn’t notice them or simply didn’t care, they increased their tempo, skirting through the knee-high brush at a slow sprint.

The small boy sat perfectly still as the two young girls approached. He neither acknowledged their presence, nor ignored them.

Anne looked back at Cindy, who despite her attempts of acting brave, was still lagging behind.

“Come on, let’s go,” she urged. “He might run away. Then we’ll never know who he is.”

When the girls reached the boy they halted, as if suddenly realizing the strange predicament they were in. They didn’t know him, where he came from, if he was sick or injured, or most curiously why he was sitting in the middle of an empty field without so much as a bottle of water. And furthermore, it was quite warm outside and the boy had no protective clothing on to shield him from the sun.

Anne knelt down and studied the boy’s face up close.

“Hello? Are you okay?”

No response other than an occasional blinking of the eyes.

Cindy crouched down next to her friend. “Is he is even alive?”

“Of course he is. Can’t you see he’s breathing and blinking his eyes?”

Cindy leaned in closer. “I guess you’re right. But why won’t he answer us?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t understand English.”

Cindy rolled her eyes. “Well, we gotta do something.”

The boy sat as still as a statue as the two girls mulled over what to do. He heard every word they said, but still did not move.

“Can you feel that?” Anne asked while suddenly straightening up.

Cindy felt something as well, something that wasn’t quite right.

Anne bent down close to the boy.

“It feels cold,” she said quietly. “Something feels cold.”

Cindy took a step back. Suddenly she did not want to be too close to the boy.

“Maybe it’s the wind.”

“It’s not the wind. It’s something else. And it seems to be coming from him.”

Cindy started to cry. Her intuition was warning her to get away from the small boy, but she hesitated…

For a few seconds too long.

Both Anne and Cindy felt the cold begin to creep into their bodies. Suddenly neither could move, or even scream. They were paralyzed where they stood.

“Anne? What’s happening?”

“I don’t know. I can’t move. And the cold, it’s terrible. How can it be so cold?”

The girls looked at the boy. His expression was changing into something darker, more feral, hungrier. They watched helplessly as his lips began to part, revealing a black void from which emanated a biting chill unlike anything they had ever felt before. And from within that black chasm also came a sense of depth with no end.

Anne tried to scream, but her throat was frozen.

The boy started to jiggle. Slightly at first, then with more force. Soon he was shaking violently, his stringy brown hair on top of his small head flailing around like rabid snakes scrambling for prey.

And then a slit appeared between his eyes. At first it was only an inch long, but gradually it grew, lengthening down his nose, through his still gaping mouth, and into his chest, effectively slicing him wide open.

Anne and Cindy stared in horrified disbelief as the small boy, who they had thought needed their help, opened up into a yawning cavity with no discernible limit to its depth. And they were powerless to stop the pull of the icy vacuum that was sliding them closer and closer to the hole.

And deep within the cold bowels of the hole, clinging to the trembling gloom, the creatures waited for their latest victims.

Grace stared at the crystal-clear spike of ice. It dangled precariously outside of her bedroom window, hanging down from a loose gutter her dad had meant to fix but never got around to. It was the biggest icicle she’d ever seen, twice the size of the one Jenny and Alyssa had knocked down the previous year on their way home from school. She still remembered how the ice snapped loose from the tree branch with just the slightest nudge.

That icicle was big, but this one, eroded down to an unusually sharp point at its tip, was bigger.

Grace crawled out of bed to get a better view of the icy formation outside her window. She studied it through the glass, noting how her reflection in it was slightly distorted: her short black hair was longer, flowing gently around her pale face, and her eyes had a bluish tint to them, unlike the dark hazel that they normally were. There was also a feral beauty in her face.

Cringing in fear, Grace felt weak and disoriented. She backed away from the window, never taking her eyes off the icicle. It had grown a little from when she had first noticed it earlier, undoubtedly due to the trickles of water streaming down from its base and refreezing.

The moonlight lit the room, casting a looming shadow of the icicle across Grace. She felt violated by it somehow, as if it were leaking into her bedroom. But she wouldn’t let it in.

Eventually sleep crept into her body, overtaking her in its calm embrace. She drifted into past realms that she cherished: birthday parties, playing in her sandbox, the first crush she had on a boy, her first kiss. The memories all danced around in her head like children vying for the attention of an adult.

And then she slept.

Grace rolled over and focused her groggy eyes on the alarm clock. 7:24 a.m. stared back at her. With lazy effort she slid out of bed and planted her bare feet on the floor. Instantly a chill swept over her body. She glanced over to the window, as if somehow trying to attach the cool draft to the large icicle that had been there since the night before.

And it was still there, only bigger. Its streamlined shape was much more pronounced, the tip hanging a full three and a half feet below its base.

And it was sharp. Very sharp.

Grace watched it, again noting how her reflection was distorted slightly. But although it was, she still appeared beautiful. Her face was smooth–a complexion befitting a professional model–and her hair was full and glossy. She stepped closer to the glass, marveling at her newfound looks. Another draft of cold air blew past her.

And then the thought drifted into her mind as if someone had planted it there, allowing it to take root and spread out, urging to her listen.

Why not go outside and get some fresh air? Just think how pretty you’ll look in the icicle’s reflection up close. You’ll be more beautiful than anyone else.

Yeah, maybe she would go outside. It would be really nice to see how she’d look in the icicle up close.

Slipping on some clothes, Grace ventured out of her bedroom. Behind her, hanging above her desk, the pages of her puppy and kitten calendar fluttered when the air conditioning kicked back on. All of the days for July were crossed off up to the twenty-second, the previous day. But Grace didn’t notice as she walked past her desk. The only thing she was concerned with was reaching the icicle.

And outside the bedroom window the icicle shuddered with excitement. The tiny arteries inside it pulsed with blood, pumping it from its base to its tip. It leaned forward slightly, tapping the glass, causing a thin crack in the pane.

The icicle then bent back to its original position and waited for Grace.

I’ve made my decision.

Over the course of my life I have gathered much knowledge. I have striven to better this world that I share with so many others. I have donated both time and money to humanitarian causes. I have delved into spreading religion and love for my fellow man, and patience for those–shall we say–less inclined to behave in a civilized manner.

I also furthered the eradication of several fatal diseases through my exhaustive research into splicing antibodies to achieve greater saturation. My monetary donations added whole new levels of awareness to numerous strains of viruses, some quite virulent.

I helped stabilize political unrest in more than half a dozen third-world countries. I was instrumental in the ousting of certain despots and leaders of Communist parties. The peace between the Mid-East and the United States has been largely attributed to my efforts.

My unique ability to connect with different species of wildlife, most notably the Usumara Baboon Spider (native to the dry regions of Eastern Africa) and a small, unassuming bird called the Pitohui from the New Guinea sub-region, have saved many from extinction. The means of interpreting the creatures’ intent, and in some cases their thoughts, was deemed miraculous by some, witchcraft by others. I myself do not fully understand how I do it.

And through all these accomplishments one singular thing has remained firmly planted deep within my soul: my faith in mankind. And with this faith I was able to successfully wield my determination to help those around me whenever and wherever I could.

But…

I lost my faith. Whether it was due to the thieves who broke into my house, rendering my legs useless with a well placed bullet, or the corporate bulldogs bent on my professional destruction, I’m not sure. Or perhaps it was the trashing of my image and all that I stood for and the inevitable backlash that spun off from it. People suddenly wanted nothing to do with me.

Or maybe, and I am deeply saddened to think this way, it was God Himself who averted my eyes from the light, cursing me with misfortune and misery. For it seemed to me that He decided to top off my problems with a final, dark twist: terminal cancer.

And so, as I sit here alone in my small house with only a few flickering candles separating me from total darkness, I ponder what was, what could have been, and what still might be. I do my best to ignore the chills that I feel, but it is a cold that bites deep with its promise of gloom.

My weary gaze swings over to a large window on the far side of the room. The glass has a thin crack stretching down from the top of the frame. I realize that all I have to do is tap on that crack to get it to shatter completely, thus allowing access to the outside world… and all its unsuspecting population.

The ornate glass vial rests next to my hand. It is sealed with a thermally expanding stopper of my own design, which will open only with a precise application of liquid nitrogen, administered through a pressured syringe (again, my own design).

The thing in the glass tube stares at me with its baleful eyes, red blobs of gelatinous evil which curdle into its syrupy pulp, sloshing up against the sides of the container. It forms a rudimentary mouth which mechanically goes through the motion of speaking, mouthing the words: We have a deal. Fulfill your end.

So, as I stated earlier, I have made my decision, although the bargain I made leaves me little choice. I will release the thing from its prison. I will begin Armageddon. I will unleash the End of Days. And as I will surely be its first victim I will take my thoughts with me, greatly saddened by the fact that I still had so much to offer the world.

Fido sauntered down the hallway. Occasionally he stopped in his meandering journey around the house to sniff the air, dull hope perking his floppy ears up. He inhaled deeply and cringed at the stale aroma of death. He attempted to process exactly where the stench was coming from.

Fido peered into the guest bathroom. The fluorescent light shone down on the beige porcelain toilet and tub. The pedestal sink stood just inside the doorway off to the left. It too was a matching shade of beige. But another color was also splattered across its smooth surface: red.

Shaggy brown tufts of hair lifted with Fido’s eyes as he surveyed the bathroom and its lone occupant. The body lay sprawled on the tiled floor directly beneath the sink, crimson pools puddled where its neck had been. Gore stained the front of the corpse’s shirt.

A soft whimper escaped from Fido’s lips and echoed down the dimly lit hallway. He would miss his master. Pleasant memories drifted into his mind like a warm, summer breeze: the long walks through Halmich Park, the numerous chew bones and rubber toys, the comfortable nights snuggled up on the leather couch under the wool afghan his master’s mother had knitted. He reveled in the thoughts, momentarily forgetting about the bloody remains of his owner stretched out on the cold bathroom floor.

And then the thought of when the other humans had smashed through the front door of the house crept into his mind. There were three of them, maybe four, each sporting evil grins and brandishing a variety of weapons. They pushed their way into the house and immediately attacked his master, who had been in the bathroom at the time. Fido watched helplessly from his foam doggie bed as the intruders marched through the house grabbing anything of value, smashing anything they couldn’t steal and sell.

And then they had left, leaving behind a ransacked house and an ownerless dog. Furniture was broken, walls were pockmarked with holes and scuffmarks, the floor was cracked and littered with debris. Even his owner’s most prized possession, an original painting by Herbert James Draper which hung over the fireplace mantel, was not spared. The gold-leaf frame barely held the torn fragments of the canvas, a classic theme showing the shapely sirens of lore tempting Odysseus and his crew to a watery death.

Fido felt his stomach grumble. It had been so long since he’d last eaten and there weren’t any scraps of food left anywhere in the home. The strange sensations he was feeling were uncomfortable, even a little painful, but he endured them, although he did feel as if he were growing, becoming stronger, more acute in his senses. He wondered if maybe the injured bird he’d eaten the previous day had been infected with something. He did notice it was bristling with tiny bugs. Possibly some type of parasites?

Bloody foam dripped from Fido’s mouth as he swung his hungry gaze back to his owner’s lifeless body. The hallucinations that had plagued him for the last couple of days had him doubting the fact that his master was indeed dead. But deep down inside he knew he was.

Behind him, the immaculately clean house was peaceful, a quiet retreat from the noisy streets outside. His owner had always been a well-organized type of person. The painting by Herbert Draper hung over the fireplace just as it always had, Odysseus forever suffering from the wails of the evil sirens.

Was it another hallucination? Maybe. Maybe not.

With a heavy heart Fido crept reluctantly, but with vicious purpose, back into the bathroom to continue his grisly feast.

Brian watched the flames dance up into the clear, cool night. He zipped up his jacket as far as it would go and waited for the next story to begin.

“Who wants to hear another one?” Brian’s dad asked eagerly, the campfire reflecting off the lenses of his glasses.

“I do,” all of the kids simultaneously blurted out, Brian among them.

Brian’s dad glanced over at his son. “Good,” he slurred, hamming it up as much as he could. “Not too long ago there was a young boy who was scared of the dark. His parents thought about seeking professional help, but eventually decided that it was normal.”

The children hung on every word Brian’s father was saying. Ben, an energetic kid, looked over at his friend Brian.

“Hey, Brian,” he whispered. “You got any marshmallows left?”

“Quiet!” Brian shot back.

Brian’s father looked at the boys. He took off his glasses and wiped the lenses on his shirt. “Anyway,” he continued. “This little boy was so afraid of the dark that even shadows scared him. And every night he’d huddle up as close to his parents as he could for protection. And then one day, or should I say one night…”

“What happened?” little Mark Terix asked. “What happened to the little boy? Tell us!”

Brian’s dad grinned. “Now settle down,” he chuckled. “And then one night,” he finally continued, “something terrible happened. The little boy’s parents heard him screaming from his bedroom. But by the time they reached him all they found was a severed hand lying in a pool of blood and shredded pajamas.”

“You mean the boy died?” Ben asked.

“I’m afraid so. But even that wasn’t the worst of it. As the little boy’s mother started screaming the father saw the darkness reach out from underneath the bed and snatch the severed hand from the floor.”

Ben looked puzzled. “Don’t you mean something in the dark grabbed the hand?”

Brian’s father smiled. “No,” he replied, barely being able to contain himself. “I meant the dark itself grabbed the hand.”

“What happened then?” little Mark Terix asked.

“Well, according to the report the boy’s parents gave the police, a thick patch of darkness, blacker than coal, shimmied back and forth and then slid up from underneath the bed and out the window. Both parents said they saw rows of tiny, razor-sharp teeth in the darkness. And not a single drop of blood remained behind. Not one single drop.”

“I didn’t like that story,” little Mark finally blurted out, shattering the uncomfortable silence. “I didn’t like the way it ended.”

Brain’s dad looked into the flames. “Oh, I never said the story was over.”

Brain looked at his father, and for a moment, just for a brief flicker in time, there was something that didn’t seem quite right.

So he decided to go and get something to eat. And as he walked away from the other kids still huddled around the fire he stepped on something… something that cracked under his shoe. Reaching down, he picked up the object.

It was a pair of glasses… his dad’s glasses. And they were smeared with blood.

And then another disturbing sight caught his attention: somebody was sprawled out next to a nearby tent. And they weren’t moving.

Brain whirled around and glared at where his dad was still telling the story to the other kids.

“You see, the parents never found out what killed their boy. Whatever it was it wasn’t human. And whatever it was it got away that night. But you want to know the scariest part of the story?” Brain’s dad asked. “The scariest part is it’s a true story!”

And with those cryptic words Brian’s father peeled away his face to reveal a glistening black void, blacker than coal, with rows and rows of tiny, razor-sharp teeth lining the edges. And not even Brian, who was already running in the other direction, could get away in time.

Dale felt a sharp pain in his left thigh. He stood up and began feeling his leg for clues to the origin of the pain. Maybe too much time on the tennis court the day before or perhaps he had some type of infection. He had recently returned from a trip to Nigeria. God only knows what kind of diseases lurked there.

And then there was that old peddler he accidentally ran into with his Jeep. Tattered rags for clothes. He was disgusting. He had demanded an apology for being knocked down by a foreigner. Dale had laughed in his face. Imagine him, Dale Tuffin, Jr., stooping so low as to apologize to some vagrant. Who cares that the old windbag screamed at him and whined a series of loud curses. But just to be safe, he had himself checked out when he returned to the States.

Seating himself in a plush, imported chair, Dale continued with his book. Such was his life of ease that he could easily afford many hours to reading. His father’s real estate dealings had skyrocketed lately leaving his children to bask in wealth. His father had never really pushed work on his two sons, preferring to let them find their own direction. And although nineteen years had passed in Dale’s life with no real skills or talent surfacing, he did not worry. He would someday inherit over seventy million dollars along with his brother. Who needed to work?

Twenty minutes passed before Dale realized that the pain in his leg had all but completely vanished. Now he could plan eighteen holes of golf tomorrow.

Putting his book down, Dale reached for the pen and notebook of paper he had left on the end table. He needed to make a note to call the country club and line up his buddies for the game. His hand landed squarely on the notepad but the pen was gone!

That’s weird; he could have sworn he left the pen on the table. But not to worry, he’d get another one.

Come to think of it, he had been misplacing quite a few things lately. Nothing of any real importance though, but things he needed nonetheless.

The day before, he lost his new Van Halen CD in his ’Vette. He was nearly swerving off the road looking for it. And that was when the back spasm hit him. Sheer agony that almost made him have an accident.

Then he had misplaced his lighter. Then his brush, his favorite brush.

Was someone playing a joke on him? Was someone taking his things when he wasn’t looking? But how could they sneak in and out of rooms without being seen?

He quickly found a new pen.

Seating himself back in the library, he wrote his notes on the next day’s activities.

And then the pain hit him. A dull, slicing pain. It felt like someone was jabbing him with a knife. No, like a shoe or something. It actually felt like there was a shoe being shoved up his butt.

The room filled with his cries. Realizing he was alone in the house increased his anxiety. And since it was Friday, the help had the day off. No one would hear him.

He scanned the room. He noticed that his book was now gone as well!

The phone! Call for help, call his father, call anybody! But a twist of his head revealed more insanity… his phone was gone!

“This is crazy,” Dale cried. “What the hell’s going on?”

Another jolt of unbelievable pain hit his ankle. And then another racked his stomach. He fell to the floor. As the threshold of his pain increased he noticed something that provided insight to his impending death.

Not more than five feet from his sprawled body, the impossible crept towards him. Seeking to join their companions within Dale’s body, his book and the telephone inched their way towards their new home.

Linda watched the doorknob jiggle back and forth as her captive attempted to free herself. But she knew very well that her friend wouldn’t be able to escape. She had wedged a heavy chair up under the handle on the door.

“Linda? Answer me! I know you can hear me!”

Linda smiled to herself. “Don’t waste your breath, Marla. I’m not letting you out. Or at least not yet. And I think you know why, too.”

Marla continued to struggle against the door, but it held firm.

“Where’s Jason at?” she demanded.

Linda scowled. “You don’t need to worry your pretty little head about him. He’s not your concern anymore.”

“Did you kill him too?”

“Listen to me, little miss innocent,” Linda retorted. “You know perfectly well who the killer is here. You’re probably one of those things. I don’t think you’re even human! Jason told me he saw your eyes change. He said they were blood red!”

“Linda, it’s me, Marla. How could you do this to me? I’m not any monster. You know it and I know it. I didn’t kill Tommy or Ross or even the damn cat. When I found them they were already dead.”

A long silence followed.

“Linda, do you hear me? Linda, you bitch, listen to me!”

Linda stood up and sauntered over to the bed. Lying down, she kicked off her pink tennis shoes and stretched herself out.

“Jason will be here any minute, ya know,” she teased. “He told me we were gonna find out if you’re human or not. Oh, and he’s bringing Tommy and Ross with him too.”

Marla stood up and, rubbing her swollen eyes, concentrated on the door. Thin plumes of wispy smoke floated up from her head, filling the closet with its thick aroma. With one swift wave of her hand the closet door crashed to the ground.

“I do hope those bastards hurry up,” she grunted in a deep, guttural tone. “I’m starving. I haven’t eaten in months.”

At that very instant Jason, Tommy and Ross burst into the room.

“Hello, ladies, we’re here!”

Tommy and Ross fell onto the bed, flanking Linda, who was smiling from ear to ear. “What took you guys so long?”

Tommy snapped his hands back, releasing two-inch-long talons from their sheaths. “You know we had to wait till the right time. We couldn’t show up earlier.”

Ross was swinging his arms around his head as if he were doing some sort of bizarre ritual dance, his face a mixture of pleasure and pain. In a split second one of his hands swung near Linda’s head, slicing off one of her ears, which landed across the room in a thick bloody pile. Linda only laughed.

“Is he here yet?” Jason asked. “I’m getting hungry.” His eyes had become such a deep shade of red they were nearly black.

“You moron,” Marla spat. “Of course he’s here. Who do you think is narrating this horror story?”

“Could be a girl,” Linda giggled. The side of her head where her ear had been was thick with blood. It contrasted strongly with her smile. “They taste good too.”

Marla nodded. “I stand corrected. He, or she, fell into our trap perfectly.” Her elongated fingers clenched in excitement. “And as usual they don’t have a clue.”

And then the entire group, Linda, Marla, Tommy, Ross and Jason, all turned and looked at me. Their hungry, red eyes glowed with an evil hunger beyond description, content in the knowledge that I was doomed.

I had been foolish enough to fall for their ploy, to involve myself in their situation, to care about what happened to their characters. And now I’m trapped.

I can only watch helplessly as they advance towards me with grins too wide and teeth too long for any human. Hopefully they won’t see you as well.

I will ask a simple question: what do you see? Do you see another human being, a fellow insignificant speck on an insignificant speck that wanders aimlessly around a glowing orb in the cold arena of space? Do you see another living creature who like yourself is acting out the scene of life with only vague ideas and beliefs as to what waits beyond? One who can’t grasp the slightest notion of where life began or how long it will last? People who shut out the inevitable fact that all we do or say will be incinerated when the sun swells and engulfs the inner planets? Is that what you see?

Do you see another person full of thoughts, fears, desires? One who shares sunlight and rain and warmth and cold with all other living creatures whether they want to or not? Someone who strives to live each and every day to the fullest despite whichever path that may require?

Do you see an enemy or a friend? An accomplice or an opponent? Do you see a reflection of yourself? A mirror image staring back at you, similar and yet not so alike? Remember, mirrors distort images backwards; they do not reveal inside the person. They cannot expose that private little room inside of all of us where we hide away from the world’s probing judgments. Sometimes we even hide away from ourselves.

Do you see someone who embodies all that is bad in people? Someone who embraces and even displays every aspect of evil and cruelty despite the enormous undertaking of such a task given mankind’s long and storied history of evil?

Or do you see someone who glows with an aura of compassion and kindness? One who radiates love and genuine understanding? For that as well would be an enormous task.

So I ask you again: what do you see? Judging by the trickle of tears streaming down your face I can only surmise that you see something unpleasant. I do, however, hope that is not the case. Believe me when I say that. I truly mean it. I am, among other things, sincere.

But now I will tell you what I see. I see prey. I see a victim. I see a delectable morsel of flesh that my blade yearns to love.

The dirty man coughed deeply, spraying Hugh’s face with residual pieces of previous meals. If it hadn’t been for his editor, Hugh wouldn’t be holed up in this filthy excuse for a house listening to the incoherent ramblings of a man whose showerhead hadn’t had water through it in months. But he knew he must follow every lead on this story even if it was only some loser who was probably bumped off by some other loser over drugs. He doubted there was any unseen force or ghosts or aliens.

“So tell me, Mr…. Shimes, is it? Tell me, the victim, was he really torn apart by an invisible… well, something unseen?” Pure nonsense.

The dirty man’s face broke into an oily smile. A smile that reflected pride in knowing something, despite its horrible origins.

“That’s right,” he drawled. “Shredded evenly on all sides, he was.”

“When you say shredded, what exactly do you mean?”

“Jus’ what it sounds like. Cut up, chewed right before our eyes. Me an’ five others seen it.”
 
 
Hugh felt himself grow lightheaded. “So you’re saying something ate him?”

“I can see the doubt in your eyes. You’re a man needs facts.”

Hugh sneezed. “Well, I suppose you are correct. The public is not interested in myths. They want truth, however grim it might be.” He felt a twinge of guilt for explaining himself to a hobo.

The dirty man rose from his chair and straightened out his crooked neck.

“Sam was a friend of mine.”

“Was he into the occult or anything similar?”

“Not that I know of,” came the reply. “And I knew him pretty good. Would give ya the shirt off his back.” Then the dirty man paused as a look of remembrance came across his worn face. “One thing though, he did complain ’bout not feeling good shortly before he died.”

Hugh felt his temperature rise.

“You’re wrestling with an impossibility,” the dirty man said with a smile. “Something that can’t possibly have happened… but did.” His smile sported rotten teeth. “A man in your profession can only deal with hard facts rooted in common sense. Well, they’re on the table. All you have to do is write about ’em.”

Hugh needed some air. He stood up and made his way to the door. The handle was slick with layers of grime and dust; it slipped in his hand.

“Simply not believing won’t protect you! The impossible stalks, beware!”

With a savage twist, Hugh finally managed to open the door.

The cool outside air soothed his head and cleared his sinuses. He breathed it in deeply and watched the white mist dance around his face as he started to walk to his car. He had aspirin in the glove box and he needed them badly, very badly.

He sneezed and coughed. Then he sneezed again followed by several more coughs, each more painful than the one before.

That damn bum gave me something, he thought coldly. He continued to stumble towards his car, tripping over bushes and knocking over trashcans as he went.

“You okay there?” It was the dirty man leaning over him, his rancid breath slapping Hugh in the face. “Mister, you all right?”

Hugh opened his eyes and looked up at the dirty man. He saw intense fear in his eyes, fear that reflected what was about to happen to him. The ring of teeth detached themselves from Hugh’s mouth and spiraled upwards. Turning completely transparent, they descended on their prey with lightning speed.

Hugh wondered why he had been lying on the ground. He stood up, brushed himself off and pulled out his keys from his pocket. He started his car and drove away, never once noticing the shredded remains of the dirty man which were lumped on the sidewalk. He lit a cigarette and rubbed his jaw. His mouth was sore for some reason.

“Great, just what I need now,” he thought. “A toothache.”