MicroHorror

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.”

My beautiful wife doesn’t say a word as lingerie slips from her body and forms a silky white pool at her feet. A smile appears on her face. It is a hollow smile, one that masks an inner demon.

“Are you feeling all right?” I ask, hoping that fear doesn’t lace my voice. She looks at me, puzzled at my words.

“Of course, honey,” she replies and smiles even wider revealing jagged fangs that gleam in the room’s light.

My mouth goes dry as I watch her fling her long black hair back behind her head only to have it cascade towards her face again. She giggles, at first gently and seductively, but it soon flows into a deeper and more malevolent tone. I watch her stroll towards the bathroom.

“I’ll be right back, sweetheart,” she sings with the voice of an angel. I hear her laugh at her choice of words. “Sweetheart. How ironic,” she hums. “That young man did have a sweet heart. Very sweet indeed.”

I don’t know what she is but I love her regardless. The old saying that you can’t help whom you fall in love with is very true.

When we met I was to become her next meal but for some reason she did not harm me. Instead, she courted me.

I’ll never forget the looks on the faces of those poor people who she took that night we met. The look of terror on them remained even after their heads lay in bloody piles next to what was left of their bodies.

I click on the television to pass the time because I know all too well that my wife can take quite a while sometimes. A very petite and pretty news lady comes on the screen talking somberly about a series of grisly murders in the city. Her almond blue eyes and red lips do well in concealing her fear but I do notice that she is slightly trembling. A smile creeps on my face. I know very well who is responsible for the killings.

My wife eventually emerges from the bathroom and flings herself onto our bed next to me. I can see the hunger in her eyes but I am confident that I am safe.

And our night begins.

Teeth have formed in the palms of her delicate hands and she swings them high above her head in erotic arcs. The flesh on her face begins to run, revealing festering sores underneath, and from her back sprout dozens of minuscule appendages that writhe with blind desire.

I wake up to the sun. I pull myself out of bed ignoring my protesting back and prepare myself a cup of tea. As I drink I look around the room. It’s littered with discarded clothes and leftover food containers. I begin to look for my duffel bag. I know I will need it that evening so it does not take very long before my searching becomes somewhat frantic.

After failing to locate it I suddenly recall where I left it. I run to my truck and swing the door open. To my great joy my bag stares back at me from the front seat. The bag surrenders its contents to my eyes. I check my tools as I have done so many times before. The scalpels are sharp and gleam in the morning sun and the hacksaws and hammers flank the scalpels like children nestled next to their mother. And the crudest, but most important tool, the revolver, lies in the far corner of the bag. It reminds me of an employer keeping a watchful eye on his workers.

I zip the bag back up and tuck it behind the seat. Although I have a long night ahead of me I won’t be leaving until after dinner so there’s no real rush to get ready.

I saunter casually back into the house, sipping my tea.

Death has three passages.

One: death is the end. The body simply ceases to function and therefore ceases to exist as it was before one’s conception. The physical shell left behind is merely an object not unlike a stone sitting in a still pond.

Two: life after death. It’s little wonder that this is the most popular. After death the soul departs the body and either ascends toward heaven or descends to hell.

Three: sleep. Sleep knows no good or evil and cannot distinguish between the two. This third form of death is eternal like its brothers even though it seems unlikely that it can be. Eventually one would wake. But how would one wake if that person is dead? These questions I cannot answer nor can I explain how one is chosen for which passage. I myself was slated for the third passage.

When I was killed in action in those sweaty rat-infested forests of Vietnam I put my faith in God and Heaven. I’d led a good life; it was not my choice to kill strangers halfway across the globe. I was only following orders and trying to stay alive.

But now here I lay in my moldering casket unable to cry out or even to move. How long I have been here I do not know, although I feel it has been at least a couple of years, perhaps decades. The insomnia I’d suffered from when I was a child paled in comparison. All I can do is reflect back on a shattered and too short life.

My thoughts drift back to the day I died. My platoon had been ambushed and I was the only one who escaped; although it didn’t really matter, my legs had been blown off and the shock and loss of blood was going to do me in anyways.

I squirmed in agony in the medic’s bloody arms with mosquitoes the size of tennis balls buzzing around my head and wet leaves under what was left of my body. I looked into his eyes and saw compassion mixed with helplessness and fear. He obviously knew he would not be able to save me. The pain was excruciating but was tempered by one consolation… eternal peace.

Little did I know at the time, however, that it would be after death that I would really get insomnia!

The spider was perfectly motionless as pangs of hunger relentlessly tapped into its mind. The strange sensations it had been experiencing also reasserted themselves, further adding to its discomfort. The beakers of liquid it had stumbled across in the back room of the house had hardly proved to be an adequate quencher of its thirst. It thought they had contained water, but it quickly discovered that that was far from the truth. Still, the fluids were intoxicating almost to the point of being addictive, and although its thirst and hunger were still raging it did feel somewhat rejuvenated.

The spider recalled others like itself in the back room as well. Some were large and hairy and others were small, but all were housed inside various sized bottles with wide labels attached to them.

Black Widow (Latrodectus mactans), Northern Funnel Web (Atrax robustus) and Brazilian Wanderer (Phoneutria nigriventer) were but a few of the specimens inside the room. The spider also noticed several small mice in glass boxes on the tables.

The spider’s stomach began to contort. The cat it had swallowed had been digested and it now had all of its eyes focused on the family dog. It was a large dog, much bigger than the cat, but the spider did not care; hunger directed its actions. It pounced on the poor creature in a flash and greedily sucked down the corpse.

The spider was surprised that its hunger still was not satisfied. It wondered in its mutating and rapidly expanding brain what exactly it had drunk in the back room in the house. The complex neurotoxin dripping from its expanding fangs occasionally dribbled onto its own legs causing necrotic lesions, but it did not care; the pain was minimal compared to its hunger.

The spider was barely able to squeeze through the doorway but finally managed to do it. It sensed food nearby and an obstacle like a wall or a door was not about to stop it.

It entered the room and quickly squatted behind a large couch, attempting to hide itself. But it was no good, it was far too big. So it instead opted for a swift, violent attack instead of a slow, calculated one.

The little girl sat in front of the television unaware that she was being watched. She was singing along to her favorite program while eating the ham sandwich her mother had made for her. She was also looking forward to that evening when her daddy had promised her he would play tea party with her. He was always so busy in his laboratory that he usually didn’t have much time for her or her mommy, but she knew the work he was doing was very important and that it would save lives one day.

The spider’s fangs drooled in anticipation. It watched the little girl closely, waiting for the opportunity to strike. The hunger it was feeling was maddening, prohibiting the spider from applying patience to its hunt. It knew it would have to attack soon… very soon.

The little girl’s mother strolled into the living room to see if her daughter wanted something else to eat. She screamed when she saw the half-eaten ham sandwich lying in front of the television…covered in blood.

The cockroach squeezed through the tiny hole in the wall. It was hungry and desperately needed to find food. The room was very strange; there were many containers with spiders in them and small mice in glass cages as well. It entered the room cautiously, being driven by its desire for food. The thirst it suffered from was also strong, and it was pleased to find some glass containers with liquid in them.

It scurried over to them and began to lap up the water.

And then it realized it was not water.

“Of course I feel fine,” Rick Jerith moaned as the doctor poked and prodded his body for the umpteenth time in the last two days. His irritation from feeling like a lab rat was beginning to show through every word he spoke. “I really don’t see any need for this, Doc.”

Doctor Maisan, a small, soft-spoken man in his early sixties, continued with his examination. His fascination with his patient’s unique and thoroughly unprecedented situation drove his tireless efforts to unlock what had actually happened two days earlier.

“I’m going to require a urine sample,” Doctor Maisan stated in a sterile tone. “And perhaps another blood sample as well.” He glanced up at his increasingly annoyed patient. “If that’s all right with you, Mr. Jerith.”

Rick glared at the doctor. “Fine,” he grumbled through clenched teeth. “Whatever. Just make it quick.”

Doctor Maisan could hardly contain his excitement. His good fortune of being the one and only doctor in the tiny, isolated town of Newsbury, Michigan was almost too good to be true. Of all the towns, in all the counties, he, Dr. Coleman A. Maisan, practiced in the one place where a young man actually rose from his casket during his funeral and announced he was not dead after all. He himself had pronounced the man dead after examining him thoroughly and now here was the same man sitting in his office claiming that he felt perfectly normal.

“How many more tests do you have to do?” Rick asked. He was starting to get hungry and wanted nothing more than to head back to his little disorganized house and lose himself in various television channels. “I know what happened to me was really weird, but I feel fine. In fact, I feel great.” He flexed his large arms to emphasize his point.

“I know, I know, Mr. Jerith,” Doctor Maisan replied quietly while selecting a large specimen container from a drawer. “But I need you to fill this up for me, if you would.”

Rick glared at the plastic cup. “That thing is huge. How am I supposed to fill that up?”

“Just do the best you can, please,” Doctor Maisan said with a smile. “And then we can discuss your situation a little.”

Rick frowned. “I already told you what happened. I was working on my roof and I slipped coming down the ladder. I guess the patio cement broke my fall.”

“Yes. I believe you broke your neck. I examined you myself.”

Rick just shrugged. “Yeah, I guess I did, but I feel great now. Look.” He swung his head back and forth, twisting it in all directions.

Doctor Maisan nodded. “Yes, yes, I know. It’s perfectly normal now.” He set down the needle he was preparing. “Rather fascinating, I might add. No sign of damage whatsoever, not even any bruising.” An expression of worry crossed his weathered face. “To be honest, Mr. Jerith… I’m baffled.”

Rick laughed. “I’ll tell ya something really strange though, Doc. I feel better now than before I had the accident… much, much better.”

Doctor Maisan smiled nervously. “Have you had any other changes worth noting, such as sleeping habits or a change in appetite?”

Rick’s smile grew wider. The sterile white glow from the light fixtures reflected off his eyes. “Nope. Still sleep like a baby, and my appetite… is… ahhh. My appetite…”

A cold lump formed in Doctor Maisan’s throat. “Yes, Mr. Jerith? What about your appetite?”

“My appetite has changed a little now that you mention it, Doc,” Rick slurred, thick drool cascading down his chest. “Lately I’ve had this huge craving for… brains.”

When this all started I thought about ending my life but I didn’t quite have the nerve. If you really think about it it takes a lot of courage to kill yourself, more, I’m afraid, than I have.

I know what happened wasn’t really my fault. I reason with myself constantly that what happened to Jim and Theresa was an accident, a horrible accident that I was only a bystander to. I’ll tell you the whole story but I have to make it fast; I fear my time is limited. I know the basement won’t hold them much longer, there are simply too many of them.

It really began when I was just a kid. My cousin Eddie was like a best friend to me. I remember how I cried at his funeral. He was only sixteen. His mother, my Aunt Paula, blamed me for his death. She never did like me though.

My Uncle Leo was worse than my aunt. I heard when he found her dead from a heart attack he didn’t so much as shed a tear. Then he cashed in her life insurance, which put him high on the list of suspects.

I know I’m getting carried away again. The sounds are getting louder and I can smell them now. The stench is filling the house like a disease.

Detective Mollar was a nice guy. He was always very understanding and courteous with me, probably because he knew I was an orphan… twice. God, how I miss Mom and Dad; car accidents are so frightening, aren’t they?

Detective Mollar admitted to me that he suspected my Uncle Leo but was unable to prove it. He vowed that he would find the truth and not rest until he did.

I liked him. He was honest and hard working. I haven’t visited his grave yet but I’ve meant to, I really have.

The door going to the basement is holding for now but shows signs of breaking. I can hear the wood begin to splinter from the pressure on it.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I killed them. Well, believe me, I did not kill anybody. I’ve never killed anything in my life.

Those things in the basement are the ones responsible. Hell, I don’t even know how many of them are down there. Don’t care to find out, either.

They got my girlfriend Sarah, they got my boss Mr. Sholt, I think they even got my dog Mickey. They seem to be able to transcend our material plane somehow and phase themselves in and out of our dimension. Why they can’t break the seal of my basement I don’t know, nor do I care as long as they can’t get out. But even that security is in jeopardy now.

I knew the door wouldn’t last! My time has finally come!

Mickey! Come here, boy. What’s that in your mouth, fella? Oh, it’s your tongue. Looks kinda strange all shriveled up like that.

Eddie! How’d you get here? I thought you were up in Kensal Cemetery. I hardly recognized you, being more bones than skin.

Detective Mollar! It’s good to see you again, even though you’re missing most of your skull.

Mom? Is it really you? God, how I missed you, and you too, Dad.

Sarah! It’s really you! You look… uh… great, even without most of your face. So that’s what brains really look like.

I can’t believe it, this is great! You’re all back, even Jim and Theresa.

Hey… wait a minute. Why are all of you looking at me like that? Hey, slow down, will ya? Why are you guys coming at me like that? What’s the matter?

Mom? Dad?