MicroHorror

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?

I can feel the frustration build inside of me as I search for the loaf of bread. I know that we have some left because I made myself a sandwich just yesterday.

The breadbox yields only half a loaf of rye, which clearly won’t do. Serena developed a mild rash the last time she had rye bread.

I finally locate the proper bread and deposit four slices into the toaster. That done, I whirl around to face the stove. Two stainless steel fry pans are perched upon the burners. I bought them just a month ago.

In one of the pans the bacon that covers the bottom sizzles and pops while the other pan yearns for the delivery of gooey yellow eggs. Scrambled is the best way to go.

I gingerly toss in a dash of salt and pepper and carefully grate four slices of American cheese and one slice of Mozzarella. I toss the shavings into the bowl of egg and add one-quarter cup of whole milk. Serena has always loved how light and fluffy my eggs are.

The toast pops up and in thirty seconds I have them slathered with warm butter, sprinkled with parsley flakes and deposited next to the bacon. Wooden spatula in hand (I’ve found that wood doesn’t leave a metallic taste like the metal spatulas do) I flip the eggs several times over, being extra careful to do so evenly. When I am completely satisfied with them I scoop them out of the pan and arrange them on the plate. Grinning with pride I am now ready to present my wife with breakfast in bed.

Our bedroom door looms in front of me at the end of the hallway. Behind it is the woman I love more than life itself. Serena completes me in every way possible and I don’t know what I would do if we were ever apart.

I push the door open and call my wife’s mane. I sing to her that I have breakfast in bed ready for her and proceed to enter the room.

She lies in our bed on the far side of the room. Soft sunlight filters through the blinds and cascades down to the floor. The pale blue comforter that she loves so much is draped over her up to her neck.

Is she asleep? Perhaps.

I set the tray down over her midsection and lightly nudge her, being ever so careful not to startle her as I whisper her name. I nearly jump out of my skin when she abruptly sits up and smiles at me.

“Good morning dear,” she coos. “Is this for me?” She glances down at the food. I grin and nod my head.

“Eat up, honey,” I reply and wait for her to dig in.

Her delicate hand lifts the stainless steel fork and buries it in the mound of eggs in front of her. She smiles at me as she begins to partake of the meal I have so painstakingly prepared.

It takes only a few minutes for the poison to do its work. Her eyes grow wide and her skin turns pale. The realization that she is dying reflects on her face; the fact that I am the one killing her reflects in her eyes.

The horror of my actions pains me deeply but I reassure myself that it is for the best. I wipe the small trickle of blood that is streaming down the back of my neck. When I dropped dead from a heart attack a few hours ago I must have hit the side of the counter. Fortunately Serena did not notice it. I sit down at the foot of the bed and gaze into her eyes… and wait.