MicroHorror

Mark hated the damned poodle from the moment his wife brought it home from the pound. Fucking fluffy piece of living crap. All it did was eat, sleep and shit. And frequently it would shit on his expensive Persian rug. The last straw was when Mark got up to pee one night and stepped on the dog’s tail, and it nipped his ankle.

“You’re taking that fucking dog to the vet to have it put down!” Mark hollered at his wife. “I will not have a dog living under my roof biting me!”

Mark’s wife’s eyes brimmed with tears as she led the poodle out of the house the next day. Mark kicked back and enjoyed the peace and quiet. Until the phone rang, that is.

“Honey, Fifi’s gone!” It was Mark’s wife crying on the other end.

“Good,” he said. “Come on back home.”

“No, she’s not gone gone,” his wife blubbered. “She’s not here. The shot they gave her did something strange to her. Instead of going to sleep, she started growling and showing her teeth. She kinda puffed up…”

“Puffed up? What do you mean, puffed up?”

“She got bigger,” Mark’s wife explained. “Then she jumped up and tore out the vet’s throat.”

Mark felt the blood draining from his face. His wife’s voice sounded as if it was coming from far away. The knuckles on the hand he was holding the phone with had turned white.

“Then Fifi ran for the door. One of the technicians reached out to try and stop her, and Fifi flashed past her, teeth gnashing, like a buzz saw on four legs. She smashed right through the door with the tech’s severed arm still in her mouth.”

Mark no longer heard his wife. His attention was focused on the front door, where a guttural growl that had started out very low was growing louder and louder. The phone fell from Mark’s hand and clacked to the floor just as the front door exploded inward.

The Martian ambassador and the leader of the mission from Earth stood together at the edge of the pond.

“We call this ‘The Pond of Truth,’” the Martian said.

“What does it do?” asked Colonel Beckwith.

“When one looks into the pond,” the Martian explained, “one sees one’s true nature in the reflection.”

“Is that so?”

“It is.”

“Is it ever wrong?”

“No,” said the Martian. “Never.”

Colonel Beckwith leaned over the pond. In the reflection he saw himself drawing his photon pistol and blasting the Martian in the head.

Suddenly the Martian ambassador’s hands wrapped around Colonel Beckwith’s neck. He shoved the Earthman to the ground and pushed his head beneath the pond’s surface. The pond was full of some sort of Martian acid, which dissolved Colonel Beckwith’s head in a matter of seconds. The Martian tossed the headless body behind him and looked into the pond. Once the surface settled, the Martian saw the same thing reflected that he had seen before the Earth mission arrived: his family, enjoying a meal of roasted human flesh.

“No,” the Martian said, smiling, “it’s never wrong.” He grabbed the Colonel’s body by the ankle and headed for home.

I knew my dad would be upset, but he’d been drinking, too, which made it worse.

“How many times have I told you little fuckers to stay away from those caves?”

He led me by the forearm out of the house and to the truck. Later I’d have to hide the bruises I got where his fingers squeezed. I climbed into the passenger seat. My dad threw a length of rope in the back, started up the pickup and peeled out of the driveway.

“You’re both getting the belt when we get home,” my dad snarled. I had already assumed as much.

We pulled up to the mouth of the cave and got out. My dad grabbed the rope, and I led the way. About fifty yards into the cave I stopped, pointing to the spot where rotting planks partially covered a hole in the ground. My dad knelt down and peered into the darkness.

“Scotty?” he called, leaning forward. “Are you all right?”

A gentle shove with my foot was all it took to upset my dad’s balance and send him tumbling seventy-five feet to his death. My brother Scotty materialized from the shadows. We shared a high five and dialed 9-1-1.

Maxwell Von der Stadt was making the cross-Atlantic journey in the cargo hold, his coffin escorted by Klaus Heinrich. Both had been hand-picked by Hitler to travel to the United States, where Von der Stadt would assassinate President Franklin D. Roosevelt. Hitler’s hope was that the murder would throw the U.S. government into chaos, smoothing the way for his New Order and world domination.

William Sandifer was making the same trip across the Atlantic, but with an entirely different mission. He was charged with ensuring that Von der Stadt never set foot on American soil. He found it difficult to believe that Von der Stadt was a vampire, but he had his orders, and he would carry them out.

Heinrich kept close guard on Von der Stadt’s coffin. So close that it wasn’t until the very day that they were due to arrive in the U.S. that Sandifer finally got his chance to take Von der Stadt out.

Sandifer followed Heinrich to the railing, where the German joined other passengers to watch as they approached land.

Sandifer moved quickly to the cargo hold and located the coffin. It was covered with a red flag with a white circle and a swastika in the center. Sandifer yanked the flag off the coffin and tried the lid. It wouldn’t budge. He looked around, and spotted a crowbar nearby. Sandifer grabbed the bar and wedged it beneath the lid. Putting all his weight on the bar the lid creaked and finally cracked open a few inches. Sandifer pulled the wooden stake from his inside coat pocket and lifted the lid the rest of the way. Inside, Von der Stadt lay with his hands crossed over his chest. He wore a tuxedo, his skin chalky white. Sandifer took the stake in both hands and raised it over his head. Von der Stadt’s eyes flew open and his face turned toward Sandifer. The vampire’s mouth opened, revealing long fangs. Von der Stadt hissed, causing Sandifer to hesitate. A gunshot rang out from behind him, and Sandifer turned to find Heinrich, a smoking Luger in his hand. Sandifer dropped the stake, and it clattered away on the floor. He could feel the life draining from the hole in his back, but as he fell to his knees he found the strength to reach into his pocket for the incendiary grenade he had only planned to use as a last resort. Von der Stadt and Heinrich shared identical looks of terror as Sandifer pulled the pin and let the handle fly. A moment later fire filled the cargo hold, consuming everything in its path.

Licks of flame appeared in the giant airship’s skin. The fire spread quickly, burning through the name written on the side: HINDENBURG. As the ship’s glowing skeleton settled to the ground a reporter wept into his microphone, lamenting the loss of human life. What he couldn’t know was that humanity had been spared the horrors of world war, if only for a few years.

Marv scrunched up his nose at the smell. “Must be one of those trucks headed for the dog food factory,” he said to Jimmy, who was driving. They could see a semi about a quarter mile ahead of them. “Hurry up and pass it!”

As they pulled alongside the truck haunted eyes stared out through the holes in the trailer. Bony fingers and hands reached out toward them. Mouths issued pleas they couldn’t understand. A sign on the cab’s door read “Official Government Business.”

Marv chuckled. “Your tax dollars at work.”

Jimmy snickered and shook his head. “Fuckin’ illegals.”

The cancer had spread, promising a lengthy, painful demise. It was something neither Mac nor his elderly father was looking forward to. Both wondered whether there was a quicker, easier way out.

Mac stood by his father’s nursing home bed, the loaded pistol lying on the blanket. “It’s time, Dad,” he said. His father nodded agreement. There was a bang, and blue smoke spread like spilled ink through the air while blood spread on the floor below. An autopsy would show the extent of the disease, and Mac’s father would face no charges for ending his son’s life.

Jack sat with his family around the dining room table.

“So how was school today?”

Jack’s daughter, Nikki, was halfway through the fifth grade.

“It was okay,” she said. “We didn’t have art ’cause Mrs. Tippet was sick.”

Jack frowned. “That’s too bad. Everything else was good?” Nikki nodded. Jack turned to his son.

“How about you, Jeff?”

Jack’s son, Jeffrey, was a sophomore in high school.

“Not bad. Coach is running us ragged at practice, but he says it’ll make men out of us”.

Jack chuckled. “I seem to remember Coach Roberts telling us the exact same thing.”

“How was your day, Jack?”
Jack’s wife, Teresa sat across from him at the dinner table. Every time Jack looked at her he was reminded of how lucky he was to have found her.

“Not bad,” he said. “The Pinter account’s giving us some grief, but considering the economy I think we’re doing all right. How about you, sweetheart?”

Teresa opened her mouth to answer, but instead of words all that came out was a surprised squeaking sound. Teresa lifted up from the table and floated toward the ceiling. She looked down at Jack with a peaceful half-smile on her face.

“What the hell?” Jack stared as Teresa disappeared through the ceiling. The last thing he saw was her shoes dissolving through the plaster.

Jack looked around the table, and was shocked to see Nikki and Jeffrey also floating up from the table. They each had that same angelic look on their faces.

Jack got up and ran around to Nikki. He grabbed her ankle just before she floated out of his reach. She continued to rise, pulling Jack off the floor with her. Nikki started to disappear, floating higher and higher. Her ankle reached the ceiling, and rather than following her through, Jack’s hand stopped at the hard surface. Nikki’s ankle slipped through his fingers, and Jack tumbled to the floor in a heap. By the time he got up, Jeffrey’s feet were passing through the plaster. Jack watched them disappear, then ran toward the apartment door.

Jack stepped out into the street and looked up. He couldn’t see the sun, but it was very bright outside and he shielded his eyes. His jaw dropped open at what he saw. The sky was full of people floating up into the air like balloons carelessly set adrift by children. Men, women and children, young and old filled the sky. The sky itself was brighter than normal–almost white rather than its usual light blue.

Jack looked around and saw he wasn’t the only person observing the phenomenon. On his block alone there were probably two dozen people standing outside, gazing up into the sky.

That was when Jack heard the first scream. He turned and looked down the block. Mrs. Flaherty, whose husband owned the grocery store down the street, was sinking into the sidewalk. She was looking down at her feet and screaming. She flailed her arms as she disappeared down into the concrete. Her screams were cut off as her mouth passed through the sidewalk, then she was gone.

More screams, as more of Jack’s neighbors descended through the sidewalk. In the sky, the last of the people who had floated away were nothing more than pinpoints now.

Jack heard a cracking sound at his feet. He looked down as the pavement separated. Smoke rose from the fissure, carrying the stink of sulfur to his nose. As Jack turned to run a scaly blood-soaked hand with long, sharp nails darted out through the crack in the sidewalk and wrapped around Jack’s ankle, holding him in place. Jack’s skin sizzled under the grip, and as he sank into the ground his screams joined the others in their ghastly chorus.

Laura was driving down the freeway and applying her makeup when her cell phone beeped with a text message.

“Don’t bother,” the message read. She didn’t recognize the sender.
 
“Who is this?” she texted back with one hand, holding her lipstick with the other and steering with her knees.
 
“The makeup,” came the reply. “Don’t bother.”
 
Laura frowned.
 
“Why not?” she texted, her thumb racing across the keypad.
 
“Look up.”
 
Laura looked up just as her car slammed into the back of a semi parked on the shoulder, shearing off the car’s roof and lopping off her head.

I thought the golf course might be the one place where I wouldn’t have to worry about zombies. I was on the 13th fairway lining up my next shot when I heard a loud moaning behind me. I turned to see a zombie a couple hundred yards back. He was looking up, shielding his eyes from the sun. He had a golf club in his other hand. I guess he was trying to holler “fore,” because the next thing I knew a golf ball bounced off my head. By the time I came to, the zombie golfer had taken a pretty good bite out of my shoulder. Fortunately, I was able to fight him off. I just hope I can finish my round before I join the ranks of the shuffling dead.

An oracle came to young Jeremy in a dream.

“Your family will rise above all others,” the oracle told Jeremy. “You will be like fruits on a great tree.”

Jeremy told his mother about his dream. She scolded him and warned him not to tell anyone else, for they lived in a community that did not tolerate believers.

At school, Jeremy told his best friend about his wonderful dream.

That night, an angry mob dragged Jeremy and his family out of their house and strung them up by their necks from the great tree in the town square.