MicroHorror

Father’s skull sat atop the bones and ashes in the pit, and it seemed to smile at me with its tobacco-stained teeth. Next to that was Grandfather’s lower jaw and Aunt Linda’s petite thighbone.

Mother let my sister Mallie touch the remains, but Mallie lingered too long. She wasn’t paying attention, and the little shadow snakes crawled from the pit and into her body through places I won’t mention.

Mother dragged her from the shed by the hair and whipped the demons out of her. She kept calling Mallie a whore, even after her dress was soaked in blood from the lashings. Mallie was nearly a grown woman, and she didn’t cry.

Later, lightning burned down the shed. Mother said the Light was angry. We cried for days, but then things got better. We cleaned the charred wood out of the pit and rebuilt the shed, making it bigger to show our defiance.

In the fall, Uncle Tim started praying to the Light, and Mother had to silence him. She cut his throat when he was sleeping–with Aunt Julie by his side.

One night, Mallie visited the ash pit to play with Aunt Linda’s slender thighbone. She was so entranced she didn’t notice the little shadow snakes crawling up her dress again until it was too late. So many got inside her that she grabbed an axe and killed two chickens and a pig. It took days of beatings to get all the demons out.

Mother said Mallie was at the age when our lord from the flames would make her his own. Mother called some people she knew and we gathered in the shed around the pit. She passed out handfuls of ash, and we rubbed sacred symbols on our bodies. Then we drank wine mixed with goat’s blood and danced for hours. We let the shadow snakes crawl inside us. Thunder rumbled in the sky, but we ignored it.

Shadows crept over the walls of the shed, and the earth groaned under our feet. Aunt Julie gave herself to some of the men, while cursing and laughing at poor dead Uncle Tim who’d always been a devoted husband to her. Mother brought in a chicken, bit off its head, and drank from its neck. She spit the blood all over Mallie, and laid a crown of woven snakeskin on her head.

Mallie lay down on the floor. The room wheeled around me. I wasn’t sure if I’d drunk too much wine or if I was going into a trance. One of the men crawled toward Mallie like a dog, his face covered in ash and drool running from his mouth. I knew what he wanted, and I kicked him in the head. He shuddered and lay still.

Their faces stretched out long and the room spun faster. Something huge was standing over Mallie. I gagged on the stench. Two fiery eyes gazed down at her, and insects dropped onto her belly and crawled over her flesh. Things squirmed in the darkness beneath those eyes–a mass of corruption, rot, and creeping forms.

Then flames erupted in the ceiling. The shed had once again been struck by lightning. Too drunk or possessed to escape, everyone was burning except me. I ripped Mother’s sacred medallion from her neck and dashed outside, where I went to sleep contented.

When I awoke, it was a cold morning. The shed had burned down completely, and everyone had perished with it. I poked their remains down into the ash pit, and cleared away the burned wood and coals.

I stood before the pit and smiled, clutching Mother’s medallion. Her skull sat next to Father’s. I touched her forehead and a little shadow snake crawled out of her mouth, but I shooed it away. I had the power now, and I would rebuild the shed. I shook my fist at the sky to show my defiance.

Lorkan’s battleaxe rose and fell, the blood of his foes spurting into the air beneath a crimson sky. The bodies of his knights lay scattered across the battlefield–heaps of bleeding torsos, split armor, and severed limbs. His legion was down to a hundred or so stout men and dwindling fast.

The barbarian hordes had staged a clever ambush, hiding themselves in the deep grass, and the knights had been overrun from all sides. It was a slaughter.

This field was not where Lorkan wanted to die. The air reeked of dark magic, emanating from a smoldering pit at the center of the clearing. The barbarians had sprung a wicked trap, and more than sixty men had fallen into a pit of spikes and hot coals. Their screams had filled the air. One of the victims had been the great sorcerer Altoth, a vengeful man whom Lorkan had never liked.

Now, as he drove his axe down and cleaved a barbarian’s skull, Lorkan could sense the malice laced into the dark energy rising from the pit. He suspected it was the work of Altoth, some foul spell released upon his death in order to avenge him.

An arrow glanced off Lorkan’s armor. Another one glanced off his helm. Lorkan wiped sweat from his eyes so he could glimpse his attacker. An archer was slowly advancing toward him, taking aim at his partially exposed throat. Lorkan hurled his battle axe and it lodged in the archer’s chest. The archer slumped to the grass.

Lorkan stooped and lifted a fallen war hammer, rising just in time to deflect a spear thrust. “Fall back!” he cried to his remaining men–as he’d been doing periodically during the slaughter. But they were too busy trying to save themselves to listen.

Bloodcurdling screams split the air and Lorkan wheeled about. Something was rising from the pit of death–a mass of bloody and burned corpses fused together. The corpses were wailing in phantom voices, some in agony and some in rage. Slimy tendrils shot out like worms and seized other corpses, dragging them into the growing mound and feeding it.

A monstrosity was swelling on the battlefield, a mix of the dead and the living, a shuddering mass of dark sorcery, hatred, and suffering. Atop it was the head of Altoth the sorcerer, bloated to the size of a boulder, black blood dripping from his fattened lips. His eyes were fixed on Lorkan.

Lorkan seized his axe and wrenched it free of the archer’s chest. Using all the strength in his massive body, he hurled the weapon at Altoth’s head. The axe stuck in Altoth’s forehead. A dastardly moan escaped the sorcerer’s gaping mouth.

Then Altoth smiled and shook the axe free of his cranium. The entire mound–now the size of house–shifted and began moving toward Lorkan at a speed he couldn’t hope to escape. Lorkan took off his helm so his enemy could see his face, and he lifted the war hammer. He’d been a proud knight who’d survived more than a hundred battles, and he intended to die on his feet.

Lorkan wanted to cry out at the sorcerer, “I’ll see you in hell!” But that would have been pointless. Hell was coming to see him.

Uncle Dan was drunk and crying again. He leaned against the shed, tears dripping down his haggard face, an apple-sized bloody eyeball in one calloused hand. “Curse it all,” he sobbed. He wiped his face, smearing blood on his cheek from the eyeball. “Satan’s been in my garden again, cutting my stalks. Killed nine peepers.”

“I’m sorry, Uncle Dan,” I said. “What can we do?”

“Nothing, Robbie,” he said. “Old Satan is immune to bullets. And once he takes a hankerin’ for a crop, he always comes back. He’ll ruin us, boy. We’ll have nothing to sell to the Jelly Makers. Anyway, grab me a bucket of souls so we can do some planting.”

I scurried off to do my task. Poor Uncle Dan. He was a big-hearted man who always played fair in life. Leave it to Satan to try to cheat him out of what he’d worked so hard for.

I gathered souls from the well. They were really agitated today, screaming and moaning something fierce, but they were bound to the cursed water and couldn’t escape. I peered into the bucket. It was full of writhing, tortured ghosts and they would make a lively crop of eyeballs, which in turn would mean sweeter jelly!

I carried the bucket to Uncle Dan. He took a severed demon finger and poked at the spirits within, making them squirm. He sniffled, still teary-eyed. “These look okay, I guess. All we can do is keep planting, Robbie.”

We took the souls and poured them in the earth. Even though they wailed like the dickens, it did nothing to cheer up Uncle Dan. What good was a lively crop if Satan was just going to come along and piss on it, so to speak?

Finished, Uncle Dan chugged some whiskey. Eyeballs (those Satan hadn’t gotten to) bobbed on their stalks in the summer breeze. I stuck my tongue out at them and waved my hands. They followed the movements with their gazes.

“They’re suffering good, Uncle Dan,” I said, pointing to how the orbs were trembling on their stalks. “Why would Satan want to mutilate such a fine crop?”

“Cause he’s jealous,” said Uncle Dan. “He wants them souls all to himself. Mark my words–he’ll come back to cut down the rest.”

Frustrated, he whipped my ass with a demon’s small intestine. I knew he needed to relieve some stress, so I forgave him. But it got me motivated to do something to improve my uncle’s mood (since I couldn’t really sit down now anyway).

“What if we give Satan some jelly?” I asked, rubbing my aching backside. “Maybe he’ll take it as payment for leaving us alone. I can go get some.”

“It’s worth a shot,” said Uncle Dan. His lip quivered. “By gum, boy, it’s worth a shot! Guess I should have thought of it myself.”

I ran off and grabbed some jelly. I got an idea, and I put demon poop in the jam. It was the most bitter stuff you could find. I realized it might be a stupid idea, but I wanted so badly to punish old Satan for hurting my uncle’s crops!

When I got back to the garden, Satan was there. He was dancing a little jig, his ugly goat head split open in a grin. I wanted to smash his face, but instead I handed him the jelly.

“A gift for me?” he asked. He dipped a claw into the jam and licked it. He wrinkled his nose with disgust. Then he beat my ass until I could hardly stand up.

Satan sighed. “Your jelly is quite vile. Your crop is clearly garbage. I’ll take my leave now and never come back.” And so he did.

Uncle Dan hugged me and spilled whiskey on me. “You did it, Robbie! By gum, you got rid of him! I love you, boy.”

“I love you too, Uncle Dan,” I said. And he didn’t beat me for nearly a week!