MicroHorror

Whatever I want in all of the world could be mine with a simple click. A twitch of a muscle will press flesh to trigger, action to history, desire to fruition.

The offer is hard to refuse at the face of the usher. He possesses a secret hidden in the fold of his eyes. A simple crease maps out a limitless atlas of potential.

The page descends. His hand relaxes, untwists his grip on the greatest gift of all. The glint of nail casts sparks of light against the shadowed cloak.

And yet I do not relinquish. Could it truly be there? Could it come from this? The offer falls, picking up speed as every second passes before my eyes. The breath quickens, exhausting time on his face, in his mind, his generosity. The echo begins to fade, strike one, two, three clicks from my finger.

Four, five, six lights descend from his hand, his fingers, glowing across my face, my neck, around his cloak. Seven, eight, nine pulses open up the eye. Ten blinks to focus on his contract. Eleven wishes for brevity. Twelve.

The deal is done.

He takes his fee.

My leave is left.

The woman behind the counter of the department store insisted she could help me out.

“Sir, may I have a moment of your time?” I nodded, hoping to rush her through her pitch. “If I may say so, sir, your skin is looking a bit… dry. Lifeless. Almost like you don’t care for it anymore.”

“You don’t say,” I replied. I raised my open hand to my face and did feel a few dry patches.

“Oh yes, sir. And I have just the thing for you. We just got it into the department this morning. It’s a new three-step system that has been used for generations in Eastern Europe. Just apply every night before you go to bed and you’ll instantly feel like a new person.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. How could some lotion make me a new person? Eastern European secret, indeed.

“The best part, sir, is we are offering the introductory kit for only $4.95. If you’re not completely satisfied within one use, we’ll refund your money and exchange the kit for any item in the department. What do you say, sir? Care to give it a try?”

How could I say no to getting free cologne the very next day? Or, by a strange miracle, perfectly conditioned skin for under five bucks. I handed her my credit card and headed home for the night.

After a relaxing dinner, I was ready to go to bed. I almost forgot about the lotion kit from the department store. I lifted the small box out of the printed plastic bag and began to read the instructions.

“Step One: in a darkened room with a sink, apply a dime-sized amount of the blue disinfectant, labeled 1, to your face and neck.” I took off my glasses and walked into the bathroom with the bottles. The blue goop tingled against my skin as I massaged the product into my face.

I left the bathroom to read the rest of the instructions. The disinfectant warmed up my face as I continued the treatment.

“Step Two: spray exactly one and one half pumps of the toning foam, labeled 2, into the palm of your left hand and rub into your face.” I couldn’t read the label without my glasses, but I found the pump bottle and gave myself two good squirts. The green foam seemed to freeze the outer surface of my face. Refreshing.

“Step Three: before turning the light back on, spritz the top of your head, ears, and back of your neck with the revitalizing spray, labeled 3.” I walked back into the darkened bathroom and sprayed the red liquid all over my head. After rinsing off my hands, I massaged the product thoroughly into my scalp.

The freezing sensation was gone, but the spray seemed to tingle under the surface of my skin. I scratched at my scalp, digging deep into the soft flesh, clawing for relief from the unending vibrations. My fingers started to pulsate like an electric razor. I knew I had had enough.

I struggled to find the light switch in the darkened room. The sudden burst of light seemed to blind me. No. The light alone couldn’t have blurred my vision that much. I pressed my face against the door length mirror, but could only see dark shadows across the surface.

I rushed to the other room to find my glasses, but could no longer see anything but the blurred color of the walls. Even that seemed doubtful. My white shirt and pale skin seemed dark, almost alive with a fury of rushing water. It was then that I felt something plop against my exposed hand. I reached up with my other hand to feel the dripping wet surface of my face, as crimson tides overtook my vision.

The construction was almost complete. Giant wings of wire and iridescent leather hovered over the yard. An air compressor sung life into the gnarled face with bursts of thick pigmented ink. Eyes glowed with an intensity far beyond their LED origins. With the flip of a switch, a faint heartbeat began to pulse. Electrical veins pumped AC fury through metallic grey matter. The glowing skin moved slow at first, gaining energy with every flicker of circuitry. The creature knew its job. Time to scare up the trick-or-treaters.

For years, my family went apple picking every October. We would all wake up with the sun, pile into the car, and drive for over two hours into the black dirt region of New York. Around there, every home was a farm or inn, anxiously awaiting their next customer. By the time I was ten, this tradition stopped. Our produce came exclusively from the supermarket down the street.

For my twenty-second birthday, I begged my family to go one more time. Under threat of a two-hour presentation on the importance of supporting local agriculture, my family reluctantly agreed.

There was one orchard I always wanted to visit. The family that owned the land put on a big production every year for Halloween: apple mazes, pony rides, pumpkin decorating, and complimentary apple pie. The Tasker Orchard was the reason I wanted to travel back to the black dirt region.

We had family in the area that kept us informed about the farms. Most of the farmers had given up, abandoning their land, livestock and all. Others became desperate and lowered their prices so much to compete with supermarkets that they couldn’t afford the electric bills. Despite all of these hardships, the Tasker Orchard still threw money into their seasonal tourist attraction every October.

On the first cold October Sunday, my family dragged ourselves into the car and began the familiar journey. Our group was much smaller this year–only my mother and father agreed to the trip. Still, it was a fun way to spend some time together.

The winding New York interstate was built straight through the mountains. Trees hung heavy with golden leaves over the well maintained roadway. Long-abandoned farm houses coexisted peacefully with well manicured mansions.

The trip seemed to make us all young again. We could barely contain our excitement passing by small farm stands. Five-dollar giant pumpkins at a house with a sign to leave the money in an empty cigar box. Twenty-pound bags of carrots lining the gravel lot of a farmer’s market. Fresh-made cider donuts fried to order on an open grill. And some truly gorgeous apples.

We seemed to pick up small containers of apples at every stand that had them. The wooden baskets bled McIntosh and Northern Spy all over the back seat. The skin was crisp, protecting the tender flesh inside. Juice exploded in our mouths and onto our clothes with every bite.

The Tasker Orchard was finally in our sights. The large signs announcing sales and events were weathered with age. The neat bushes that once lined the dirt entrance were overgrown into the road. A young boy with a green flag and walkie-talkie sat in a lawn chair waiting for customers.

He shoved a flimsy ticket into our open window with a map on it. Our car lurched over the uneven terrain, struggling to distinguish the path from the farm land surrounding.

The drive seemed far longer than we remembered. Did we always drive over that hill? Did the trees always seem to grow into the road?

We were flagged down by a farmer thirty minutes later. He asked us to step outside the car so he could show us to the orchard.

It felt good to stretch out my legs again. I did have trouble seeing where the path led past the steep hill below.

My father was the first one to fall. His head hung heavy under the force of the blast over the hill and stopped moving. My mother let out a powerful scream before the second gunshot came. Blood dripped onto her shirt from the hole above her left ear.

An apple fell at my feet when the farmer shoved me down. The crisp skin gave way to the tender innards as the warmth began to leave my body.