MicroHorror

The children sat in a tight circle, their shoulders touching all around. They were obedient; Professor Layne had to give them that much at least. “Now, children,” his voice crackled as he spoke, “why don’t you tell me what happened to Mrs. Widecuff.” He put a finger in his collar and pulled slightly to give himself more breathing room. He could feel the sweat on the collar.

“She died,” one of the children said, a blond little girl named Wilma, the leader.

“I know that,” he said, then caught his patience and lowered his voice. “I want to know how she died.” In his mind, he ran the figures in his head. Nine children. Three armed police. Two concerned social workers. One sociology professor with a sweaty collar. Adults versus children, how could they lose?

Wilma smiled at him, as if she could read his thoughts, exactly like she could read his thoughts. “She just stopped breathing, stopped taking air into her lungs. Mrs. Widecuff said people need air to live. She was right.”

The calmness that the little girl used made gooseflesh run up Layne’s spine. His forehead burned with panic. Sweat began to sting his eyes and he blinked it out as he responded. “People don’t just stop breathing. Something had to…” There was a loud crash from behind him, and Layne turned to see one of the police sprawled on the ground. The other two clasped at their throats, desperately trying to force air in, but unable. The social workers were turning blue. Layne wiped the sweat out of his eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

Wilma came to him and pulled on his arm and waved him to her. When he leaned over to her, she whispered softly. Her breath was cold on his cheek. Her fingers were hot on the back of his neck. “Why not?”

Layne felt dizzy, and a moment later, he collapsed.

Kriznal licked his lips as he scanned the panorama before him. There had been a massacre. Clovose and all of his followers, all dead, compound burnt down. Kriznal flicked his tongue out and tasted the air. Rotten. There was a smell of the dead in the air, not the meat lying around his feet which Kriznal would have loved to sink his teeth into, but the walking, killing, spoiled dead. Kriznal’s tail instinctively shrank between his legs for a more guarded posture. He lightly touched his penis to calm himself.

He walked further into the compound. A young woman’s skull lay at his feet. Half of the face still clung to the bone and a few straggles of blond hair gave Kriznal a view of what the woman might have looked like. A waste of good pussy meat, he thought. He bent over and picked up the skull. Beak marks from some bird that had eaten its share and flew on were visible under the girl’s remaining eye socket. The eye was gone, probably serving as the bird’s dinner.

He smelt the skull, then licked it to be sure. His clawed hands began to tremble. The skull fell and hit the sandy ground with a dull thump. Kriznal’s worst fears were now confirmed. The door had been opened to the next world.

Kriznal had been present the last time the door was opened, and he had been haunted by the foul demons of the experience for nearly two hundred years afterwards. Now it had been opened again, and this time the world was in trouble. The demons that have come across have found bodies, have flesh. Kriznal licked the air at the thought, afraid that a lurking demon might still assail him. The air tasted stale. That was good.

He debated a moment whether he should flee now, but no, he had crossed half the country to get here. No easy task for a creature like him, that would be shot upon sight by any officer or hunter that caught a glimpse of him. Too far of a journey to flee at the first taste of danger. He moved further into the compound.

Each step he took brought a new mouthwatering sight of human remains, but the meat was tainted. He flicked out his tongue and tasted fresh flesh. He turned to see a large man moving out of a ditch with a metal pole, what they call a rifle. Kriznal knew the pain that they bring. The big man pointed the rifle at him. Kriznal shrank to the ground, timid and innocent. With his four legs, he leaped into the air. The man fired in his haste, but the bullet whizzed past Kriznal. He landed on the sand and quickly flung himself at the man. He caught the man by the throat and flung him to the ground.

Kriznal wasn’t great at speaking, but had learned to do so a few centuries ago. “Where are they dead ones that did this?”

The big man, obviously shocked to be addressed by the monstrous creature that resembled some giant monkey or rodent, did not respond right away.

Kriznal shook the man and yanked the rifle from his hands. He flung it away and repeated his question.

“Don’t know,” the man said.

“You singular?”

The man thought a moment. “No, seven of us survived.”

Kriznal nodded. “Clovose?”

The man shook his head.

Kriznal nodded again. “Depart from the tainted land. Take your dependents.”

The man nodded but did not move. Kriznal tasted the air around him. “Death has broken its leash,” Kriznal said. “Hard times ahead.”

With this spoken, Kriznal scampered away. He had known California was a bad decision. He should have stayed in Missouri, stayed in his favorite tree.

Red. The moon was red. It had never been red before, Saunders was sure of it. Why had it turned red tonight? Of all nights? This was not good. Saunders ran his hand through his hair. His other hand relaxed and dropped the mutilated head he had carried with him from the house on the corner of Wisteria and Clay Mound, the house where he had performed his evil. Was that why the moon turned red?

Saunders kicked the severed head in frustration. He had only done what he had been told to do. Killing was the assignment; surely all the demons knew that. Why had they turned the moon red? He looked up at it again. Still red.

Saunders stared at it a moment then howled out an anguished wail. He ran to the west, away from the red, haunting moon. He dodged trees as he ran and barged his way through bushes that grabbed and tore at his clothes.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” he muttered through his gasps of breath.

He plowed his way into a clearing. The red moon still shined upon his back. He looked around. Houses. The backs of houses were all he could see. Saunders did not hesitate. He ran towards the houses. The blood-wet pants chafed his inner thighs as he went. He navigated himself between two of them and stumbled into the street. Into Wisteria Street, he knew it instantly. And there was the house on the corner. Had he not finished there?

Saunders looked back at the moon, the red moon. He pleaded to it. “Please let me be done.” But the moon did not reply.

From inside the house on the corner, Saunders saw a shadow pass in front of the window and heard a scream muffled by glass, but still audible from his position on the street. He had killed the mother, stepfather, younger sister, older sister, and the baby girl. What else was… The boy, he had forgotten the boy. Sure, he had hit the boy, broke the little bastard’s jaw most likely, but he hadn’t killed him. He had tossed the little shit down the stairs and forgotten about him. No wonder the moon had turned red.

Saunders stumbled towards the front door of the house, stumbled towards salvation, stumbled towards ending the job left undone.

His fat fingers clutched the knob of the front door. He paused. There had been a crackling sound. There was a hole in the door. The wood splintered away from it. Saunders looked down. His shirt was soaked with blood. It had been from the beginning, but this was different. The blood seemed in greater abundance than cloth. Saunders stumbled back from the door. He didn’t know why.

His legs felt tired. He sat down, flopped down upon the porch. He was thirsty. He looked at the moon. The red was still there in shades, but for the most part, it was returning to its normal pale glow. Saunders decided to take a nap before he killed the boy, sleep under the perfect moon.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, the stumpy demon looked like a child, or would have if the severed head hadn’t been in his lap.

Tucker licked his lips as he approached. He was thirsty; God was he thirsty.

“Why do you come?” the demon asked him, smiling as it caressed the hair of the severed head as if it were a kitten.

Tucker shook his head. He didn’t know why he had opened the door, why he had passed through into hell. He had just wanted to… “I just wanted to see.” His words echoed off the walls of the dark room. Tucker looked around. What walls? What room? No, it wasn’t an echo but a mocking reiteration of things lurking beyond his sight.

“See what?” The demon’s voice sounded harsh and cruel. It tossed the head over its shoulder, and for a moment, Tucker caught a glimpse of something monstrous jumping forward to catch the head in its giant mouth before it vanished back to the darkness.

“I wanted to see what awaited me.”

The demon laughed and sounded like a pre-puberty boy. “I fear you performed the wrong ceremony then. This is not the world of the afterlife. This is the world of the ending life.”

“I don’t…” Tucker shook his head and abandoned the question.

“It’s simple,” the demon said. “Souls don’t come here after they die. They come here to die. Easy as that.”

“Then this isn’t hell.”

“Hell,” the demon licked its lips, “is whatever you dread.” Again, the demon licked its lips. “This is hell to some.” He was thirsty. “The other worlds could be hell to others.” God he was thirsty. “But you will never see them. This is where all journeys end.”

Tucker looked around. He could see the masses now that surrounded him. It was a wall of flesh. Eyes and mouths of every size opened and closed. Hands were reaching for him. Were his eyes adjusting, or were they getting closer? He opened his mouth to speak but could not. His throat had been slashed. A moment later, he felt his head being ripped off. There was no pain, not like he imagined, just a horrible sound and a pulling feeling.

He was turned to face his headless corpse as the savage mouths pulled at it tearing it like a pack of dogs. Giant tongues lapped up the blood as it hit the ground. Tucker watched this, still wanting to cry out, still wanting to speak, but the air to do so was in his lungs, and his lungs were already consumed.

“There, there,” the demon said. “The worst part is already over.” He felt a hand patting his hair. “Now it is just a matter of waiting for the next one to come along.” The demon turned Tucker’s head to face him. They met eye to eye. “I just hope the next one isn’t so God-damn thirsty.”

Crimson droplets of blood pooled on the edge of his nose and slowly dripped into the palm of his cupped hand. The sight of his own blood had always intrigued him, made him realize that he was in fact mortal, a man and not a machine or a reflection. He tilted his head back and the blood trickled down his throat. The taste of blood always reminded him of a medium rare steak, which in turn reminded him of his father’s barbecue.

He turned and looked at the three girls staring at him. He must have looked the part, the monster of destruction. He stumbled to his feet and held his palm out so that they could see it. The tallest of them began to cry. He had been fooled by tears before. The first to cry was often the most desperate to live, the most dangerous. She would have to be first. He licked the blood off his hand. “You’ll have to do better than that!” He bent over and picked up the book he had been hit with. He flipped it open. “It is said that any book, when opened to a random page, will tell you everything you need to know at that moment.” He looked at the page and read aloud. “Add a tablespoon of chutney, and place the salmon in the oven.” He closed the book and casually tossed it over his shoulder. “Sounds like it is telling me to cook your little asses and eat you.”

The tall girl ran at him and kicked at his testicles. He closed his knees in time to block the impact. He grabbed the little bitch by the hair and spun her around until he held her back tight against his chest. He held her sweaty cheeks with his fingers. The other girls began to beg him to let her go. He masterfully shot his arm out straight in front of him. It was all in the wrist. The girl’s neck snapped and her body went limp in his arms. He laid her down with great care. These were beautiful young girls. He wanted them preserved as best as possible. The other girls were now beyond the screaming stage. He pulled the scissors from his back pocket and raised them to his lips. He kissed each blade softly. This is where things got messy.