MicroHorror

Something strange was going on at the Middleton Funeral Home. Behind the moss-covered brick and the dark curtained windows the corpse of John Paulson was shivering back to life.

Dr. Belmore, the Necromancer, a man who could raise the dead, checked the restraints holding the body–he didn’t want this one to escape like the last one. He had never found out what had happened to the revived corpse of Mark Scranton after he (it?) had jumped from the embalming table and bolted out the back door. It had been the fifth time that the Doctor had attempted to practice his necromancy skills to raise the dead. The first four times had resulted in disappointing failure, but this time it had worked! At first he had been ecstatic about his accomplishment, but when Mark Scranton’s undead body ran out the back door, his ecstasy had turned to panic. He was unprepared for how quickly the cadaver had become reanimated. Now the thing was loose.

Dr. Belmore had learned the dark art of necromancy from a voodoo priest in Haiti. He had studied with him for over five years. When he returned to America the Doctor had devised a plan… he would open a mortuary, use his necromancy skills to bring the dead back to life, harvest their undamaged organs, sell them on the black market, and become filthy rich.

Scranton had been killed in a terrible car accident that had torn off half his face and had crushed most of his internal organs, but his right kidney was still viable and Dr. Belmore had a buyer for that kidney.

A few nights after the Scranton incident, Dr. Belmore was working and thought he had heard faint scratching on the embalming room door. Like something wanted in. He had rushed to the door but found nothing; just a bone chilling wind whipping him in the face. It was just the wind, just his imagination, just his paranoia.

Unfortunately his first “patient” had escaped and Dr. Belmore had no idea where he (it?) was. While he could raise the dead, he still hadn’t learned how to control them once they became undead.

Now John Paulson was on the embalming table ready for harvesting. Dr. Belmore had already called his black market connection. The collector would arrive within two hours. Dr. Belmore would have to work fast, but he was an extremely skilled surgeon and even though his work required him to work alone, he was confident that he could complete the work quickly. Once the deal was done he could get to his sinful passion of breaking bones and sucking out succulent bone marrow. Raw, human bone marrow was like candy to the Necromancer.

Then… there was a knock at the door. His collector was early! Damn it! He still had to remove and pack the heart. Dr. Belmore removed his surgical gloves with a frown and went to the door.

A solitary figure stood in the doorway. “You’re early, but come in, sit down.” The figure stepped through the doorway into the bright light of the embalming room. “My God!” gasped Dr. Belmore. He gagged at the terrible stench that burned his nostrils. The half-exposed jaw bone moved grotesquely as if trying to speak, but only an awful sloppy wet gurgle came out. Its tongue lolled out the open side of its face twisting and turning like a slimy, bloody snake. The Doctor stumbled backwards. An icy shudder shot up his spine. His eyes became wide with astonishment and horror. It wasn’t the organ collector–it was Mark Scranton!

The thing that had been Mark Scranton seized Dr. Belmore’s left arm and with supernatural strength began to slowly tear it off. The Doctor screamed in agony. He screamed for mercy as his joint popped and his muscles and tendons began to tear away from his shoulder. He saw a pulsating fountain of rich, red blood where his arm used to be before his world went dark.

Halloween, the Festival of Samhain, was being ushered in by a howling midnight wind that was driving dry, dead leaves in a vicious swirl around a moonlit bluestone building. On the thirteenth floor one corner office still glowed with light. The time for change had arrived.

The son paced broodingly back and forth in front of his father’s highly polished mahogany desk. The tentacles of time had woven a deep seated resentment toward his father into his mind. He looked at him with hateful eyes. “It’s time, Father.”

The father sat calmly behind his desk and said defiantly, “But I’m not ready to go.”

“You must, Father. You know the tradition. The Dark Lord must pass the power of the empire down to his first born son when he reaches the age of 666. You are that age now, Father. I will not be denied by you to my right of the Samhain Feast with all the power that it will bestow on me as written by the ancient ones in the sacred scrolls.”

“You are a fool! You’re not ready. Your irresponsibility over the years has threatened the secrecy of our organization to many times to count. I can’t leave the family business to you! And if you would have read the ancient writings more carefully you would have read that there are exceptions to the ‘666’ rule. I believe you are an exception.” The father was standing now.

The son didn’t know what to say. His father had always intimidated him, but he was determined to end that tonight. His dark eyes had changed to flaming red. A pure hatred welled up from a place deep inside him. He was ready to kill and take his rightful place as the glorious anointed leader of his demonic clan.

“Son, don’t even think about it.” The father then shed his human skin revealing his true self. Dark leathery skin, two holes for a nose, razor-sharp claws, and a mouth full of serrated shark-like teeth. He let out an ear-piercing wail. The stench of his breath blasted his son full in the face, causing him to stumble back several feet before regaining his balance. Then the father began to unfold his legs until he reached his full height of well over seven feet.

“Well, son, what are you waiting for?”

The son spread his arms and let out a hellish scream. His lizard form tore right through his human shell. A four-foot spiked tail unwrapped from his body. His nose and mouth merged together and grew into a snout filled with a double row of deadly fangs. Smoke began to rise from his nostrils.

“Son… you know we don’t allow smoking in this building.”

The father sprang onto his son and grabbed him by the neck and began choking the life out of him. They fell together onto the floor with a tremendous thud. The son raked his claws across his father’s face–the sight and smell of his father’s blood–the family blood–drove him wild.

They rolled across the floor, jaws lunging at each other. The father managed to get to his feet and stood over his son to deliver a deathblow, but he never had the chance. Instead, the son opened his mouth and spewed forth a stream of liquid fire into his face. His father’s face began to melt as he collapsed to the floor with a horrific scream–a scream cut short when his son ripped his throat out. The taste of his father’s blood drove him to ecstasy.

The son sat for a moment in the resulting quiet. He let his victory wash over him like a flood of sacred blood. Then he began to eat his father’s dead corpse–every gruesome morsel–scales, flesh, organs, and bone. After all, it was tradition.

Dr. Alex Humbart slumped into a chair and signaled the bartender with a wave of his hand. He needed a drink badly. Behind those cold, steel blue eyes his head was swimming with intensely strange and fragmented evil thoughts. The same type of thoughts that made him kill his wife.

He looked around. Alex knew “Chuck’s Roadside Saloon” would be no palace, but what a dump. The grimy floor, chairs that didn’t match, filthy windows, and it reeked of that stale beer smell that wouldn’t go away until you sat there long enough to get used to it.

“Hey, mister, what’ll it be?” the bartender called from behind the bar. His voice sounded gravelly, like he smoked too much. He was a big man and had a plump, friendly face and Alex thought that he could make anyone feel at ease–no matter what was bothering them–there was a lot bothering Alex.

“Vodka, straight up,” replied Alex.

The bartender nodded, poured the drink, and came over to Alex’s table carrying the half-filled glass of vodka. “That’ll be three-fifty, mister,” he put the glass in front of Alex; the bartender’s pudgy fingers made the glass look small.

Alex handed him a five and said, “Keep the change.” He starred mindlessly at the drink for a moment and then picked it up and slammed it down. It burned the back of his throat and he could feel its warmth all the way down to his stomach. In a few minutes he began to feel the soothing effect radiate throughout his body. He ordered another.

Alex began to think about his “Life Creation Project” that he had been working on at the Sanderson Institute for the past decade. He had come up with nothing until three days ago when he had achieved a breakthrough with Experiment 706.

A small worm-like creature had emerged from the soup of amphibian brain cells, human DNA, and an assortment of primordial chemicals that Alex had mixed together a month earlier. Alex was ecstatic–it was more than he had hoped for.

Then it happened.

The creature bored through the safety glass surrounding the vat. Moving with astounding speed it tore through Alex’s biohazard suit, slithered up his arm to his head, and chewed its way through his skull. He felt a scorching pain in his head, but just for a moment, as the creature hooked into his brain.

Within seconds Alex began to feel an incredibly evil strength seep into his muscles. The creature was feeding him with power. It was also filling his mind with horrific images of death, images that it wanted him to act on.

Alex put his head between his hands and remembered what it had made him do to his wife. Blood was everywhere: the walls, their bed, even the ceiling. Alex had torn his wife apart with his bare hands while she was still alive. Her one ghastly scream still rang through his mind. He recalled propping her legs up in one corner like a couple of gruesome walking sticks and smiling; a job well done.

“Here you are, mister.” Alex looked up. The bartender stood over him with a bottle of Smirnoff in his hand. Only the finest in this dump, thought Alex. The bartender poured a generous amount into Alex’s empty glass and said, “I’ll start ya a tab.”

Alex downed the second drink, desperately trying to drink away the memory of how he had viciously killed his wife. How he had even cracked her skull open like a coconut and eaten most of her brain. What’s more, he had enjoyed it. He thought he could hear the creature laughing somewhere in the recesses of his mind.

Suddenly, Alex’s stomach began to flip. He began to vomit violently. His puke spewed across the table and onto the floor carrying with it hundreds of wiggling worm-like creatures. The life that Alex had created was now loose in the world.

“Mindless zombies?” The Professor leaned back in his chair, shook his head, and looked at Joel from behind thick glasses.

“Yes, Professor,” Joel replied. “I was hoping you would reconsider my grade. I think my paper was well thought out and I deserve better than a D.” He had enrolled in Studies of Mythological Creatures as an elective because it was supposed to be a “cake” class. It wasn’t. He had worked his ass off and now it looked like he was just going to squeak by. If he couldn’t get the Professor to reconsider there would be some serious damage to his GPA.

“Hmm… let me see…” The Professor picked up Joel’s paper with disdain and held it by one corner. It looked limp and lifeless. “Your theory is that all zombies are mindless and that they are just a horde of flesh-eating monsters without any intelligence? Does that pretty much sum up your essay, Joel?”

“But, Professor…”

“How Hollywood of you, Joel; I really expected something more out of your final paper.”

Joel squirmed in his chair. He was surprised at the Professor’s sarcasm.

“I thought my essay covered zombies in popular culture well,” defended Joel.

“Perhaps, but you left out so much more. You barely touched on zombie folklore, and what about the history of Voodoo? You never mentioned the philosophical zombie–do you even know what that is?”

“No, I guess I don’t,” mumbled Joel.

“Your paper is thin. I can’t give you a better grade on something that doesn’t deserve it.” Here the Professor thought for a moment. “But perhaps we can make an arrangement that may help improve your grade.”

Joel let out a sigh of relief. He was glad the Professor had finished critiquing his paper. Maybe there was some light at the end of the tunnel.

“What about this?” The Professor’s attitude toward Joel seemed to soften a bit. “Since there are only two days left in the semester I can only offer you a field test.”

“A field test?”

“There isn’t time for anything else. It will be a one-hour exam that will be oral, not written. We will visit certain areas in and around campus. I will ask you questions and hopefully you will have the right answers. Are you game, Joel?”

“Yes,” Joel said with determination.

“Keep in mind that this test will erase your essay grade. Your new grade could be better or worse than what it is now. Do you still want to try the field test?”

“Absolutely.”

“All right, then; let’s meet tomorrow at 3:00 p.m. in the Chapel Hill Cemetery for the first portion of the exam.”

“Yes, sir, and… thank you.” Joel hurried out of the Professor’s office determined to cram as much about zombies into his brain as it could possibly hold.

The next day, Joel found himself following the Professor through the woods north of campus for part two of the exam.

Joel thought he had done well on the first portion of the exam at Chapel Hill Cemetery, but now he was wondering where the Professor was leading him in the half-light of the woods. That’s when Joel began to smell a stench. A stench that grew stronger with each step they took.

When they came to a small clearing Joel let out an audible gasp. The clearing was full of dead bodies in various states of decay. The smell was horrific and Joel felt bile welling up in the back of his throat. The Professor turned around. He had a sardonic smile on his face and was staring at Joel with a strange hunger in his eyes.

“Now, Joel,” said the Professor. “I’ll show you what a real zombie is.”

Before Joel knew it, the zombie Professor sprang at him and sunk his teeth into Joel’s neck. Joel let out a gurgling sound. The Professor dined well.

Jennifer crouched behind a large tombstone and hugged it like it was some enormous teddy bear. She gripped her paintball rifle tightly and slowly peeked around the corner of the tombstone. It was a moonlit night, but she still couldn’t spot Matt.

The paintball battle had carried Jennifer and Matt from the Hampshire Woods into the Elmsgrove Cemetery. The Cemetery was strictly off-limits to any game playing. Mr. Henderson, the caretaker, made sure of that. But here she was… fighting the best paintball player in town in the creepy Elmsgrove Cemetery.

Two paintballs whizzed by Jennifer’s right ear, just missing her. Time to move. Jennifer glanced around and spotted a sinister-looking moss-covered crypt not far to her right. She stood up and sprinted for the crypt. She arrived winded, but unscathed. The game was still on.

Jennifer leaned against the cool wall of the crypt and tried to catch her breath. Where was Matt? She waited. She listened. Gathering her courage she looked around the corner and scanned the graveyard. No Matt, but she did have a better idea of where he might be after that close call back at the tombstone. Her breath was still rapid and her protective goggles were beginning to fog up.

“Hi.”

Jennifer’s heart leapt into her throat as she spun around. Immediately a shovel smashed into her head and her face became an instant mass of searing pain. For a moment she saw stars, then blackness as she crumpled to the ground.

Jennifer woke up in excruciating pain. She was on her back with her hands bound behind her. Her mouth had been duct taped. She was extremely thirsty and knew the sticky wetness she felt on her face was blood.

Through blurred vision Jennifer saw that she was on a dirt floor. The room was lit by a single light bulb dangling from the ceiling. She thought she could hear muffled sounds coming from the ceiling above her, but her ears were buzzing and her head was so foggy she couldn’t be sure what the sounds were.

Jennifer’s mind slowly floated back to consciousness and now she was sure that she could hear heavy footsteps getting closer…

Closer…

Closer…

Jennifer looked up and her eyes grew wide with terror. Above her stood Mr. Henderson, leering down at her with his unnaturally pale, moonlike face. But that wasn’t why she was so terrified. It was what he held in his hands that caused her to shake violently with fear. In a clear bloody plastic garbage bag was Matt–chopped and bagged.

Jennifer screamed, but the duct tape muffled her scream to a murmur. Henderson frowned and dropped the bag of Matt next to her head. She desperately tried to squirm away from the gruesome sight, but Mr. Henderson’s boot pressed onto her chest. She couldn’t move.

He bent down close to Jennifer’s face. She could feel his breath against her ear. “Time for the game to end,” he whispered. Her eyes were as huge as saucers now. “You can’t play in the garden of the dead and desecrate their eternal resting place with a silly game.” He pressed down harder on her chest. “Your friend has already joined the souls of this sacred place and now it’s your turn, honey.”

Henderson reached into his back pocket and pulled out a clear plastic garbage bag and let it drop to the floor. Jennifer tried to wiggle away and began to sob uncontrollably. Through her blurry, tear-filled eyes she could just make out Mr. Henderson turning away from her. Then Jennifer heard a chainsaw roar to life.