MicroHorror

About the twelfth time he stabbed his now-dead girlfriend Gwen, Gary wondered at what point he should stop. It had to be a special number, a number that would have meaning to him. Let’s see, he mused, continuing to stab Gwen routinely, his anger spent after the first four or five killing jabs. Gwen was twenty, so that could be an appropriate number; oops, too late, up to twenty-two already. How about twenty-six, for October 26, the day they first met. No, too corny, Gary decided. Maybe twenty-nine, for November 29, the day he saw her having lunch with James, the handsome guy in her office. Laughing and touching his arm like intimate friends. Gary knew how to deal with her duplicitous betrayal. How could she? He loved Gwen completely, totally, compulsively. And this was how she treated his all-consuming devotion. Passed twenty-nine now and heading towards thirty-three. Then the right number occurred to Gary. With a smile, he hacked seven more savage wounds and stopped. Forty. Twice Gwen’s age, which represented her two-faced nature. Perfect. Time to clean up and head home for some television maybe. Gary remembered Babe was on cable tonight. 

“Tie her wrists to the punishment pole.” Two men secured the struggling slip of a girl to the stake and stepped away. “On this day, the tenth of October, 1692, I, Jonathan Binder, witchfinder, do decree Bethany Pells to be a witch and sentence her to death by stoning.”

The village’s population stood around Bethany in a great circle, afraid to get any closer. Binder walked bravely to the stake and whispered in Bethany’s ear, “You should have given yourself to me when you I requested it; then your painful fate, this witchcraft lie, could have been avoided.”

Bethany looked up at his smug face and spit in it.

Binder stomped away in anger, wiping his face and yelling, “Pass sentence. Stone her!”

Hands picked up stones, rocks and pebbles from the rough ground and flung them with good accuracy at the captive girl. Bethany was bleeding and bruised, hanging now from the leather thong. Her weight was too much for the old thong, cut by stones hitting it as well, and it snapped. Bethany tumbled to the ground, groaning as she fell on the rocks.

Then, miraculously, Bethany struggled to her feet. The village murmured as one, and Binder glared furiously at her. “Finish the sentence!” he roared.

But now Bethany’s hands were free. Crooking her arms, she spread her witching fingers wide and chanted low, summoning an ancient power. The stones all around her began to vibrate, then rose inexplicitly into the air and flew with savage speed and killing force into the astonished villagers.

Many dropped dead outright, while others fell gravely hurt or crippled. A handful hobbled off as fast they could, howling in pain. Bethany faltered, falling against the pole for support. She smiled a bloody smile through cut lips, and using the last of her fading strength and power, hurled a pumpkin-sized rock to cave in Binder’s head.

Then Bethany collapsed dead on the killing field.

It was just a joke. A harmless, juvenile joke that Simon thought up while sitting through a boring lecture in Philosophy 101. Hilarious, Simon thought. Priceless. He stifled a laugh, covering the noise with a fake cough. Simon couldn’t wait to tell someone. Anyone. If Professor Maya ever finished talking.

When class was finally over, Simon ran into his friend Artie in the hallway. “Hey, Artie, listen to this joke. It’s a killer,” Simon bubbled with enthusiasm.

And it was. When Simon finished telling the joke, Artie got a sick look on his face, and then pitched forward, dead as the proverbial doornail.

Paramedics couldn’t revive him and couldn’t figure out why Artie died. Simon related the whole story to them as they slid Jay’s body into the ambulance, including his joke. Both paramedics and the driver dropped dead.

By the time the police showed up, a small crowd of students and faculty had gathered around the ambulance and bodies. The two officers pushed their way though the curious group, and Sergeant Randy Graves asked, “All right, who knows what’s going on here?” The other officer checked the bodies, looked up at Graves and shook his head.

So Simon told the whole story again which, of course, involved repeating his joke. The reaction was the same. Both policeman, and the entire college crowd of onlookers, fell dead like a small and bloodless massacre.

Since the police car’s radio was switched to exterior, most of the police officers back at dispatch headquarters died at their desks. When investigating officers played the audio tape to see what might have caused these bizarre deaths, they joined their deceased fellow officers.

A local mobile news crew picked up the police call, tapping directly into the police band, and broadcast Simon’s narrative, including his joke, as breaking news, live to Channel 5’s audience plus their affiliates nationwide. People within range of their television sets or radios dropped like flies, flounders, or any appropriate metaphor. Suddenly cars with dead drivers at the wheels crashed into other vehicles on the freeways, killing many of those surprised drivers and passengers.

At this point, Director James Ender, CIA, Special Weapons and Tactics, Wetworks Division, was informed of the odd and lethal situation spreading through New Jersey. Reviewing the faxed information carefully, he calmly ordered, “Bring me that kid. And tape his mouth shut.”

When something’s dead, it should stay dead. But Clem’s rotting corpse didn’t know that, I guess. Moving too fast for something so long dead, his grayish, mottled hand grabbed Holly’s arm. She screamed like the devil himself had hold of her, and maybe he did.

Luckily Clem had trapped us in the boathouse. It offered the only weapon that might possibly stop him. Finding the flare gun, I broke it open, dropped in a cartridge and aimed the pistol directly at Clem’s decaying chest. Holly realized my purpose and somehow twisted free of his slimy grasp for just a moment. It was all I needed.

“Go back to hell,” I whispered hoarsely in my best Clint Eastwood impression.

I fired the charge, which exploded in bright magnesium light. Clem became a walking Roman candle, screaming and swearing like the damned soul he was. He staggered out of the boathouse, down the old dock, until his blackened, smoldering skeleton collapsed, crumbling into dust only inches from the lake.

I held a shaken, stunned Holly close to me. One hell of a first date.