MicroHorror

The Charles W. Morgan sits in the Mystic Seaport, one of the tall ships for schoolchildren to explore. Built in 1841, it has been a floating museum since 1921, showing generations of children of the hardships of whaling life. A few times a year, tourists witness a ghost, usually by a low moaning sound. EVP investigators (electronic voice phenomena) have set up microphones and cameras overnight, to catch the ghost in action. The cameras never capture anything, but a peculiar groan is heard on certain sections of the audiotape. No words can be immediately distinguished, which the audio technician says in standard procedure for EVP. He changes frequencies and modulations of the tape, and isolates the various portions that hold the most promise. After a week of scouring every inch of the audiotape, the technician gives up. There were probably lots of languages spoken on board this ship over the years, but nothing he heard came remotely close to a human voice. The technician would have had a lot more luck, however, had he been listening not for human voices but for whale songs.

Ingredients:
2 “prepared” veal chops
1 half-cup flour
4 tsp. olive oil
1 lemon, squeezed
One tsp. rosemary
One pinch salt
One pinch pepper

The Maiden’s Veal can be prepared with any veal chop or cutlet, but it is strongly recommended that properly prepared meat be used. Maiden’s veal is not available in supermarkets, so a trip to your local butcher is required. Certain shops specialize in these fine cuts of veal–but don’t bother asking any kosher butcher shop. Like all veal, Maiden’s veal comes from male calves that have been kept in small pens and fed a milk diet to keep the meat creamy and tender. Animal rights activists have fought for better conditions for veal calves, but the activists fortunately seem unaware of Maiden’s veal so far. Maiden’s veal calves are kept in a pen, but one with spikes on either side, much like the famous iron maiden. The spikes are arranged to punish even the smallest movement with a poke from sharpened iron. Veal calves are overwhelmingly tender in these, having been forced to stand still for their entire lives. Periodic spike resizings allow the calves room to grow large without incurring fatal injuries. When calves are fat enough, a hand crank at the base of each maiden cage extends the spikes, slowly killing them. One twist is given each hour, and death usually takes 12 hours. This slaughtering method is more from tradition than anything else, but some chefs do claim that the prolonged suffering of the calves adds an additional level of tenderness. For the true Maiden’s veal fans, ask the butcher to attend his next Maidening ceremony–maybe he’ll let you turn the crank on a few calves. Once the veal is procured, preparation is simple. Wet the veal and bread with the flour. Sauté in mixture of olive oil, lemon juice, rosemary, salt and pepper, turning each cutlet twice. Serves two.

All of the sudden, Harry became terrified of blood. He happened to be looking at his statue of Leatherface when he had his change of demeanor. Leatherface was holding a bloody chainsaw, wearing a bloody apron, and standing by a to-scale shelf of severed body parts. My God, that statue was sick! The thought of those horrible murders was overpowering… It was just a movie, but just the idea of those evil killings was too much to think about, not to mention creating a statue that glorified it. Harry ran from his computer room where Leatherface stood by his monitor, and into his bedroom. He shrieked, for the first time in his life. There were katana and nunchaku on the walls. These were instruments of war! Why was he using them for decorating? He ran from there, into a living room piled high with black-sleeved DVDs. He remembered gleefully watching all of their murders, as well as special features on rendering popped eyeballs as realistically as possible. It sickened Harry now. He dashed into the bathroom to retch. But the only room in the apartment for his Aliens vs. Predator figures was the toilet tank. Harry stifled his nausea, ran for the front door, but a cardboard cutout of Michael Myers scared him away. Harry cowered in the kitchen, the only room free from these horrible images. He put his arms in front of his face and began to cry. He opened them, to see a demonic stare coming from a hockey mask. Harry had forgotten about his tattoos, of all his favorite characters. These monsters were literally under his skin. Harry could not be any more terrified. It was oddly comforting when he picked up the cheese grater, and the fear was replaced by simple pain.

Bruce Waltemeyer was living the hermit’s life even before the dead started walking the earth. He owned a cabin in Nova Scotia, went to town once a month for supplies, and his few conversations with neighbors were strained. The worldwide nightmare had not increased his communicativeness. Waltemeyer would politely assist the few living islanders who made it to his barricaded front door, sharing food or ammunition, but under no circumstances did he let anyone inside. Even with society in ruins, Waltemeyer knew he would be judged harshly. In Waltemeyer’s basement, chained to a bed, was an undead girl. Thick chains restrained her limbs, and her body was warmed by eletric blankets. Her head was secured in a guillotine, activated by one push of a panic button. Waltemeyer had cheerleader outfits, nurse’s uniforms, bathing suits and other women’s apparel in the top drawers of a dresser, and knives and branding irons in the other. The undead girls usually lasted a month before Waltemeyer had to hit the panic button. It fit well with his still-monthly trips to town. In addition to scavenging supplies, he would now also find a new undead girl that fit the clothing. Waltemeyer had no one he wished to admit this to, but this was the happiest time of his life.

A small part of the Denali National Park in Alaska is home to a military cemetery. You can find it off a road permanently adorned with an UNDER CONSTRUCTION sign. Alaska officially has no military cemetery, which is just as well, because the bodies of all the soldiers in this cemetery were never announced as recovered. The soldiers’ families have buried empty coffins in other cemeteries. The real bodies are here, though, under ground that is frozen many months of the year. The cold keeps them sedate. The oldest date back to the Spanish-American War. The dates of the white marble tombstones swell during the years of World Wars I and II, Korea, and Vietnam. The freshest graves are being dug every month, from Baghdad and Kabul. America’s soldiers have been hit by many unusual weapons, but the worst has been weaponized necromancy. Attempts to decapitate the soldiers’ bodies have become too risky too keep up: even undead, a soldier’s training is considerable. Shoving a corpse at its first stir into a concrete box and shipping it to Alaska is a much safer option. There’s perpetual talk of just cremating the dead soldiers where and when they are found. But there is patriotism to consider: these are American soldiers, and they deserve a military funeral.

“If you will endure one minute of discomfort, your wife shall live again,” the voice said. “Such an opportunity is not without risk. If you cannot endure, break the timepiece on your arm. The pain will stop, but both your souls shall be mine.” Jin Lee nodded at the arrangement. That was all, a minute? His wife would be back in the time it took to blink! The pain would undoubtedly hurt, but Jin Lee had kidney stones. They taught him how to live with pain. Jin Lee waited, staring, as the second hand of his watch ticked closer to the top of the minute. His legs felt a little weary. Had it already started? At the top of the minute, Jin Lee was hit with an avalanche. He was on fire, he was being crushed, he was freezing, his limbs were ripping from their sockets, all at once. Jin didn’t know such overwhelming pain was possible. He screamed, and screamed again, and then the screaming began to hurt. He collapsed to the ground, his legs splintering under him. Jin Lee couldn’t see his watch through his tears. This had surely been a minute. He endured it still, in case he was shy a second. He rolled on the ground, trying to find a position that hurt less, every position hurting more. Jin held out for what felt like an hour, two hours, so in pain he couldn’t breathe. This wouldn’t automatically stop. It would go on forever. When Jin Lee felt like he was literally about to die from the pain, he smashed his wrist against a rock. The pain vanished. Jin Lee sat up, unhurt, as if from a dream. He looked at his watch. The shattered face said he had endured eight seconds.

Maureen’s maid of honor Becky invited all of Maureen’s friends that could make it last minute to the shower. They each brought a present, which they carried downstairs and put in a corner by Maureen’s cage. They went back upstairs, and had a nice buffet lunch of little sandwiches, salad, and a cake from the same bakery that was making the wedding cake. Becky passed around a quiz to everyone, to see who knew Maureen best. Everyone knew the name of the demon Maureen lost the bet to, but almost no one knew that Maureen was on the swim team for a year in high school. Then everyone got to design a wedding dress with toilet paper and tape. They paraded down the basement stairs one at a time. Maureen refused to pick a winner for a while, since she was crying and pleading for someone to let her out of the cage, but eventually she chose Becky’s dress. Becky then handed Maureen’s presents through the bars one by one. Maureen was registered at a medical supply store, so she got lots of gauze, ointment, ice packs and pain relievers. Becky gave a really cute champagne toast, saying how happy she was to be here for Maureen’s big day. There are a lot of weddings based on accidental pregnancies or ticking biological clocks or demonic enslavement, Becky said, but that doesn’t mean they don’t work out to a lot of fun. Everyone got a goodie bag on their way out, with chocolates and jelly beans and a tin of deviled ham.

As usual, Mrs. Denikin’s schoolchildren screamed that Lenin was alive. This was expected. Every year, when her children were marched past the tomb of Russia’s hallowed leader, embalmed under glass, at least one child was disrespectful enough to grab another’s hand and scream. Vladimir Lenin was a great man. His actions had caused millions to die and generations to suffer, but that was because others had twisted Lenin’s teachings. The man himself was still a great figure. Based on this faith, Mrs. Denikin took a busload of children into Moscow each year, and heard the same disrespectful jokes every time. Only this year the children did not seem amused as they said it, but stunned, or even crying. Mrs. Denikin could see Lenin’s body moving, even from ten meters away at the end of the line. Was someone shaking the coffin? The children quickly ran past, none wanting to linger. As she got closer, Mrs. Denikin was horrified to see Lenin’s limbs twitching and his eyelids moving. What a terrible prank! This was a lookalike, it had to be. Mrs. Denikin herded her distraught children and led them out into the chaotic Red Square. The children began screaming even louder. Mrs. Denikin hushed them, until the screams from the Square made her notice exactly why Red Square was chaotic. The Square was filling with the dead. Naked bodies from a morgue were staggering from the left. Dead soldiers marched in formation on the right. Rotting corpses were crawling with whatever strength their remaining meat could give them. They were all coalescing around the tomb. Mrs. Denikin felt a hand on her shoulder, a cold one that smelled of formaldehyde. Mrs. Denikin hoped she was right about Lenin.

Today your friend will be run over by a truck. You’ll think it tragic, and a waste of life, and random. It is not random. Last year, exactly one year ago today, your uncle died from a medication allergy. They said it was an accident. It was not an accident. It was not random. It was me. Have you recognized the pattern yet? Every year, on exactly this day, someone you love dies. Exactly this day. Do you remember what you did on this exact day 17 years ago? Do you remember pushing me onto those train tracks? Was high school that long ago? I get to watch you now. I know you never speak about me. Not to anyone: your shrink, your wife, your mistress. I don’t know your thoughts, so I don’t know if you ever think about me. But once a year, I get to communicate with you. And I know you’ve noticed the method I do so, if not the message. Maybe this year you’ll understand it. I’m not asking for much. Just two little words. “I’m sorry.” Just that. I don’t expect to hear it tonight. Why should this night be any different? I’ll stay here, watching you, day after day, night after night, waiting. If another year goes by without those two little words, then you’ll get another message from me next year. And I’ll have to decide who you love more, your wife or your mistress.

“This will just be a small vacation, Esteban,” the man with the beard said. “You have nothing to fear. After this, you will reunite with your parents.” Esteban knew they were kidnappers; his parents had money. They acted mean, but mostly to each other. They didn’t hurt Esteban. They took the blindfold off, put him in a small room with a bed and TV, and brought him McDonald’s every day for food. There was a man at the door all day and all night. They didn’t let him outside. He didn’t have to go to school. He just watched TV all day and all night, eating McDonald’s. The man at the door sometimes watched it with Esteban, all the violent stuff he wanted, but didn’t let him watch the news. Esteban wondered if he was on the news. Was his mom crying because of this? He wanted to tell her that he was okay, but the man at the door wouldn’t let him make a phone call. Esteban missed his parents, more than he thought he would. He wanted this whole thing to be over, to be back with them. Esteban waited in the room for four days, tired of TV and McDonald’s. He listened for police sirens. He never heard any. On the fifth day the man with the beard came back in. He didn’t look happy. “Esteban, things have not gone well. Your parents were… not cooperative with us.” Esteban asked if this mean he had to stay longer. “No. I said you will reunite with your parents.” He paused, took a deep breath, and took a gun from his pocket. “And you will.”