MicroHorror

Constable Clinton regularly passed the old brownstone boarding house known as Heathwise but had never entered. That changed on a cool August day near the end of the nineteenth century.

“He simply must go,” Mrs. Nilson nagged as she and her husband ushered Clinton up the stairs to the third floor. “The rent is past due.”

“He’s been a strange one since he moved in two months ago. Never comes out of his room,” Mr. Nilson chimed in as he took the pipe from his mouth.

“But meals…”

“He has us leave him a plate by his door each evening. He wanted no disturbances. Well, his ways have disturbed everyone,” Mrs. Nilson complained.

“Doesn’t he work?”

“He’s a professor on break.”

The constable rapped his fist against the door at the end of the hall. “Open up, Mr. Gildgurd. This is Constable Clinton.”

“He’s been ignoring us for a week like that!”

“Have I your permission to enter by necessary means?”

The old lady nodded slightly and grinned widely.

Constable Clinton turned the knob. “Locked. Please stand back.”

The Nilsons moved away before Clinton lunged forward, slamming his shoulder against the door. He was slightly surprised at how easily the door gave way, but the great shock for the constable was finding the dead body of Charles Gildgurd sprawled across the floor.

“A murder in our very home! Oh, the gossip…” Mrs. Nilson sighed as she sipped her strongly brewed tea.

“He must have made enemies!” Mr. Nilson suggested.

“Hardly likely for a professor. Besides, the door and windows were locked from within and his mortal wounds were slashes made by some sort of beast,” the constable pondered aloud.

“We never should have rented to him,” Mrs. Nilson mumbled. “But he was so insistent! He wanted that room. No other would do.”

“Claimed he liked the view of the garden’s daffodils, but I had my suspicions,” Mr. Nilson contemplated as he blew several smoke rings. “I once recall him leaving his room. He came in here and sat by the stove. His clothes were soaked through. I thought maybe we’d gotten a sudden shower, but I looked outside to find it quite the dry night.”

Mr. Nilson watched the doctor’s attendants remove the dead man. He found Clinton examining Gildgurd’s effects. “If you need to be with your wife…”

“My, no, she’s strong. Found anything of interest?” Mr. Nilson asked as he peered into a drawer and took out some strange colored tobacco.

“His journal. I think he must have been mad. He writes of finding this location to be a vortex portal to another world where the old demons called the trithex assembly reign. Using a ceremony he was able to traverse a dimensional portal.”

“Madness,” Nilson said as he lit the odd tobacco in his pipe. As soon as he inhaled the strange scent, he found himself staring into the copper eyes of a red-scaled demon without time to scream.

Summer was ending in Whitechapel, but that meant no difference to me as I prowled the night. By the few flickering lights that fended off the darkness, I stared at every person I passed. Some returned my look, but most ignored me while possessed by their own needful demons of drink or hunger. Yet each tired, dirty face shared a shimmer of fear that I could smile at taking credit for.

I kicked at the debris which littered the filthy, narrow streets that I roamed. An abandoned newspaper’s headline screamed of my murderous activities and offered a reward for my capture. That about gave me fits of the jollies. I knew this neglected, grime-soaked section of the city far better than any of the coppers who wouldn’t even dare travel some of its darkest streets alone. They gave me no reason for alarm or even to hurry at my work. And my work must be done, for I am a man of honor who always pays his debts.

I knew she would be the one at first sight. She stood swaying at an intersection illuminated by a storefront’s gas lamp, a night’s drinking already affecting her. Her dull colored clothes were shabby, especially worn at the fur collar and cuffs. The straw hat balanced artfully on her head was decorated with black beads. Its brim cast a shadow over her blue eyes and worn face.

Glancing about I saw no one save an old sailor shuffling away at the end of the street. I reached into my pocket and gripped the cool handle of my knife. Swiftly I approached her and smiled reassuringly as I said hello.

She stepped back, eyeing me oddly. Perhaps her instincts overcame her drunkenness and she realized she was but prey. I released my knife and took hold of the coins in my pocket.

“I’m in need of friendly company,” I said softly as I offered her the money. Her distrust of me vanished. With one hand she took the coins as the other grasped my arm. Her fingers stroked my shoulder as she commented how lovely the material of my coat felt. Then she grasped my hand and led me into the alley.

“Let’s have a bit of privacy in the dark, dearie,” she muttered, the alcohol apparent on her breath. As we walked in the filthy alley, I reached back into my pocket and fondled my knife. My heart beat quickened in anticipation of the kill and plunder.

My heart stopped as I saw Lord Mantly’s cards. No matter how good my hand, his was always better. I sank back in my chair and finished the last drop of whiskey in my glass.

“Barsons!” Lord Mantly called. “We can’t allow our guest an empty glass.”

As the aged manservant attended to my glass, I gazed at the stuffed animal heads that adorned Lord Mantly’s game room. He had taken these trophies while in India. But the lion’s head had come at a cost: Lord Mantly’s left leg. Yet he still had a hunger for trophies, and the trophies that I brought him he kept hidden in his private den.

“Another game?” Lord Mantly asked.

“I’ve no money left to wager.”

“Then let’s play for other stakes. What did you bring me last time… a uterus?”

I nodded.

“Well, this time the stakes for your wager will be… a uterus and kidney for me if you lose. Agreed?”

I nodded.

One day I would win and then I would do some traveling.

Lord Mantly began to deal the cards as I reached into my pocket to touch my knife for luck.

The dried leaves crackled beneath his feet as he wandered the night, tightly gripping the old cord tied to his jack-o’-lantern. Mysterious noises whispered in the wind, but it was the shout of a young, gravel-toned voice that caused him to quicken his pace. “Hey, puke brains, come back here or we’ll get you!”

He ignored the warning as he dashed into the woods, the ache of the black eye he received upon his last encounter with Marty the school bully urging him on. He lifted his red devil’s mask to see better as twigs tore at his cheap plastic costume. The footsteps of Marty and his two buddies grew louder, until a hand on his shoulder yanked him backwards. He landed on his back with a jarring whack and breath rushed from his lips as Marty’s knee sank into his stomach. Marty threw back the hood of the dirty sheet that was supposed to make him a ghost and stared wickedly at his whimpering victim.

“Brian, when you gonna learn to do as told. If ya make me mad, I’m just gonna beat ya worse!” Brian’s ears filled with the muffled laughter of Marty’s similarly clad ghost stooges. It was the first punch to his head that sent Brian’s mind reeling back a week to his last beating.

He had been enjoying the last warm day of October with a swim at the creek when Marty and his hideous henchboys had pounced upon him. One of them had hit him from behind. Upon his fall to the muddy bank, all three proceeded to kick at him. But it was Marty who had to finish him off with a blow just below his right eye. He didn’t hear or see his attackers depart. Suddenly he found himself cradled in the gentle arms of a lovely lass with hair the dark color of ink. She applied a sweet-smelling green paste to his injury and spoke softly. “This will help your hurt. I’ve created it from the forest’s blessed bounty. The woods help all who are good.”

“Thank you,” Brain muttered.

The young woman lifted Brain to his feet. “You will feel better, trust me. And I want you to take a special gift with you from this forest,” the kind woman said as she pointed to a pumpkin that grew at the gnarled base of an oak tree.

“Next week is Halloween. Can you carve that pumpkin into a jack-o’-lantern?” she asked.

Brian nodded.

“Good. Do so and you’ll be protected.” Brian picked up the pumpkin and turned to find that his new friend had disappeared. But her spirit remained, watching him and remembering… remembering her own assault long ago in these woods.

It was in an age when witchcraft was feared. Her healing skill and special knowledge of the forest had brought the men to her door with accusations. They dragged her through the woods, ripping her worn garments. She found herself at the creek to be judged. Her protest brought only a harsh slap. Bound, she found herself dunked into the creek. She fought for a chance to breathe but couldn’t.

And then came the boy, bullied just as she had been.

Marty’s fist slammed against Brian’s chin. Tears trailed down Brian’s face.

“What a baby,” Marty mocked. “Hey, baby, you get some good candy tonight? Well, we’re gonna take it!”

Marty grabbed the jack-o’-lantern and reached within.

“Hey, it’s hot inside,” Marty muttered. Then his eyes widened in horror as the jack-o’-lantern closed upon his hand. “Get off, get it off!” Frantically, he waved his arms about. Now tears welled in his eyes till he saw blood trickle forth from his wrist. “No!” Marty fell to the ground wiggling in pain. Brain slowly stood and watched while Marty’s friends backed into the woods. Marty’s head snapped back as he wailed when the jack-o’-lantern severed his hand and kept its prize within.

I’ve come to know every crack in the cement of the cell wall that I’ve stared at for months since being found guilty for the murder of myself.

They’ll never release me and I can only blame my own remarkable intellect for my miserable fate. It was my mind that created the device which broke through the dimensional membrane that separates parallel realities. I was the first man to pass through the barrier and find a world similar but not exact to my own. And there I found my greatest horror: myself. But it was not truly me, not a man of genius whose actions were praised and admired. I was a waste, a fast-talking car salesman drowning in debt and addictions. I should never have sought myself out there. But once I did and had looked into the abyss of my pathetic double’s empty eyes, I felt myself unable to control the angry disdain rising in my soul for him. My fingers entwined his dirty neck and squeezed. Air wheezed from his throat as he gasped until his empty eyes closed and he fell lifeless to the floor. As I looked down at my dead self, I wondered how many other humiliating lives I was living and set out to play judge for my many selves.

My hands were stained from the blood of ten of me before the agents of the government who had funded my work finally caught up to me. The trial was a private sham and I was put away to hide their embarrassment. Laws have been enacted to prohibit any exploration between realities and my device has been dismantled.

So now I sit and wait. I hope I won’t have to wait long.

I hear the door open behind me and approaching footsteps… familiar footsteps.

“About time,” I whisper.

“Sorry it took so long, but this place is very well guarded. It took a while to crack the system, even for a genius.”

“Yes, I am a genius.”

“But a genius doesn’t allow himself to be held for ridicule in a prison with the rest of society’s vermin.”

“Quite right,” I sigh as I feel a cord looped about my neck. As it tightens and the world goes dark about me, I smile, knowing that I’m quite an effective killer.

The old man grinned as he saw Rustin rambling toward his shack, shovel in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.

“Been expecting you,” Dalliard chuckled as he threw wide the dilapidated door and grasped the bottle. “Didn’t think you’d let Toper rest long.”

“Well, he won’t be grieved. He lived his last years as a hermit, never seen venturing from his house. The maid just happened upon his cold body during her last visit.”

Rustin watched as Dalliard took a gulp of whiskey, allowing a thin stream of the precious liquid to drip down his grey beard.

“To your liking, then?” Rustin inquired.

Dalliard nodded. “Care to join me?”

“Must be about me work. Considering that wicked wind and the clouds, there must be a storm tonight.”

“And I suppose the doctor doesn’t like the bodies wet when delivered. How much will you be getting for Toper?”

“His due worth,” Rustin replied as he held out his hand. Dalliard offered a key, which Rustin took in exchange for two silver coins.

“Don’t forget to lock the gate and bring back the key.”

“I always do,” Rustin grumbled.

Dalliard watched Rustin walk toward the cemetery. He tightened his shabby collar to ward off the wind’s chill, but a mouthful of whiskey proved more effective. The rusted gate creaked shrilly as if sounding an alarm at the intruder’s entrance, but Dalliard only chuckled. Since becoming the cemetery’s keeper his greatest profit had been earned from his dealings with Rustin the resurrectionist.

The thunder had begun before Dalliard finished the whiskey. As rain tapped against the roof, Dalliard went to the window and saw Rustin walking empty-handed from the cemetery to the dirt road that twisted toward town. Dalliard rushed out, buttoning his coat. “What about returning my key, you clod?”

Rustin gave no reply.

“What about the body?” Dalliard questioned as his pace quickened to gain on his rascal of a comrade.

Rustin walked on silently.

“Talk to me,” Dalliard muttered as he grabbed Rustin’s shoulder and spun him around. Rustin’s face was deathly pale and blood flowed from a gaping wound on his neck. As Dalliard stepped back, Rustin’s mouth opened with a loud hiss to reveal glistening yellow fangs. Dalliard let out a gasp as he stumbled backward with trembling legs, his old boots churning mud before turning to see another figure approaching through the rain.

“Lord in heaven!” Dalliard spat out at the sight of Toper, whose bloated face was covered with grime from his burial and Rustin’s blood from feasting. Rapidly Toper pounced upon Dalliard, whose scream was drowned out by a thunderclap. Toper’s long, claw-like fingers tore at Dalliard’s warm flesh and worn clothes. Dalliard’s body thrashed about in the mud as fangs ripped into his neck.

Only once the body had grown still and Toper had drunk his fill did Rustin approach his wicked business partner. Kneeling, Rustin deeply inhaled the scent of blood before tasting it for himself. As the scarlet liquid filled his mouth and rushed down his throat, Rustin wondered what a fine doctor’s blood would taste like. Soon he would know.