MicroHorror

Edna and Ralph were cozy in the back of his father’s baby-blue Ford Fairlane. Slowly, the car began to rock. Their rhythm seemed to harmonize with the very sounds of nature all around them. Night birds courted among the lush canopy of trees, singing away the last faint rays of light. The golden-rimmed clouds parted, revealing the perfect orb of the full rising moon. An unearthly howl filled the forest then, silencing all. The teenage lovers, lost in the perfect solipsism of young lust, heard nothing but their own haggard breath, moving faster and faster. It took the squeal of preternatural claws rending the metal flesh of the hardtop to jolt them from their…

***

“Carl, this isn’t about werewolves, is it? They’ve been done to death. And teenagers? Next they’ll be meeting up with Laurel and Hardy. This is 3-D we’re launching here. Three-god-damned-D. You’re proposing we waste the single most exciting revolution in moviemaking on the same old shit that we’ve been turning out year after year?”

“People like werewolves, Mr. Anderson.” Carl flushed purple, but had already moved the sheaf of papers to the bottom of a rather impressive stack.

“People liked Nixon at one point, Carl.”

“Point taken, Mr. Anderson. Perhaps we could try something a little different.”

“Yes, different. Now we’re talking.” The portly film exec leaned back in his padded chair. He lit another cigarette from the end of the one he was finishing, and took a drag. “Go ahead, Carl. Wow me.”

***

The new young master of the house arrived early in the day. The stately manor house had been a bequest of his recently departed Uncle Chesterton. Putting aside the bizarrely hostile behavior of the locals, including the rough young gent who’d shown him to the gate, he felt a kinship to the place. There was something in the air here that called to his blood.

It was only later that night, as he was making his way toward the lower chambers, that he got his first inkling of something amiss. All was silent, which was odd, as the house was draughty, and should’ve been a haven for mice and rats.

The chamber at the bottom of the spiraling staircase was shut tight. Alvin put his shoulder to it, and grudgingly, it gave. Upon spying the large oblong box in the corner…

***

“Vampires, huh? That’s different, Carl? You think any self-respecting teenager is going to strap blue and red glasses to his head to sit through… Listen, listen closely, Carl–that sound you’re hearing is Bela Lugosi spinning in his grave and the son-of-a-bitch isn’t even dead yet. And again with the “silent,” we’re making talkies here, Carl. Jesus.”

Flustered, Carl drew in a deep breath, and started muttering. It was so low, it sounded like buzzing.

“What was that, Carl?” The exec was fuming. The meeting was a bust.

The scrawny writer pushed up Coke-bottle glasses and cleared his throat. “I said I’ve got one more.”

“Well, let’s hear it.”

***

The moon shone coldly with pale white light. The silence of the desert filled the air with ominous foreboding. In a far-off corner of a crypt, the dust began to stir…

***

“I swear to God, Carl, if it’s fucking mummies, I’ll garrote you with that stupid purple necktie you’re wearing. You’re supposed to be a writing genius, Carl. You’re a HACK!”

Carl was murmuring/buzzing again, but Anderson took no notice. “Why on earth do I pay you? You’re worthless–what’s more… you’re fired. Get out of my sight.”

At this, Carl’s face split in two, and released the monstrous fly-thing that had been using him as a shell. Pincers like scimitars clicked in front of its mouth. Shaking off blood from its wings, it launched itself into the air, and sped toward Anderson. His last thought before his head was snipped from his body was, “Now that’s what I wanted to see.”

Hide, Mama.

Take your daughters to the false security of the attic.

Take buckets of water, baskets of food.

Hide… and pray.

A shawl-covered face lined with worry peeked through the small attic window helplessly watching as dozens of her neighbors were consumed by the beast. Groups of men fought bravely but to no avail. Many died. Even some women and children were struck down on the spot while others were carried off to an unknown fate. The dead would remain where they lay. No one would dare to move them, not even under cover of darkness. The thing’s depredations had nearly reduced the town to a city of ghosts.

Mama held her two daughters close, trying unsuccessfully to quiet their fears while they hid in the attic of their ancestral home, surrounded by heirlooms and family treasures of days long past. Two sets of terrified five-year-old eyes pleaded with her for reassurance but Mama’s eyes betrayed the hollow despairing terror raging within.

Mama knew it was futile to hide. Soon the food and water would be depleted.
But she held on, for the sake of her children. She hummed the lullaby her girls loved as they settled against her bosom enjoying the comfort of her warmth.

CLOMP! Mama gasped. The girls screamed before mama could cup her hands around their mouths. Something was in their house.

CLOMP! The crash of heavy footfalls on wooden steps echoed up the stairwell.

CLOMP! Mama prayed and cried silent tears.

CLOMP! The girls whimpered through mama’s fingers. She shushed her little ones to silence.

CLOMP! shuffle…

The attic door rattled as something tried to push it open. There were inarticulate sounds… then silence.

CRASH! The door caved inward in showers of splintered wood. The dresser and old trunks piled against it proved no match for the creature’s strength. The girls’ screams were ear-splitting. Mama wailed.

The monster fixed its gaze on the ragged mass of humanity huddled beneath the table. A cruel grin stretched its taut face. A beam of sunlight streaming through the small window fell upon the dreaded SS insignia embroidered on the monster’s immaculate uniform. It nodded to a subordinate and Mama and her two screaming daughters were roughly pulled toward the doorway.

A blazing match traced a fiery arc through the attic gloom throwing grotesque dancing shadows on the walls. The monster grinned as old photographs curled into ashes and orange flames devoured the memories of generations.

Mama’s knees buckled. A moan wrenched from her breaking heart fell upon the ears of the monster but affected it not. She cried, she begged, she promised anything for her children’s sake but the monster’s armor was impenetrable, and the attic dwellers, though alive, were effectively dead as they were forced down the steps into the bitter cold day and onto the waiting truck.

The beast exited the burning house and admired his handiwork. The mother was beside herself, wailing in utter despair. The girls screamed and fed on her fear.

The monster approached her. “Mama, don’t cry so! Auschwitz is not so bad. You have been listening to propaganda. I received word today that over five hundred Jews have left Auschwitz. And that is just today’s numbers. They have been set free… relocated.”

Mama gazed into his dark eyes. Mistrust mingled with fear.

The monster feigned hurt. “On my word as an officer!”

Mama dared allow a glimmer of hope into her heart.

“Yes, Mama, there is a way to leave Auschwitz. Once you arrive it will be explained so be sure to listen closely. Don’t lose hope. Be strong for your children.” With that the truck roared to life and soon was out of sight.

The monster nodded. “Yes, there is a final solution, a way out. One way.” He turned toward the house and watched the column of smoke billow upward.

She was so beautiful–so very, very, beautiful. What father would not do all he could to protect her? And so Dioscorus built a high tower and forbade anyone to enter except for himself and one maidservant.

Barbara grew more beautiful year on year but only her father saw it. He was determined that none should sully his daughter. The slobbering youths he saw outside his walls were all unworthy of her charms. He only… only he could love her as she deserved.

She escaped once but was discovered and brought back. Found by some good shepherd and penned.

Susanna brought her food and comfort and also a catechism and told her that her father was wrong to keep her thus locked up for his own pleasure. Dioscorus found the book and was furious for he was a committed pagan. He forbade her to pray.

But when he went away on business, Barbara had a third window put in the tower to represent the Holy Spirit. She swore it was a miracle sent from God. Did she really believe or was this the only voice she could put to her despair?

Her father’s fury now reached greater heights. He denounced her. She was imprisoned once again and this time at the mercy of strangers. Perhaps Dioscorus suspected she was no longer his alone. Sent before the prefect of the province, Barbara was condemned to burn.

Her gaolers had never seen such beauty and they swore that when they’d tried to burn her they found she would not burn. Every time they tried their torches would extinguish, so they said. And so once more she was kept alive. Surely another blessed miracle…

At length she was released back to her father who decided to carry out the death sentence himself. He took Barbara up to a high mountaintop and there he hacked her head off with his sword.

On the way down the mountain, God struck the pagan sword with a lightning bolt. Thus it is told did Barbara become the Saint of all who work with fire or explosives, because she would not burn, while her father was consumed by fire.

***

One might perhaps observe it was a pity God wasn’t “ahead of the game.” Then again perhaps the making of saints just excuses the worst excesses of man and has nothing whatever to do with God. At any rate Barbara’s story is no longer considered authentic and so the 4th of December is no longer her official saint’s day.

Who knows the brief brutality of the life that Barbara led?

One thing I have discovered. You excavate the story. You examine the finds. Sometimes you hear the distant echo of a scream. But history and legend are written by the victors. Thereafter it’s the archaeology of interpretation.

18th October 1916
Picardi, France

Dear Mum,

I’m sorry it’s been so long since my last letter, but I really haven’t had the time to write. All the boys say thanks for the biscuits you sent me–we had them with a cup of tea and they all said how they were the best biscuits they’ve had since leaving Blighty, so well done mum!

I’m on watch duty tonight and Corporal Jenkins is filling in this month’s munitions order in the dug-out, which means I’ve got both time and light to write to you. I know you must be worried about me, but everyone reckons it will be all over by Christmas and we’ll be on our way home. Won’t that be nice? Christmas back home with you, dad and Emily–I can almost taste that turkey!

There aren’t so many of us left as the last time I wrote. Not many came back from the last charge… well… we’re not really sure what happened to the others. Sergeant Parker says they deserted and I’m sure he knows what he’s talking about, but where would they go? One of the boys says Davenport hauled himself over the top of the trench one night and walked off across the mud, as bold as you like and disappeared into the dark.

I’m scared. I shouldn’t say it, but I am, because I’ve seen it–seen something out there in No Man’s Land–a shadow that’s darker than the night. You’ll think I’m being silly, but it’s true. I saw it last night and the night before, something so black that it blots out the moon and the stars. It dances out there in the churned mud and dirt, as thin as a sliver one minute, then wide enough to eat the sky the next.

That’s not all, mum. It speaks to me, I’m sure it does. When I’m out here, waiting for the dawn to come, I can hear a voice in the dark. It’s low and sweet and gentle, so quiet that I can barely make out the words, yet I can hear it over the howling wind as clear as church bells.

It’s calling me, telling me to rise from my post and climb over the top of the trench. There’s nothing to be afraid of, it says, the guns won’t get me while I’m dancing. I can’t make out the words; I just know that’s what it wants me to do. It sounds so lonely, like it’s seen some terrible sadness.

The shadow is moving again; closer than the last couple of nights. It’s so dark and cold, that I can barely keep my fingers from shaking. It’s coming closer, weaving in and out of the barbed wire, twisting and turning as though it’s trying to move in a hundred different directions at once.

I’m trying to be brave and I’m trying to do my duty, but I can’t take my eyes off it. That voice is in my ear again, telling me to join in the dance, just like Davenport and all the others. I don’t want to go, but it doesn’t feel like a request, more like a prediction.

I’ll have to stop writing now; I can see Jenkins blowing on the ink of his report and I suppose he’ll be putting out the lamp and retiring for the night. Don’t worry mum, I won’t be on my own. All the boys are with me, all those boys that went out and danced, knowing that they’d be safe from the bombs, the blood and the madness.

It’s moving closer, now; I can see it stark and black against the sky. Soon the light will go out and I won’t be able to see it any more, but it will be there, dancing through the valley of Death.

I love you mum. I love dad and I love Emily too.

I’m not scared any more.

Your loving son,

David.

The searchlights cut through the night, picking out the droning Luftwaffe bombers far overhead. Anti-aircraft guns positioned in London parks and the surrounding countryside kept up a constant barrage.

“What’s Jerry doing up there?” Private Wilkes asked his gun commander as another aeroplane passed without dropping bombs.

“Something tricky,” Lieutenant Smythe replied. “You can count on it. Definitely something tricky.”

“Tea?” Jane the wireless operator asked, approaching with a thermos and some white china cups.

“I’d prefer something a little stronger,” Wilkes laughed. “But if that’s all there is….?”

“I may have a little something to pep it up,” Archie the fourth member of the unit offered, and headed for the cab of their lorry. Suddenly he cried out as something floored him with the force of a rugby tackle. Before he could call out again, sharp teeth were tearing at his throat.

“Get the torch on it!” Smythe shouted, releasing his pistol from its holster.

Wilkes played the beam on the struggling forms. “My God, it’s a German. They must be using black parachutes so we don’t see them coming down. Typically underhand!”

“Achtung, Fritz. Off that man immediately or I’ll fire,” Smythe ordered.

The invader continued to gorge. Smythe fired a shot into the air, and the man rose slowly to his feet, face hideously dark with blood.

“Hände hoch!” The Lieutenant raised his own hands to convey the message. “Wilkes, cover him with your rifle. Jane, see if Archie made it.”

Jane screamed as the parachutist rushed to intercept her.

“I warned you.” Smythe fired into the chest of the advancing figure.

The bullet hit with an audible thud. The Lieutenant fired again and Wilkes joined in with his Lee Enfield but to no effect.

“It ain’t human!” Wilkes cried as he reloaded.

Smythe found himself the focus of attention. A boxing Blue at Oxford, he defended himself with swinging uppercuts and heavy body blows. The creature was not playing by the Marquis of Queensbury rules, grabbing the Lieutenant’s hand and trying to eat it.

“Take that, you cad!” Jane swung the lorry’s snow shovel in a whistling arc. The sharp edge cut through the thing’s neck, releasing a geyser of blood.

“Well done, Jane,” Smythe said thankfully. “Now for a closer look at this fellow.”

Approaching to help, Wilkes kicked something on the floor. “Cor! Real Havana cigars, these are.”

“Oh, what have I done?” Jane screamed, as the torch revealed a familiar face.

“It’s Winnie, sir!” Wilkes gasped. “Jane’s killed Winston Churchill.”

The strong, bulldog features of the Prime Minister gazed blankly up at them.

“Don’t worry, it’s a Doppelganger, Jane. This thing isn’t Mr. Churchill, it’s a double. Must be some kind of new Nazi secret weapon,” Smythe exclaimed. He bent to look more closely. “So perfect! We should be careful, there may be others around. We must let HQ know.”

Jane started toward the wireless and screamed. Smythe and Wilkes were beside her in seconds.

She pointed straight ahead. A dark shape could just be seen coming across the field.

***

Winston’s advisors were against him going anywhere on his own, but the gun crew was less than a mile from his temporary home and he’d sneaked out to surprise them. He loved surprises. In one hand he carried a glowing cigar, in the other a small hamper containing sandwiches made by his housekeeper and a half bottle of quite good brandy. He squinted as a light blinded him.

“Turn that off!” Winston ordered. “I’m sure you recognize me. I’ve brought a small repast to thank you for your sterling work in keeping Britain safe.”’

“Even sounds like him,” Wilkes observed.

“So, a double Doppelganger! Well, we’ve beaten one, we can beat another,” Smythe announced, raising his pistol at the advancing shape. “Jane!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Get your shovel.”

I squeezed Connie’s hand as she led me around the back of her house.

My hand brushed her side, and my fingers touched her sweater. Angora. She half turned and looked at me with a grin.

Her ponytail bounced on her shoulder.

“Come on, Jimmy,” she said.

Apparently, I was too slow for her.

I adjusted my glasses. It had been threatening rain all day, but the sky grew a fraction darker. I was concentrating on containing my excitement and not doing something stupid, like tripping over my shoes.

She stopped abruptly, and dropped my hand.

“This is the spot,” she said.

I looked around, puzzled. We were in the middle of her back yard. Trees swayed gently, the wind picking up the leaves and carrying them gently around the ground.

Connie sighed in exasperation. “Look down, silly.”

There was a lump of grass just beside her foot. I looked closer, and realized that this patch of grass wasn’t real.

She kicked it aside with her shoe, revealing what looked like an old wooden barn door. Beneath that was a shiny metal disc, with a handle that reminded me of a pot cover.

“Can you lift this thing for me?” she asked. “It’s heavy.”

I had to kneel to open it, but was able to pull it open without too much trouble.

“Your parents have a bomb shelter?” I asked.

She nodded slowly. “Want to see inside?”

***

She climbed down the narrow steps so quickly that I had no choice but to follow her.

Connie waited at the bottom of the stairs with a flashlight, which she put under her chin, casting hellish shadows across her face.

“Stop,” I said and got my arms around her.

She felt warm in my arms. She laughed, and I smelled strawberry bubblegum on her breath.

She moved away quickly, shining the flashlight against the walls as she did.

The built-in shelves were crowded with goods: glass jars filled with preserves, and shiny cans of vegetables.

The other corner of the room held a narrow bed, and Connie sat down. She brushed at the hem of her poodle skirt, her eyes never leaving mine.

“Connie, you know I like you. I don’t mind, but I’d like to know. You’ve brought other guys down here before, haven’t you?”

She shrugged. “It’s a waste of space, you know. My dad was in the war. So when people started to think we might be bombed by the Russians… He was probably the first on the block to have a shelter built.”

I sat down beside her. The flimsy mattress moved, and she nudged my arm companionably.

I hesitated, but only for a moment. We kissed.

I can’t be sure how long it was. Maybe only a few moments, but it felt longer. I remember her sweet breath, the softness of her skin. When she spoke, I wasn’t even sure what she was talking about. I wouldn’t understand until much later.

“It’s useless, these precautions people take. This fear of the end. Because every day it’s the end of the world for somebody.”

I never had time to respond. Those were the last words she spoke to me before she bit my neck.

***

When I woke, I was lying on the floor of the shelter.

Connie sat beside me. She had a jar of something. And she was stirring it with her finger.

It was thick, and red. My heart beat wildly at the sight of it.

“You’re right,” she said softly. “I’ve brought other boys here before. But you’re the only one I wanted to keep. Come on, baby. Take a drink.”

Hank Jones drained the beer can. Tommy looked set to toss him another tin from the cooler by his bunk. Hank held up a hand to say he didn’t want another. He wasn’t much in the mood for celebrating; the extent of their actions had begun to kick in. Hank crawled beneath his blankets not knowing whether sleep would find him. The boisterous noise from his bunkmates didn’t help him much. Soon the length of the day and the beer made them all turn in. Hank listened to the beer snores. Each would handle their guilt, if they had any, in their own way. This first night, they’d mostly decided to use alcohol to anesthetize their thinking.

It moved. Hank saw it. The only light was coming in from one of the barrack windows. But he could see it. A shadow crept along the wall. Hank strained his eyes to see who was up, someone no doubt going to use the head, probably Larry; he pissed as regular as a pregnant woman did. Hank couldn’t see anyone. Yet the shadow kept moving. Another joined it, and another. They slid over the walls, spilled about the floor. Hank held his breath. No one else noticed, all sleeping in alcohol’s chokehold.

The detached shadows waltzed about, and around, all of the bunks. Running midnight hands over the blankets as though trying to wake the cocooned creatures of slumber. One shadow had skated over to the foot of his bunk. Its shape creased at an odd angle as it worked its way onto his coverings. Hank yanked his feet up like he was a kid again and was having nightmares about the toe-monster that bit off exposed digits. That act was like bait to the other shadows. They swarmed to him. Hank could smell the shadows, could taste them in the air, a crude metallic taste.

They, the shadows, were so many as to create a secondary blanket. One that rose towards him as though they were the tide and his face was the shore. He couldn’t scream, couldn’t move. He chose to hold his breath like a child who thinks it will get them something they want. The blackness worried at his face. It made a sable scarf about his throat. It rose higher, like a raven kerchief, that of a bandit. Higher still, causing Hank to close his eyes. He could feel their presence now, as well as smell their tainted existence. The shadows felt hot to the touch. Superheated darkness that worked at his face, whispering away his hair. Eyelids bald and blistered clenched shut and welded by the horror’s tasks. Hank didn’t want to open his mouth, knowing that it would be flooded by the shadows to burn his insides with fire. However, scream he did, and for all that he was worth.

“Wake up, man, fuck, no, what the fuck!” Hank could hear voices. Recognizing them as people he relied upon with his very life. They were worried voices, like those that linger at the result of a hit and run. “Christ, Larry, look at his face, what the fuck done that? Jesus H. Christ, that’s just wrong, man, so fucking wrong!”

Hank never saw again. His face was a tattered mess that was nearly as bad as he felt inside. Hank was glad of only two things. Blindness meant that he didn’t have to see shadows anymore. Also, it meant that he didn’t have to fly no more. He’d been a part of dropping Little Boy; his trauma meant that he would have nothing to do with helping to drop Fat Man on Nagasaki.

The breeze off the ocean blew her long golden hair across her face and pressed the white shift against her skin, the invisible hands of a lover holding her up as she fought for balance at the edge of the cliff. In the background, the drums throbbed, pulsing through her body and weakening her knees.

She looked down at the massive gray rock, while waves crashed in darkness below. Her eyes traced the outline of the closest of the crude sarcophagi all ranged in a row, awaiting their charges. The beat of the drums changed. Her signal. She turned her back to the sea and watched as seven bearers lifted the body of her husband and approached the open tomb.

So young to be a widow, hot tears ran down her cheeks, whether for her… or for him, she was unsure. She had known it would be so ever since their wedding night. It seemed like yesterday. Lying naked under the bearskin she had caught a glimpse of gray in his hair, caught in the firelight, as her new husband slid aside the hide flap of the tent. She smiled, remembering; the drums were present even then. As he had come to her, with trembling hands, she had felt the deep creases in his skin as he caressed hers. The realization had hit her then, even as he entered her, that this day would come; she would not grow old with her husband. He had already spent his youth, and she must give him hers. But she was duty-bound. Traditions from time immemorial decreed that it should be so, the price of betrothal to a chief.

As their queen, she stood erect while seven young men, stripped to the waist, their oiled muscles glistening in the firelight, lowered the corpse into its eternal home, then wailed aloud as they strained and the heavy stone ground into place, sealing the tomb away.

She waited, impassive, as a long line of people filed by, placing flowers on the stone. Would they do the same for her? She watched, detached, as the final petals fell atop the pile, then stiffened as the rhythm of the drums changed once again. Her knees buckled, but rough, dirty hands caught her and lifted her in the air. Grasping, groping fingers soiled the pure white of her raiment as they laid her down.

Calmly, she took one last breath of cool sea air, one last look at the stars in the sky, then closed her eyes as the grinding sounded, locking her inside.

1968, and the Rolling Stones were battling Beatlemania. “Jumping Jack Flash” fought it out with “Back in the USSR” in every record shop and coffee bar in London. This music wasn’t to Joe Kenton’s taste. At thirty-seven he was hooked on Elvis and there could be no substitute. He wore his hair in the same style and spoke, unconsciously, with a Memphis inflection.

That morning, Joe was playing with his kids in Kennington Park. He’d just bought the four-year-old twin girls ice cream cones when Jane appeared, red in the face and breathless.

“Joe, they need you urgently at Stockwell station. I’ll take the kids home.”

***

The Victoria Line, the deepest tunnel dug for London’s subway system since 1906, was under construction. It would eventually link Walthamstow in the North East and Brixton in the South. Joe was a manager on the project.

“Glad they managed to locate you!” Reggie Styles, the local project manager, enthused.

“What happened, Mr. Styles?”

“Part of the tunnel’s down between here and Vauxhall. It was bored yesterday and the cladding was just going in.”

“Is it the roof or a wall?”

“Strangest thing, it’s the floor. There’s a bloody great hole about fifteen feet wide.”

“Anyone hurt?”

“Not as far as we know, but there are two men missing. Must have fallen through.”

“The rescue services are on their way?”

“No, Joe, we have to keep this quiet if we can. You know we’ve been criticized on safety issues lately. This is the company’s biggest contract and we can’t risk losing it, unless it’s absolutely unavoidable.”

***

The hole was a surprisingly regular oval shape in appearance.

“The earth is almost red, not the dark yellow Thames valley stuff we’re used to.”

“Joe, forget the geology; we need to clear this up.”

The wet mud glinted slickly in the light from their torches. Joe and Reggie lowered themselves the thirty feet or so to the yielding floor of a vast cavern.

Joe found his arm being tugged. Reggie pointed to the ground a little to the left of them, where two construction hardhats were partially embedded. Moving closer, Joe saw one of the hats was effectively crushed. What could do that?

Sticking close together, they pushed on through the darkness. Joe became convinced he could hear a high-pitched piping sound, almost a tune. There was something in the unfamiliar modulation that made him shudder.

Up ahead the darkness gave way to a dim redness. A sickly sweet smell emanated from the same direction. The two men mentally restrained themselves from rushing back to the clean London air.

It took a few minutes to reach the source of the light. The walls here glowed as if banked coals heated them.

“We’ve found what we were looking for.” Joe pointed to a strange tangle of limbs a few yards away.

As they approached, the piping sound increased, became a veritable conversation.

“I don’t like this,“ Reggie said. “It’s not natural.”

Bloody, shredded clothing and the workers mangled and snapped bones clung together like giant owl pellets.

“We need to get the police,” Joe said. He turned his torch above him, looking for the source of the high pitched notes that were making his skull rattle. The beam picked out score upon score of jagged yellow-white rocks. Clinging to these, bloated forms, seeming a hellish amalgam of giant toad and earthworm, whistled hideously.

“What the hell?”

“Run!” Reggie shouted, stumbling back toward safety.

Joe followed, dropping the light in his own panic. In the darkness he heard his companion start to scream. He too started to shout as the creatures rained down from above.

He scrambled on his hands and knees to escape the slimy, clinging forms. Then suddenly, their piping increased and they scattered.

For a brief second Joe regained his feet, then the soft floor undulated and he fell on his back, watching in horror as the red glow showed the cavern’s mouth closing on him.

The fire in the forward paint locker might have been contained and put out if the crewmember who discovered it had been trained in firefighting. But ignorant of the risks, he simply opened the locker door. The fire, almost dead from lack of oxygen, exploded with renewed fury and scorched the clothes and skin from the man even as superheated air shriveled his lungs and blistered his wind-pipe. The first victim of the General Slocum disaster was dead before he hit the deck.

Several of the women and children passengers nearby were also struck by the cloud of burning paint and kerosene that burst out of the paint locker, igniting every flammable thing within its reach. Clawing at the sticky, flaming mess on her daughter’s cheek Amelia Weisskopf found herself pulling at the child’s teeth; the flesh was burnt right through. Another woman fell against her. Ablaze from head to foot, she had suffocated within moments when she had inhaled the flames from her burning dress. Frantic with pain and terror Amelia pushed her way through the crush of blazing bodies and screaming, blackened faces. Burning flesh was flowing like wax down the bones of her seared skull and Amelia knew she would soon be blind and helpless. Dragging her unconscious daughter with her she threw herself over the rail and into the East River, where moments later one of the General Slocum’s huge paddlewheels crushed them.

When news of the fire reached the bridge the captain called for his officers to take charge of the passengers and crew. Below them the flames were taking hold, in both the oak structure and the pine decks, the painted and varnished wood burning fast and easily. To their horror the crew found that the fire hoses were rotten and fell apart in their hands; bucket chains were formed, but were hopelessly inadequate against the ferocity of the fire.

Panicked by the flames and the thick, hot, smoke which was sweeping down on the wind from the front of the ship and making it difficult to breathe, women and children and the few men who were among the excursion passengers ran to the boat decks. Those clambering up the steep, narrow, stairs of the companionways met those climbing down and the cries of the crushed echoed the screams of those pushed overboard, their heavy clothes dragging them to their death at the bottom of the river. The screams of terror grew louder when it was discovered the lifeboats were chained to their davits and couldn’t be launched. Mothers, desperate to save their young ones, fought for the few lifejackets, which then crumbled in their hands, rotted to uselessness.

By now the fire was out of control, and fanned by the boat’s forward speed the flames raced through all three decks. People running to the rear of the vessel fell through collapsing decks onto the crush below.

Burning bodies were pressed against those as yet unaffected and the heat and flames welded them together in grotesque tableaux. The living and the dead were thus bundled overboard together in a desperate and hopeless attempt to stop the fire spreading further. Whole families clutching one another jumped in to the water to avoid the flames only to be caught by the still turning paddlewheels. Broken bodies could be seen trapped between the blades, lifeless arms waving a piteous farewell.

Boats were launched to try and rescue those still alive, but such vessels as could get close enough to the flaming hulk were quickly swamped by the sheer numbers trying to get aboard. Men waded into the icy waters up to their necks to reach survivors, but burnt clothes and blacked skin simply sloughed off outstretched arms and the victims slipped back into the water and drowned. In mute horror those on the banks of the East River could only watch as the by now drifting remains of the General Slocum burned inexorably to the waterline.