Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Friday, June 15, 2012

Never Let It In

Never Let It In

The ghoul-faced sick-thing is at the window again,
breathing on the glass; looking in with cold, ravenous eyes.
It glides a razor-sharp fingernail across its throat, feigning my death.
It waits for a sign of fear — a bead of sweat, a mere flinch —
all it needs to break in, leap on the bed, and tear off my head. 

Now it glares into me, searching for fear inside my heart.
A dripping blue tongue swirls over its lips, anticipating a feast —
a feast of blood-wine, intestinal soup, my brain steaming on a plate
while my upturned skull holds minced flesh and severed fingers. 

This is the thing that shows up every Halloween, waking me
in the middle of the night by tapping quietly on the window.
Somehow it triggers the a.m. radio and declares through the static,
I will belly laugh as I digest you. 

So I do the same thing I did last year: I calmly
approach the window and say, You’re not real. You don’t exist.
But this time it doesn’t leave: instead it grins, extends a bony
middle finger, and holds up my mother’s lower jaw.
First appeared in Issue 11 of Death Throes Webzine (2013).

Deal Down at the Hospital

“After I died,” said seven-year-old Cassie, suddenly free of cancer and wild in the eyes, “there was this big red sky with a huge head floating in it like . . . like the moon, only super close. It was a old man, like a wizard, with sharp teeth a thousand feet high, and gray lips and no hair – not even eyebrows – and his eyes were all white, too, and they looked sleepy.” 

The little girl bounced on the hospital bed, feet dangling. She tilted her head and pinched at her blond hair, which was already starting to regrow. She couldn’t wait to get her pigtails back. 

“And he, and he drooled a lot too,” she went on, “like waterfalls that fell forever. And there were white fuzzies that floated into his mouth. It was a black mouth, except in the back where it glowed orange.” 

She paused, clawing thoughtfully at her gown. Her blue eyes danced along with the memories as they came rushing back. 

“Oh yeah, and there were all these tiny, funny-looking heads going around the big head like . . . like meteors. They were spinning and going around and laughing. They were so happy!” 

“Mm-hm,” said the doctor, distracted as he went back and forth between charts, x-rays, and blinking machines. “Go on.” 

“Then the wizard head talked, but not with his mouth though. His mouth stayed open the whole time like a stinky cave. But all the words went right into my head like, um, like tel-e . . . tel-e-pathic?” 

“Telepathic – yes,” replied the doctor, scratching his head over an x-ray. 

The girl stood up on the bed and stretched. Her spine cracked quietly. “Guess what he said?” 

“I don’t know, honey. Tell me. What did the wizard say?” 

The little girl’s cheeks reddened. “He said if I want to, I can live to be one hundred years old!” 

“That was nice of him,” said the doctor with his back turned. 

The little girl giggled and reached down for a scalpel, her thin shadow stretching across the man’s white lab coat. She bent her knees and leaned forward, swaying from side to side like a parakeet about to fly out of an open cage. 

“I just have to keep my promise first,” she said flatly, raising the scalpel over her head. 

“Oh yeah?” said the doctor, a bit turned on by the girl’s voice, “What’s that?”

First published January 6, 2012 at MicroHorror.