In the spirit of Halloween, here are a couple of incredibly short Horror pieces I’ve written in the last couple of months. They’re just quick scribbles, so forgive the grammar.
The other me is insane.
It’s like something from the Twilight Zone. Some evil copy from another dimension. But this isn’t some twisted thing pretending to be me, a mirror opposite that is everything I’m not.
He IS me.
In the madness of the world around me, the WORLDS around me, going insane is the only action that makes sense. Anything else feels like delusion.
This other me has given in, has made the choice that makes sense. He’s become a part of the tableau of horrors. He belongs. Even now I can hear him, like some animal thing, scurrying.
Everything around me is what COULD be, everything that could be. Maybe not all in the same place at the same time. I turn my head, and the once-shattered lamp in the corner casts a flickering light. I blink, and the wallpaper changes. Once I saw the broken lamp sitting beside the one that still worked, like twins, like he and I. More than once the wallpaper melded into an eye-aching mix of patterns, two realities occupying the exact same space at the exact same time.
Sometimes I worry about that happening to me and to the other me outside the door. Is it possible for us to be twisted together into an ungodly amalgam? For me, even for a moment, to be trapped as a part of him?
Maybe not. It seems that only non-living things flicker in such a way. For living things, like me, it is the world that moves, the reality that moves, not me. But then, maybe the lamp would not perceive its own movement, either.
I’ve had too much time to think. The other me won’t go away. Most of the time it makes nonsense noises, fingernails scraping against the door, head thudding against it. Sometimes it laughs, a cackle like a boot on broken glass. But sometimes… Sometimes it whispers.
Is he some alternate me, a might have been that I never became? The thought is chilling. That perhaps a thought or word turned my path away from what this other me has become. That, as they say, there but for the grace of God go I.
What he whispers is worse. Disjointed, almost nonsensical, he rambles about the nature of time and space. Of alternate realities breeding grotesqueries when given enough iterations–but also of the nonsense that can be made of sense, when thrown out of order.
He whispers that, perhaps, he is not some other might have been. The other possibility is even more terrifying.
Maybe he’s not something I never became.
Maybe he’s something I haven’t become YET.
My eyes follow the doorknob as it changes from crystal to brass, as the lock changes from key to turn to button. The door is bare wood, or is painted, is carved with squares or with circles.
Outside, I hear the other me eating. The knowledge of what he is eating, who he is eating, strains my mind until it threatens to splinter. Whoever that other, dead me had been, he didn’t deserve this.
My eyes watch the door.
Are all these things that might happen? Or things that have to, that haven’t yet? Either way, one thing is certain.
Some time, in some reality, the door between me and the other me doesn’t exist.
The dead don’t moan. They don’t hiss. They don’t screech or growl or whimper. They’re silent. Silent, except for the wet slap of rotting flesh striking the ground, of dead joints popping and gas expelling.
The dead aren’t hungry. They aren’t angry. They aren’t anything. They’re biological machines, meat pressed into the service of the virus. A series of impulses in response to stimuli. A host that creates more hosts, with no reason, and no end.
The dead make a cold, terrible sort of sense.