Horror

It Rises

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From the depths of the Earth, it rises.

The ground shudders, cleaves in two, while nearby rocks tip and slide into the endless dark below. The Earth groans, a deafening rumble like the blast of nearby dynamite, then falls silent, holding its breath in anticipation.

At last, the creature peeks at the world above through its twenty slitted eyes. It is still groggy, still half asleep, and for a moment it thinks it must be dreaming, for the Earth has changed since it saw it last.

No longer wild, no longer the boundless expanse of forests, mountains, and rocks it once was, the world is now hedged into neatly trimmed lines, penned in on every side by foreign constructions of metal and artificial stone. A strange configuration, certainly the makings of a dream. Yet after further examination beneath the blazing light of the sun, it understands that what it sees is real enough.

Dazed, it heaves itself to the surface and yawns. Change or no change, it feels good to be awake, to roam the Earth once more.

A shrill cry, followed by a scream. The creature turns its bulbous head.

The organisms it encounters are ghastly, hideous bipeds with bodies like bean poles and large, gaping orifices through which they utter the most horrendous sound.

Terrified, it bounds across the grass.

More cries, along with meaty, gutteral slaps as the organisms turn their heads to communicate. It runs, through a series of black marked paths and artificial stone walks, it runs, encompassed everywhere by towering, glass-filled monoliths, flashing lights atop iron poles, and self-propelled vehicles that screech to a halt as the creature flees the nightmare that surrounds it.

It can’t get away. Everywhere it turns, those ghastly creatures shout at it, pointing, shrieking, gibbering with equal parts terror and rage. Yes, indeed, the world has changed, and not for the better.

Exhausted, overwhelmed, and out of its depth, it scrambles back to the field it rose out of. Let these hateful creatures have their world. As for itself, it’s seen enough.

It arrives at the tunnel to its home to find more mutant bipeds, staring down into its private space like shameless voyeurs.

Rage consumes it. My home. They’ve surrounded MY home! All it wanted was to walk the Earth in peace, and even this simple pleasure has been taken from it. Fine, but it’ll be damned if it’s going to let these horrid creatures rob it of his only remaining sanctuary.

It peers down at them with each of its twenty eyes and lets loose a ferocious howl. So low, so deep is the sound that the ground begins to resonate. Once more, the Earth shakes, and those evil creatures, terrified, scurry like the ants they are, leaving it alone at last.

It leaps into the hole, descends the mile-long tunnel to its home. Then it covers the opening with a fresh avalanche of stone. It finds its dark and rocky mattress undisturbed and jumps into it like a frightened child, willing the nightmare to end.

Maybe when it next awakens, the world will have changed again, this time for the better.

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Summons

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It came for me.

In the dark of night, it came for me.

A creature like a man, only its skin was porcelain white, a phantom wreathed in moonlight. It smiled with bloodless lips, and from the endless depths of the dark it bade me follow after it.

There was no running, no bargaining, no arguing my way to freedom. I’d seen its kind claim others, seen its feral, animalistic rage as it made short work of those who would not answer its call willingly.

So I hunched my shoulders, skin cold to the touch, and nodded.

The creature turned to make its way down the graveled walkway, and I followed in its wake, wondering what the purpose of its summons could be, wondering if I’d be alive to recount the tale by morning.

I could hear the steady, irregular rhythm of far-off cars, while all around, I was serenaded by a chorus of nearby crickets—a funeral dirge to lead the creature and I as we hiked across the street, then along the sidewalk on the other side.

A million questions surged through my head like an angry sea, but terror held my desiccated tongue and I remained silent.

We headed out toward a busier street, and I pondered what others would think if they saw the creature that walked in their midst. A ghost? A corpse in motion? No, likely just a man; perhaps a bit too bright in the glow of nearby headlights, but a man just the same. Most lack the training we possess and can’t perceive the darker proportions of the world with clarity.

At last we turned a corner and stepped up onto another house’s porch, haloed in bright gold light. The creature reached out with its too-thin fingers and knocked on the door.

When it opened, when the thing inside gestured for us to enter, my heart sank, for I was certain now I wouldn’t see the sunrise.

“I’ve been expecting you for a while,” its dry voice rasped.

I pressed forward, determined not to let my fear show.

The darkness of the house’s interior enveloped me.

The door closed.

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The World is Ours

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He sits on a rusty park bench, brushes dirt from his one button suit jacket, and pulls out a copy of the Los Angeles Times. The paper is smooth and uncreased and smells of fresh carbon black. He unties the plastic ribbon that binds the pages together, winds it into a tiny, tightly packed ball, and tosses it into the trash can beside him.

He opens to the front page and begins to read.

The playground behind him is quiet, empty, like an old western ghost town. The kids are in school, and the adults are packed away like rare collectible action figures in neatly trimmed cubicles. He treasures these moments of silence, and he looks forward to tomorrow, when the absence of human activity will become more or less a permanent fixture.

He scans through all the articles in the paper, even the celebrity gossip columns and the sports pages. He finds these humans to be fascinating creatures, with their almost manic obsession over trivial, mundane matters. In a world so cold and chaotic, perhaps it’s their only way to feel as if they’re somehow in control, as if the cosmic rumblings of the universe are of little consequence when compared to the ability to extol a home run by one’s favorite baseball team or to sully a public figure’s reputation.

Like beatles atop a dunghill, he thinks, believing themselves for centuries to be the center of a human-focused cosmos. Tomorrow, when the Earth is wiped clean, when his kind finally reclaim what has always been theirs by birthright, they will be little more than a footnote in the history of the world.

Scattered through the newspaper like rare and precious diamonds are articles that offer brief glimpses of what humanity could become if allowed more time to mature. Op-eds that call for unity in the face of arbitrary political divisions. Scientific columns urging people to become better stewards of the environment. Even news about progress made in the exploration of other worlds.

But tomorrow, none of it will matter. Tomorrow, the slate will be wiped clean, and he and his kind will walk the world in the open once more. The humans had a good run, all things considered, but now it’s time for the Earth’s true masters to take their place on high.

He reaches the ads at the very back, then tosses the paper into the trash and rises to his feet. A meeting will soon take place between himself and others of his species, and he does not wish to be late.

“Enjoy the day, my little dung beatles.” The words come out a dry whisper. “Treasure your remaining hours, because tomorrow, the world is ours.”

He turns from the park and walks away.

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