Once upon a time, there were three little piggies. One piggy built a house made out of straw, one piggy had a house made of wood and piggy had a house made of bricks. One day, a big bad wolf, hungry and cruel, came to the first piggy’s house made of straw. He towered before the door and growled, “Little pig, little pig, let me it!” The wolf waited for a response. There was none. Not to be deterred, he continued. “Then I’ll huff and I’ll puff and…”

And the little piggy shot him through the door with a 44 magnum and served the remains to his brothers with bread and nice summer ale.

The moral of the story is, of course, it’s very easy to shoot through a door of straw when the big bad wolf comes a-callin’.

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Another Friday night was winding down at Johnnie’s. It was a few minutes after one in the morning and a steady, light rain tapped impatiently against the big, front window. It added soft percussion to the guitar’s plaintive cry from the club’s speakers. Scott Henderson was behind the bar cleaning bottles and emptying wells. As the newest bartender, he drew all the late weekend shifts. This was his second. And while it was more or less a death sentence to his social life, he didn’t mind. He’d spent most of his bartending years in meat markets watching the pretty people all but copulate on his bar. This small, neighborhood bar, where wood and brass reigned, was a far cry from what he’d been used to, but he welcomed the change.

With all the beer taps wrapped and only one well left, Scott felt pretty good. The rain had kept most people away and probably accounted for why the bar was empty so early. At least I can leave early, he thought. Then, like a misbehaving child, he looked over his shoulders and poured himself a shot of Grand Marnier. He leaned over the bar and sighed wearily. It hadn’t been a hard night, just a slow one, which meant a long one. He picked up the shot but before he could drink it, the front door opened. The rain outside splashed and splattered loudly until the door shut, muffling it again. A woman entered wearing a taupe trenchcoat and a similarly-colored, wide-brimmed hat. She walked to the bar as he quickly set his drink behind it.

“You still open?” She took her hat and coat and shook them lightly before setting them on the stool next to her. Underneath, she wore a navy-blue suit with a long, straight skirt.

“Ah . . . sure.” He managed to get his train of thought rolling again. “But I’m about to give last call” The woman looked curiously around the bar before turning her deep brown eyes back to him.

“Be sure to give it good and loud. I think everyone’s hiding from you hon.” He let out a small laugh. She smiled with him and adjusted her suitcoat as she sat.

“What can I get you? . . .” He picked up a highball glass and spun it in his hand.

“Sadie. And you can get me a gin and tonic.”

“O.K. Sadie. One G and T, coming up.” He reached down to grab an unwrapped bottle of gin with one hand, scooped ice into the glass with the other. “So what brings you out so late Sadie?”

“Hon, what brings any woman out this late?” She smoothed the hat dents out of her long, chocolate brown tresses. “A man.” Scott nodded.

“Were you supposed to meet him here?” He set the drink on the bar. “Maybe I . . . ”

“No lime.” He took the lime he was about to squeeze into her drink and threw it in the trash. “I’m sorry, you were saying?”

“Yeah. I was going to say maybe I saw him in here earlier.” He leaned against the bar. “We didn’t have too many people in here tonight. I might remember him.”

“There’s no tellin’ hon.” She drew a gold case from a small, black clutch and pulled out a cigarette. He produced a lighter and lit it for her. “Glen, my . . .” An embarrassed smile crept out as she looked for the right word. “Aw hell, the man I’m seeing behind his wife’s back.” She stopped. The smile left her face and she took a drag. “I know what you’re thinkin’.” Smoke burst out in short puffs as she spoke.

“I’m just listenin’, Sadie.” He shook head and raised his hands defensively.

“Yeah.” She sighed, then took another drag. “Tonight was supposed to be the night. After all this time, he was gonna tell her tonight.”

“Was he gonna leave her?”

“Yeah. Finally.” She took a sip of her drink.

“How long had you been . . . ” He gestured vaguely with one hand.

“Eight years.”

“Eight years?” He tried not to sound surprised. It didn’t work.

“Yeah, I know, it’s a long time. It’s not like he didn’t want to tell her before. Things just kept coming up . . . First, the promotion. Then, his mother getting sick and all.” She tapped ash into an ashtray. “Then, the baby . . . ” She took a long drink. Her cigarette dangled limply in her pale, slender hand.

“Baby? He got you pregnant?”

“No, no, not me . . . ” She set her glass down, ice shifted noisily. “Accidents happen, he said. But tonight’s the night.”

“I don’t mean to pry . . . ”

“Sure you do, you’re a bartender.” She smiled wryly.

“O.K. . . . Why did you wait so long?” She took a long drag.

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. A thin stream of smoke slipped from her lips. “Call me silly and old-fashioned but I’ve always said if you love someone, you’re willing to wait for them.”

“Does he love you?” Her look became decidedly sharp for a second.

“Yeah.” Her look softened and she continued. “He’d better.” She laughed and picked up her glass. “Y’know, I’m no spring chicken any more. Aren’t too many roosters who want a bird this old . . . ” She took a drink. “Too old to start over hon.”

“I don’t know about that.” He smiled.

“You’re sweet.” She looked at him appreciatively. “You gonna let that shot ferment all over again or are you gonna drink with this old woman.”

“Sounds good to me.” He picked up his shot and thought for a moment. “To love?”

“To love.” She picked her drink up in agreement. The glasses clinked. Scott slammed his shot, she finished her G and T.

“When is he supposed to meet you?” He set his glass behind the bar.

“He should’ve been here fifteen minutes ago.” She looked around the bar. “I was running late on account of the rain. I’m sure he is too.”

“Sadie, I got a couple of things left to do. You mind if I turn up the lights and finish up.”

“No hon, go right ahead.” She picked up her purse. “How much do I owe you for this.”

“It’s on me.” He winked as he turned to go.

“Thank you.” He felt sorry for her. No one had been in for at least thirty minutes before she got there. She had waited eight years for this guy because she loved him and he . . . What a jerk, he thought.

“Sadie . . . ” He turned to break the news to her, maybe even ask her out to breakfast. After all, she was fairly attractive and didn’t look much older than he was. But as he turned up the lights, the woman with the sad smile faded like a dream. “Sadie? . . . ” He ran around the bar. The seat she was at and the floor around it were wet and smelled of gin. The seat where her hat and coat sat was also wet. Her glass was on the bar. There were ashes in the ashtray. And she was gone. He ran frantically around the bar. “Sadie! . . . Sadie! . . . ” Men’s bathroom. Women’s bathroom. Office. Kitchen. Stockroom. Broom closet. Nothing. He sat at the bar, practically throwing himself onto one of the stools. I’m going crazy, he thought. Some kind of small bar psychosis. He grabbed his head with both hands as if trying to keep it attached to his shoulders. And then he saw it. Behind the bar. He scrabbled over the bar desperately, knocking over and breaking glasses as he came down on the other side. He pulled an old black and white photo off the wall. It was a picture of a group of friends. The owner kept lots of old pictures like this up as a testament to the bar’s longevity. In the middle of the group was Sadie. Written on the picture: In memory of Sadie Grigsby. Died of a broken heart. 1-15-39. His lips moved as he read the words. Then read them again. Then read them aloud. “January fifteenth nineteen thirty-nine.” Almost sixty years ago. “God love ‘er,” he put the picture down, “she’s still waiting.”

It was a few minutes after two when Scott Henderson locked up Johnnie’s. Rain was still pattering in puddles. “‘Night Sadie.” In his head, a guitar moaned softly.

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I wrote this for MicroHorror.com. They have a word count limit of 666 words and I wanted to hit it right on. not too shabby for a first draft. I’ll probably go back and revise it one day.

Dan popped a watermelon Jolly Rancher into his mouth as he pushed past the painter’s plastic that protected his work area around the old linoleum table. Of all the rare books he appraised, most came in some kind of protection–plastic bags, humidified cases, sometimes simply wrapped in cloth.

This one came inside a battered gray fire safe.

It arrived on his doorstep this morning, without explanation, and now sat low and squat like a weather-worn monolith on the dingy white tabletop. With a weary sigh, he pulled down his dust mask, snapped on some latex gloves and opened the safe. The sharp tang of decay escaped from the case. He jerked his head away to keep from throwing up. He pushed the contents of his stomach back down, took a breath and looked back to the case. A note sat on top of the book.

The world must know, it read.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.

He set the paper aside and opened the book carefully, delicately handling the flyleaf, noting its consistency. The pages were more like finely stretched, oiled leather than paper; their uneven edges ran rough like a row of crooked teeth. The text began without title or other ceremony in a firm, flowing script that reminded him of Arabic. Along almost every margin, notes were scribbled in faintly. Many were in the book’s native script; some were in Latin, some in Greek. Some looked like they were written in a proto-Germanic he’d seen before in his Historic Linguistics class. He narrowed his eyes as he tried to make out the words. He recognized a couple.

gods…
burned…

A chill rippled over his shoulders and he looked around briefly, looking for its cause–nothing. The plastic on the floor crinkled as his chair shifted and he turned his attention back to the book. He turned more pages, slowly at first, but the deeper he went into the book the faster he turned the pages, as if frantically looking for an answer to some unknowable question. As he flipped through, his eyes caught on some of the footnotes, words before him.

darkness…
fear…
madness…
pain…
death.

The first strains of the Moonlight Serenade jolted him from his panic. His breath came in hot bursts from under his dust mask, steaming his glasses. He looked down at the page, half of it filled with an illustration: some impossible mass of tentacles, eyes and mouths. The Jolly Rancher soured in his mouth and began an echo of nausea that threatened to overwhelm him. He shut his eyes tightly, gripped the table and swallowed hard. He opened his eyes and took deep, gasping breaths like a drowning man. Dark petals of terror unfolded in his mind and turned their face to him. Another chill quavered through him as he looked back to the pages and watched, appalled, as the script bled and swam before his eyes, finally forming words in English. They burrowed in through his eyes and into his brain.

The horrific.
The blasphemous.
The profane.
The true.

He stared at the page dumbly before slumping back in his seat. His eyes drifted lazily around the room as reality lifted her skirt and revealed to him the rotting, fetid tear that would engulf his understanding. Reaching out, he swept the book off the worktable and it tumbled noisily across the room before landing open on the floor.

There was a frozen moment of silence.

And then…

They started quietly, like the gentle shush and crackle of pages, then louder like waves, whispering the secrets of their dead. Louder still, like the shrill screaming of a pandemonium of birds. He covered his ears to shut it out, but couldn’t. It was inescapable. Finally, relief revealed itself. He reached out for the silver X-Acto knives, sitting idly in a coffee can. He grabbed them and put their sharp tips against his closed eyelids and then slammed his head against his worktable.

darkness…

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