Sneakers on Marble

500-Word Horror

Photo by Tom Swinnen on Unsplash

Written for the opening round of the NYC Midnight 500-Word Fiction Competition

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The docent tells my students about the taxidermied hyenas in the museum's lobby, but my eyes won't leave the revolving door at the entrance. I’ve been teaching them about African predators and they’re excited to see some up close but the truth is, I never wanted to come back here. I convinced myself I’d be okay; it’s been sixteen years.

“... their laugh means they’ve found something tasty!”

I stare at the door through the bustle of excited visitors. My breath hitches when I see the reflection of a woman's face morph into a man’s, smiling as he enters. A trick of the light – she isn’t there. I remember the last time I was here, the mass of bodies smashed against the door, tearing at each other to escape. Screaming, panic.

“... they’ll eat anything. Even each other, sometimes…”

It was high school. Tommy thought it'd be funny to set off firecrackers in the bathroom. We giggled as he lit the long fuse and dropped the pack in the trash. The explosions rang as we ran through the museum, yelling about gunfire. The mob was feral at the entrance, desperately fleeing a non-existent shooter. We watched a woman being slowly, relentlessly crushed in the door. She shrieked and the squeal of sneakers on marble was like rats devouring each other. My boxers stuck to my leg. The smell of piss.

Now the door spins faster, collisions of rubber and steel with each revolution sound like a heavy mallet slapping thick meat. The woman's face again in the panes. And again, but now solid, desiccated, gray. The docent drones on, but the screeching on the marble and the rhythmic thud skin my eardrums. My eyes are locked on the zoetrope door animating the woman behind glass. Her jaw opens, stretching impossibly against her neck. The veins of her throat swell to the size of sausages and explode, throwing her head back as blood and vomit spray.

I jerk violently from the sight, covering my face with my hands. I’m going to puke. I’m going to scream. My breath chokes as I taste decay. I remember my students and my responsibility to them. I make myself look. 

My hands fall. The museum has become cavernous, empty of life. It’s dark and the shrill, invisible sneakers echo. The pounding of the door reaches a deafening drumroll. 

Before me, flanked by hyenas, she floats. Burst veins dangle like wretched jewelry from her throat and her body is split by a vertical crease. Her eyes bulge from their sockets, pupils pointing in different directions. She moves towards me.

I fall hard and scramble backward, my sweaty hands slipping. My pants fill with shit as I realize she isn’t creased, but cleaved nearly in two down the center. Her body flaps like moth wings as she comes closer.

I stand, and the furious doors crack my skull.

She’s close. Her eyes pop like rancid bubblegum, splashing my face.

The door behind me growls with a baritone hunger.