Based on a True Story

I wrote this story several years back. I've since improved. A horror metafiction story.

         Clay Thurgood was a middle-aged, robust man who loved reading more than anything. Books, newspapers, magazines, pamphlets--as long as there were words, chances are, he'd read it.


         One day, he had an attack of nostalgia of an unknown origin. Going downstairs, he found a box at the back of his closet. In it were a bunch of horror comics that he'd read as a kid. He spent the better part of an hour leafing through them. At last, he picked out one he didn't remember having, and went up to his rocking chair to read the first story inside.


         "Horror of the Muck Men" was its title. He read it as he ate some beef jerky. He got a first look at the titular monsters. They fit the bill, all right, he thought.
The story started predictably:


         THE NIGHT WAS DARK AND STORMY. THE SMALL TOWN WAS AWASH WITH RAIN.


         All of a sudden, a lightning bolt streaked through the dark night outside, followed by a crack of menacing thunder. It began to rain. He shrugged it off and continued to read.


         The muck men rose up from the swamp; their hides, if they could be called such, hung and dripped, brown and slimy. They approached a suburb, their motions possessing an eerie purposefulness.


         He saw a few pretty houses, yellow with white trimmings. He gasped. It looked like--no, it was--his neighborhood!


         Clay hurled the comic book across the room. Quietly, dreadfully, he went to the window and peeked out from between the blinds. His gaze lingered towards the end of the street, near the woods, but he found nothing sinister beyond the inclement weather.


         Sitting back in his chair, he touched some tissues to his sweaty brow. He had the feeling that he must be having some vivid nightmare. Well, he decided silently, if it's a nightmare, it won't last; I might as well finish the story.


         The monsters were making incomprehensible noises in their little paper world. They became silhouettes against the background.


         A HAPLESS WOMAN BECOMES THEIR FIRST VICTIM, the caption read.


         A woman who looked rather familiar let out a bloodcurdling scream as a pair descended on her. Familiar...Annie? Annie Berg? No, it could be any woman--there were plenty of petite blondes in the neighborhood. This was all just a case of an unchecked imagination, or, as Thurgood might say, his "creative brilliance." On he read.


         THE MONSTERS DIGEST THEIR VICTIMS WITH THEIR HIGHLY ACIDIC SALIVA.


         The poor woman (who couldn't be Annie, couldn't) was shown suffering grotesque wounds that filled with dark mud.


         Clay couldn't stop reading. The idea behind the tale wasn't exactly thoughtful or original, but the macabre art and descriptive text kept him riveted. He felt as helpless as his pre-teen self. There was no stopping now.


         Then he saw it. It was house, of that he was sure; there was a big red Ford in the open garage, some Japanese cherry blossoms and hydrangeas out front.


         THEY APPROACH A MAN'S HOUSE...THE HOUSE OF A COWARD NAMED CLAY THURGOOD.


         Clay screamed. He threw the book against the wall again, bolted up, and locked the door. He peeked through the window again.The night was nearly black as jet, but the intermittent flashes of lightning exposed him to a terrible sight. There were men in the distance...No, some things broader, less complete than men.


         He flew into a frenzy, grabbing an end table and some odds and ends and stacking them up against the door. He crouched down on the floor and stuttered through the Lord's Prayer repeatedly, half-heartedly trying to invoke a divine protector that, in all reality, would not rescue him.


         There was a banging at the door. The windows burst inwards. He screamed. It was more than his already problematic heart could take. He fell into cardiac arrest, and no one was present to save him.


         In the final panels of the comic book was a caption that Thurgood would have done well to read:


         BUT IT WAS ALL IN THURGOOD'S IMAGINATION...THE MONSTERS WERE MERE FIGMENTS, AND HIS DOOM WAS INDEED EVITABLE...THE END.