The Sunday Scaries
Volume 1, Number 14
Microfiction by Pat Harrigan
Content Warning: Language and Horror

Louis the Lurker

Between midnight and 1am was best. People come home from the bar, they forget to lock the doors, they leave their purse, they leave their phones in the car door. It didn’t take much to break a window and grab shit, but he didn’t like to do that if he didn’t have to. Simpler just to glide by on his bike, try the door handles and only bother with the ones that opened.
          Honestly it was a little exasperating. It’s 2024, people! Have you not been paying attention these last couple of years? They’re lucky he wasn’t a car thief, and there were plenty of those. Kids, like twelve and thirteen, they just lurk, and people all over the place leave their cars running while they run back into their apartments for something they forgot, and they come back and their car’s gone. People! I mean really. Louis shook his head and tossed the glove box. Nothing much, but he took a decent-looking pair of women’s gloves that might fit Emily. He scrambled under the seats, found some pennies, whatever, but he’d taken too long here anyway, so he quick hopped back on the bike and moved over a couple blocks.
          Down to Bryant, past 26th. The side streets were quieter, but he’s a little more conspicuous. 28th Street had more traffic, and a bike lane even. They built city infrastructure for him! Who said government didn’t function? (When was the last time you voted? Emily had asked. They had their laughs.)
          Locked, locked, locked. A Kia! Man, they really were lucky he didn’t do cars. The little Japanese thing had an unlocked driver’s side door. He sat down and did a once-over. Nothing obvious. He could try the back seat. Let’s see what’s in the glove box first. Dark in here, but he’s not going to turn on the dome light. Registration, some kind of pills, which he pocketed. Melted Hershey’s Kisses—people are pigs. At least he didn’t get any on his hands. Something soft and furry, like a kitten. Maybe a scarf or something.
          The furry thing crawled over the back of his hand. It felt like being poked with blunt toothpicks. The thing scampered under his sleeve and up his arm.
          Louis fell out of the car, slapping at his right arm. But now the thing was rounding his shoulder and making for the center of his chest. He sat on the ground, kicking himself further away from the car. He tore his shirt.
          The thing didn’t react until he tried to pull it free. Its body was shapeless and soft, but its claws were no joke. It felt like they were buried inches deep, maybe even encircling his sternum. There was no blood though, at least that he could see.
          Eventually, for lack of a better idea, he pulled his shirt closed and picked up his bike. He walked it a few blocks. The thing seemed to be asleep, hanging from his body like a sloth. He calmed down a little. Emily would know what to do. He felt okay to bike home. The thing on his chest maybe liked the feeling of motion. It began making a satisfied cooing sound and absently itched away at his ribs, like something wrapped up in a pleasant dream.
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