Horror 100 Volume 2

Artist

PROLOGUE

In this field where crows clanged their raucous beaks together like jousters amid the untended corn and cold, dank leaves of winter harvest, I smelled fate. This was a place where the dead often walked, it was said, trailing their dirtied hair behind them like sails, derelict ships too long out of harbour. The leaves still bore their traces, a bend here, a torn edge there, deep scores in the wet ground. The restless dead, in their house of leaves. It was truly awe-inspiring stuff, like in a couple of those books I'd read.

Yet the air was heavy with intent, though of what nature, I could not be sure. I recalled a half-forgotten visit to an asylum inmate, an ex-priest who scored his face with his nails in order to make himself unrecognizable to God. I envied him, even though I didn't want that kind of commitment. At least God knew of his existence. No one knew of mine. An artist with no audience! What a completely ridiculous concept, what a shameful life. But tonight was different, I knew it. I could feel the stirrings of genius within me, urging me onward.

ONE

"This is a fucked-up town", I continued, twirling her curls around my fingers. "A graveyard full of poorly hidden desires, endlessly overcast skies, and the intimate company of the same assholes that you should have avoided during your life like you now avoid pungent odours, or venereal disease."

I didn't smile, and she didn't notice. "But what it also is, is a place of promise, where flesh creeps to the ultimate conclusion of its short existence, its final and elegant vice".

It seemed that she nodded, and I was content even with that small gesture of acknowledgement. "We're going to explore that, you and I", I concluded lamely, putting as much emphasis as possible into what I hoped sounded like a grand revelation. Damn it, I was never good at talking to women.

I met her outside a pub, by a dirty flickering light, the only shining spot in that crowded place. I think I might have seen a rat which distracted me from my usual evening walk. What a strange thing, to be distracted by a rat. But it was not the rat that led me to her. No, it truly was fate, unseen fate, the weaver of our lives.

She had looked real pretty as she had a shabby-looking man by his arm. He was squirming, saying something about children and home, but she was very insistent. Finally, he dropped a coin in her hand and she led him a couple of metres to the side, smiling. A carriage labored by. I turned to walk away and actually traveled a few steps before I heard an unusual gurgling sound. I looked back. I was mildly interested, you see, for purely professional reasons. But I did not expect what I saw. The man was half collapsed on the ground, and the gurgling was the blood flowing from his mouth. His throat was a red half-moon. I saw the street-walker reach down into that most-sacred place of all men and slice and pull, slice and pull as I watched with terrible fascination. I think she ate it. Or something equally horrifying. I'm not sure. By that point, I was vomiting on the cobblestones. Yes, this one would do for the piece I had planned.

I had waited for her to return to her original spot and stepped forward, smiling. "A lady for your thoughts, sir?" she said, laughing, teasing. I smiled harder, more proficiently. She was so kind to me, not like the others, not like their quiet, cold rejection. I almost couldn't handle it. "A lady for your thoughts, sir?" she continued her little shadow song. She was quite the piece already, with large diamond-tipped eyes and long fingers, though not a madonna by any means. Natural beauty - you know the type. But I am a bit of a sculptor myself, I mentioned. If she likes, I could make a work of art for her. I could use her as a model, I suggested. Did she have the time? I was willing to pay. I was very persuasive, willing to let no little effort go. This one had potential. I think both of us saw something they wanted in the other.

TWO

And here we were, walking, moon spilling on the ground with an opiate shine, like pus from an infected wound. I can be quite the poet when I want to, you see. It's one of my many interests. And right now I was obsessed with this girl, the smoothness of her skin, the shadows under her eyes, the way she unconsciously tugged on her earlobe when talking. Our steps echoed on the cobblestones - mine sharp and full of purpose, hers weak and somehow treacherous.

"We're almost home now, miss." I intoned, trying to be calm.

Madness. Her hair smelled like madness, looked like a colour illustration out of a medical journal, felt like the leather straps of a straitjacket. Madness. Suddenly, she stopped, tugging on my hand. Beside me, she gazed at her reflection in a grimy store window, wonder-filled like Alice, seeing different worlds in every drop of moisture on the wet glass. Right then I gave in to the desire to know her, to see whether she was just as beautiful, just as infuriating on the inside. Madness. I couldn't resist quietly wrapping her hair around my wrist while I watched. It was dark and lush - a good counterpoint to the stench of cheap paint and stale polluted air whipping at our faces. She had really nice hair, is what I'm saying.

The sound of the breaking glass wasn't as loud as I expected. I am a strong man, and clever, called a "careful devil" by some. I hit her head against the glass with just the right amount of force. It was a shame about the hair. Such luxurious hair, so lovely and strong and perfect to grip. She didn't go limp, this one, but neither did she utter a cry. Instead, she rocked back, a mannequin with shards of glass crowning her. "A pretty crown for a pretty manic-queen" I said and caught her uncomprehending, stupored gaze. Disappointingly, she didn't even appreciate the quip. That's okay. I still couldn't believe what she had done to that poor fellow's nether regions. I mean, who does that? She was a monster. It was an outrage! Too far gone into Wonderland, this Alice.

She tried to speak at the sight of my kukri knife. I didn't mean to hurry, but just the thought of her speaking some damned condemnatory line, pleading for me to stop, or, worse yet, rejecting me – well, it was too much to bear. She was the one, my obsession, my work of art.

THREE

Condensation billowed as I rose and walked on the moist ground. Familiar scenes greeted me, some gravestones sneering with contempt, others welcoming, assuring me the accommodations are first-class. Even in the world of the dead, there was no escaping dirty, lying salesmen. The grass lay lifeless, spread in all directions like a tattered gown from an undressed doll, discarded and hinting at the atrocities it had witnessed. It was indeed a very depressing moment.

But the scene painted quite the pretty picture, just as my Alice now did, firmly in my wonderland. It had taken a while, but this, this could be my masterpiece. The colours - fantastic, the composition magnificently laid out with a great use of space, strokes done with excellent technique. I had made a bit of a mess, but a true artist isn't afraid to get his hands dirty, to touch an intestine or two. It had something of the oriental about it. In short, it was striking, almost bringing a tear to my eye, even though I never cry.

The tall reeds parted as I retraced my steps through the desiccated wooden fence leading back to the street, spooking a trio of night birds who spilled like ink against an already black sky, then were devoured by it. The sky didn't spit out the bones. I envied it not having such worries.

It struck three in the morning as I left, and the sky opened up. Sheets of dirty wetness rushed toward the ground, the night regaining its dominion over the quiet London district of Whitechapel.