by Alana Greig
But Augustine was the model patient. He told Dr. Fields exactly what he wanted to hear so that he could quit the sessions. And that’s precisely what happened. Only ten sessions in, Dr. Fields told the boy’s parents there was nothing wrong with him and called it all a phase.
But it wasn’t. When he reached seventeen, he got a job in the local craft shop and spent his wages on bigger moulds and more wax. The fascination was too engrained, and Augustine wanted to experiment. At almost seven feet tall and as broad as a doorway, Augustine was an intimidating sight. The coaches at school begged him to join the football team, basketball, and even wrestling. Every request was met with a solid “no”. He had his wax and his experiments. They were all he needed.
At nineteen, when he had finally moved out of his parents’ home, Augustine encased his first cat in wax. The result was not as he wanted. The smell was horrific, and the wax did not take well to the feline fur. There was only one way to rectify this, and further experiments were undertaken using cats from the neighbourhood. The locals were up in arms. Neighbourhood pets were going missing, and no one could work out why.
With the encasement of cats perfected, but still craving more, Augustine paid no attention to the locals and instead took time to study embalming. He was ready for something bigger. Much bigger.
His first murder was sloppy. It was of a child he had come across at the park. He had been looking for a short woman as the mould he had was only five feet tall. So, when the little girl came over to him, her eyes filled with tears asking if he knew where her mummy had gone, Augustine made a quick calculation and snatched her.
Like with the cats, the first attempt did not go as planned. Being a large man, he had considerable strength and accidentally crushed the child’s skull. With her head misshapen and blood mixing with the wax, it was all a bit of a mess. But Augustine was stubborn. This did not put him off. Instead, he took his notes and decided that next time he would use a less bloody method of killing. Plus, in all his excitement to test his mould, he had not embalmed her. Another lesson learned. Next time would be different.
Over the next four years, Augustine perfected his chosen art. That was how he saw his practice, as an art form. The homeless were a great starting point. The missing kid had caused a bit of a circus, and he really didn’t need that kind of attention. That was the past. Now he was ready to begin his greatest project yet.
He met the first woman at a bar. She was drunk and flirting with anyone who stood still long enough. The thought of being that desperate was just beyond him. Augustine had no sexual desires. Never had. This is what the police were getting so wrong. They believed the crimes where sexually motivated, like he was some kind of deviant. Augustine considered himself to be the creator of art: Taking something ugly and unwanted and making it beautiful.
The drunk woman was almost too easy. She got into a cab with him and went to his home, stripped herself naked and rested on his sofa. Augustine was repulsed. Thanks to the amount of alcohol she had poured down her throat, her death was quick.
Embalming takes an hour, so when he was done, Augustine went and had a cup of coffee and a cookie. It was the little things in life that pleased him. Cookies with just chocolate—no nuts. Other favourite things of his were rain on his roof while he laid in bed and of course, his projects. But cookies, they were the best of all.
“You will be the start of my exhibit,” he said to the woman lying on his mortician’s slab an hour later. Augustine was more than just a killer and an artist. He was a trained mortician. After the unfortunate accident with the kid, he decided the best way to become a master of his craft was to practice the preparation on consenting—sort of—adults.
The mould was ready. He double-checked everything to make sure he was correct on his calculations. Augustine was never wrong, but arrogance was what would get him caught. That was a fact he was sure of. So, he always checked just for good measure. The thick chain was already around the woman’s ankles. Once attached to the winch, Augustine lowered his subject into the hot wax in the six-foot mould he had had made especially for this project. This mould was special. The inside was etched with patterns and text. Little quotes that would be thought-provoking, or so Augustine hoped. This was more than a candle. This was a statement.
The end result was more than he could have hoped for. She was breathtaking when she came out of the mould; the etchings making her more beautiful than she had ever been in life. Once she was stored safely, Augustine cleaned his workspace and went to bed. Tomorrow, he was going to acquire number two.
The next few weeks passed in a happy blur. The women were easier to obtain then he imagined. He never learned their names. They were his subjects. Art materials. Names did not matter, only the finished piece. With six girls, all stored, and the art gallery booked for his anonymous debut, there was no way he was going to attend. That would get him caught. Anyway, he wanted the art to make the impact, not him.
That night, he went out to find lucky number seven. The final piece for his seven deadly sins exhibition. He felt on top of the world. He was about to complete a never-before-seen art form. The crowds were going to love it. It’s not like people were against dead things being used in art. What about that artist who had a cow chopped in half, suspended in formaldehyde, and put in the Tate Modern? People flocked to see that. This would be a hit. He just knew it.
He was going to search the crowds at the biggest night club in town—PULSE. The girls there were always plentiful, and the dark areas of the club made for the perfect place to observe and not get chatted up. He knew where all the fire exits were and how many were alarmed. This would be easy.
It was just after ten when he spotted “the one.” She was around five feet six inches without her heels. She had red hair and green eyes. Not that it mattered, really, not to begin with. She had great curves and a beautiful face that was angular and sharp. Almost feline, he thought. Augustine watched her from the upper balcony. His idea to hide out was stopped when a bouncer by the name of Steve told him to “Buy a drink and mingle or get the hell out.”
She appeared to be alone, but anxious. This was a complication, but not the end of the world. He would just have to change tactics and get her outside. Just as he was making his way down to her, she grabbed her phone from the table in front of her and headed for the door. Fate was on his side. Augustine moved swiftly through the crowded club and out into the sea air. She was heading toward the pier. Perfect. The sound of the high tide would drown out any struggle, and with holiday season over, well, he was not likely to be seen either. She was on the phone when he grabbed her. The caller wouldn’t have heard anything other than the phone hitting the floor. Augustine was well-practiced in moving a captive, but making it look like they were together. Taking her home in his arms went completely unnoticed, which was just how he liked to do things.
Conner was freaked out. Flick had been on the phone with him, listening to him beg for forgiveness; he was having to stay late at work again and miss date night. She was totally chewing him out, and then, nothing. There was a clatter and the phone went dead.
Conner searched for Flick for two days before he got a lead. Someone had seen her at the club—a waitress called Winter. She was coming back from her break and recognised Conner and asked where his girlfriend was. It was then he learned of the creepy guy hanging out in dark corners. She remembered seeing Flick leave and creeper guy leaving right after.
This did not make Conner feel better. It was easier to believe that she had gone to one of the hotels for a couple of days to let him sweat. Or to that dragon of a mother of hers who lived in Christchurch Village. This was his worst nightmare. Someone had Flick, and he knew that this creepy guy, as Winter called him, was the prime suspect. Luck was on his side that day too. When Scarlet, another waitress, came in for afternoon prep, she told them about this big guy who was living in Mrs. Jerkins’ house in the old town. He had “dead eyes,” she said, and that was enough for Conner to be sure this gu
y was bad news.
Augustine was disappointed. The last mould he made for lucky number seven was faulty. It had taken him two days to fix it. That was two days too long with a live subject. She wouldn’t stop staring at him. The blind‐ fold made no difference. No, he couldn’t see her eyes, but he still felt them on him. Judging him. This is why he acquired, killed, and transformed in a short amount of time.
The sound of the front door made him jump. Who was knocking on his door? He knew no one, and he entered though the rear of the house. The front was a mess. To give out the “go away, you are not welcome” vibe. So far it had worked. Some moron clearly thought that it was a challenge, or was just super unobservant. Either way it was a distraction he didn’t appreciate.
Conner knocked hard on the filthy door and ran back down the path and toward the rear of the house. That was where Scarlet had said she saw him. Looking at the front, Conner was guessing the back was the way he usually used. He checked that his gun was still wedged in his belt. He might be a cop, but this was not an official call, and he should not have his gun on him at all. This would get him fired. But if it meant getting Flick out of this alive, he really didn’t care.
Augustine opened the door; there was no one there. He was expecting the local teenage populous trying to sell the street something useless, stolen car radios or knocked off trainers. Annoyed to have been disturbed, he slammed the door, locked it, and headed back to his basement workroom. The sight he found when he got there was shocking. There was a man in his home. In his work area. Touching his materials. The girl was untied and biting her lip to stop her screams, or so he guessed. The second she spotted him, the sound that ripped from her was deafening. The man turned and pointed a gun at Augustine.
There was no exchange, no snappy comebacks to well-thought-out one-liners. Just the sound of the gun echoing off of the tiled walls. It took a second for the pain to register. Augustine had taken two bullets to the chest. His heart lurched. The shooter was turning to leave. In an instant, the girl took the gun and shot him again. This one pierced his heart. The last thing he saw before death took his soul to hell, were the storage chests containing his most prized possessions. His wax works.
Conner turned to Flick.
“Why did you kill him? I was going to call it in.”
Flick would tell Conner all about the wax and the plans that monster had had for her, but for now she simply answered.
“Because he deserved it.”
LUCIFER’S WIFE
BASED ON THE GIRL WITHOUT HANDS
I want to tell you my story, the story of why I mutilated myself. You see, I believed the devil was after me and wanted me for his bride. So, I tried to be as good as any person can be on this corrupted planet to keep him at bay. The lengths I had to go to may shock you. But would you not fight for your freedom even if it meant losing a part of yourself?
My name is Amelia. I am an only child. My mother left when I was a tiny babe in arms and my father was the worst kind of man—fuelled by lust, money, and alcohol. My childhood was hard. The beatings came often, and I was always hungry and cold.
When I was around six, a man came to me in my dreams. He had long black hair studded with diamonds and a face so handsome that even then I was captivated by him. He told me his name was Lucifer and that one day he would come for me. I believed him.
All through my teenage years I dreamed of him. I performed sex acts with other men while I pictured his face. My father, a devout Christian, was concerned that I was dressing provocatively and had me attend mass every week in the hope of cleansing me of the evil he saw within me. I never told him that Lucifer came to me almost every day. That he loved me above all others and wanted to make me his queen. I know, looking back I was off my head, but at the time it was real, and I wanted him.
It was not long after that my father came into a lot of money; some loaded distant relation had singled his sorry ass out for the lot. Lucky bastard. Never really worked a day in his life. Brought me up in poverty, but now the Lord has provided. Fuck off. Someone died; you got lucky, old man.
If there is a God, why did he let me grow up in that shit hole? If there is a God, why didn’t he protect me from the Devil? There is no God, or if there is, he is a pussy. How dumb was I, right?
Dumb didn’t even cover it.
Dad moved us into a secluded farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. He fancied himself as “Lord of the Manor.” More like “King of the Shit Pile.” There wasn’t a church for miles, and dad couldn’t drive thanks to the accident he had years ago but won’t talk about. So, we were isolated, no church to cleanse my soul. Like I gave a shit. I was coming up on eighteen and would be out of there as soon as I got the chance.
Life is a fickle bastard, always changing its mind on you. I was all set to leave, with bags packed and ready to go. But the night before my birthday, Lucifer came to me again.
“Soon you will be mine, child.”
I don’t know if it was the crack I had smoked or the gin I had gotten out of the cabinet earlier. All I knew was that I had downed half the bottle. But for the first time, my dark knight lost his beauty for a split second. I saw his true face with the pockmarked, blackened skin, the blood red eyes. He was not the tall dark knight; it was a shrunken, twisted creature, and I was shit-scared.
Later, I was back at the drink cabinet looking for something stronger than gin. I couldn’t shake the image of Lucifer from my mind. The Devil was real, and he visited me now even while I was awake. I found my dad in the sitting room, beer bottles scattered about his feet. The music system was on and some miserable country shit was playing. Rolling my eyes, I headed for the hard stuff.
“I loved her you know.”
My dad never spoke to me these days. His speech was slurred, and as I turned to look at the wanker who gifted me half of his DNA, I saw the tears in his eyes.
Fuck.
I was not ready for tears. I mumbled something, grabbed the first bottle I came to without reading what it was, and headed back the way I had come.
“You don’t understand, Mia, I loved your mother. I didn’t mean for her to die.”
Did he just tell me? What the fuck?
“I think you need to go to bed,” I said, my back still to him. I needed to leave; the guy was havering shit, and I did not need to hear it. Not tonight.
“I killed her, I killed her and now she is haunting me.”
A line had just been crossed. Was he actually telling me he murdered my mother? Because that is fucked up. I waited for him to say more. I didn’t have to wait long; the words were tumbling out of him.
“I had been drinking, and your mum said she wanted to go home to get to you. She missed you.”
The revelations just kept on coming. My would-be lover is actually the Devil, and my dad is telling me not only did he murder my mother, but that she held me when I was small. She had missed me and wanted nothing more than to be with me.
“I had convinced her to come out. Just for a couple of drinks. You were a good baby, and we knew the sitter would take good care of you. It was while I was driving back home that she told me she was leaving me.”
His voice was suddenly hard. The tears forgotten. “She had met a man she loved and wanted to leave. “And to cap it all, you were the cuckoo in my nest. The fucker she loved was your dad, not me.”
I felt the room tilt. This man before me was not my father. I was not related to this useless asshole, who beat me and starved me all my short life? He should have shut up then. But he kept going. On and on about how my mother was a whore and that when he pulled to the side of the road that night and chased her into some bushes that she deserved it. She had broken his heart and made him bring up another man’s bastard. She was HIS wife and he owned her, ’til death they did part.
“You’re a monster; you killed her in some bushes at the side of the road because she didn’t love you? Are you insane?”
The weight of the bottle in my hand felt good. He needed to s
hut up, and I needed to leave. I turned back to the door and almost made it into the hall when I heard him start again.
“I took her body to the fucker’s place of work, hid her in his old pickup that he always left there at the weekend. He wouldn’t want her anymore after I smashed her pretty face in with a rock.”
I don’t remember crossing the room or smashing the bottle in my hand on the dresser as I passed it. I do remember the look of horror in his eyes when I stuck the broken neck into his fat belly. I remember plunging it in over and over again until his middle looked like mince. He clung to life though, the evil fucker. Laughing in my face, telling me that my real father was in prison for the murder of my whore of a mother, and he was never going to tell me his name.
It was then I started lacerating his face. I must have sliced him a thousand times. After, when my breathing came hard and the broken bottle was lodged in his left eye socket, I realised what I had done. I was a murderer.
I emptied his wallet and the safe that night. I changed my clothes and grabbed my bag. I was out of there. The Devil might be after my soul, but at least he was honest about it.
I looked for my dad in old newspaper articles on the net, and I even went to the archives. Eventually I found him: Adam Everson. The irony was not lost on me. Lucifer was tormenting my dreams, and my birth father was named Adam—you couldn’t make this shit up. I contacted the prison where he was being held. They asked me if I was a relative, and I told them I was his daughter. They took a bit of convincing, but after I agreed to meet the warden they seemed to relax. My meeting was the next day. I used some cash to buy a cheap moped and was there in under an hour. The warden had me taken to his office, where I was offered tea and cookies. I took the cookies.