by Z. M. Wilmot
***
His girlfriend came around four hours later. She knocked tentatively on the door, but Emilio failed to answer, wrapped up as he was in the composition of what he was sure would be his greatest tale ever. He had decided to write what he knew, and what he had written was what he knew best; his own life. Embellished, of course, by the supernatural, lurking just behind the veil, hidden by the thin veneer of reality.
People know, intuitively, that there are things beyond their comprehension in the dark corner of dusty attics, on the tops of bare mountains, at the eye of terrible storms, in the sewers beneath their feet, and in old, forgotten temples half-buried by the aeons. But though they know that these things exist deep down inside themselves, they will never admit it – except during the hour of the wolf, in their own tortured dreams, and in the Words that make up tales of horror. It is the hidden monster, concealed and cloaked by the darkness, that makes mankind tremble and afraid.
And it is the hidden monster that, when added to a story of utmost realism, turns it into a most disturbing phantasy.
The monster in this particular tale was not yet formed in Emilio’s mind, but that was more than acceptable at the tale’s current stage; it is the unknown, unseen monster that caused one’s heart to race and one’s palms to sweat. Once the beast becomes known, it can be fought and rationalized. So long as it clings to the shadows and stays in the dark, it is invincible and unknowable.
Emilio’s tale, “The Print Shop Horror,” was developing into quite a chilling narrative. It was based very heavily off of the town that he himself lived in. It opened in a printing shop, haunted by an unknown beast that started out doing little more than unnerving customers.
But it quickly began to grow, feeding off of the energy in the creative minds of those visiting the shop. Soon it was stalking the shadows in corporeal form, and when it managed to drain the life-force of an old author passing through, it was able to venture forth from the shop and into the streets. It chose a target – one author named Emile Darie – and began to slowly sap away his energy, driving him mad. Over the course of several pages, he began to perform unspeakable acts, causing him to become more and more depraved, all under the direction of the terrible, unknowable beast.
Emilio’s door was never locked. His girlfriend pushed it open gently and stepped inside, gingerly closing it behind her. Emilio had still not noticed her entrance, entranced by his own description of a grisly murder committed by the insane monsieur Darie.
“Emilio?” she asked tentatively. “We have a date, remember?” Her gentle voice was enough to snap the author out of his trance, and he turned around and smiled. “Ah! Greta! Of course, I’m so sorry – my muse returned earlier today, and I’ve just been so wrapped up in it…” He stood and embraced Greta, who happily returned the favor. “Where are we going tonight, my dear?”
“Dinner and a play, remember?” she said gently. She had the greatest of patience; one had to in order to love the scatter-brained Emilio.
“Ah yes, yes! The Salesperson in Venice! Or somesuch! Quite, quite, let me get my coat, my dear.” A few minutes later, after a search for the key to the flat and for Emilio’s coat, the pair had exited the studio, the door locked behind them.
On the desk in the darkened room, the typewriter clicked.