At the logical remembrance of this passive style of analysis, I found myself standing before The Archer House not unlike the common observer. I then alertly peered down at the supplement left behind for me to behold: a small and rather old-style television with accompanying video player. The television screen showed only static (strange that The Archer House held my attention so steadfastly that I did not previously notice the sharp white glow filling the vestibule), a storm of video snow awaiting its signal. With only one obvious move to make, I kneeled down before the screen and pressed the play button on the video player.
A dark-haired girl in jeans and a leather jacket greeted me from the small television screen, backing away only after smiling happily at someone beyond the scope of the camera's eye. The view was set at a point in The Archer House (this one real, not imagined like the depiction this video supplemented; the apparent existence of The Archer House took me by surprise, regardless of the of the existent scenes I created in the depictions entitled Hallow's Moon and Raingods Dancing) near the same viewpoint in the painting, that from the vestibule I imagined one might encounter upon entering the front doors. In the bland light, the girl looked pale of skin, and I immediately recalled my imaginings of just moments earlier when I placed myself upon the landing at the top of the crooked staircase and saw the fresh human hide draped across the highback chair. She stepped back, rather hesitantly, so that the staircase was visible behind her, and then she became quite different, someone openly dismayed rather than enigmatic, her smile disappearing as if confronted with sinister intents. A gremlin appeared, one not unlike those in my other depictions, leather-caped and hooded. It lunged forward, its stance twisted, gloved hands seizing the girl by her black hair and pulling viciously downward so that her skull encountered the wooden floor with a single yet effective strike. Here at this moment I realized with some anxiety that the video was devoid of a soundtrack, this being, of course, a supplement solely in the form of film, whereas Hallow's Moon and Plague Of Ghosts kept true to photography and audio respectively. The silence of the video made it no less dreadful though, and perhaps even more steeped in a distant and dreary desolation. And while my mind and body fought this horrific emotional awareness, I watched with utter dread as the hooded gremlin dragged the semi-conscious and bleeding woman up the steps, her feet and legs thumping the stairs as if engaged in some wicked tap-dance. It dropped her body at the foot of the chair, then starting at the scalp, proceeded to flay the skin from her body with the adeptness and precision of a butcher removing the scales and fins from a semi-frozen cod. It took approximately ten minutes for the gremlin to incise her from the base of her hairline all the way down the side of her body to her ankle, and then another five minutes to peel away the outer dermis in one single piece. And all this while her face showed the most gruesome of acrobatic expressions before being ravaged away, the body convulsing just the same until it was left red and raw. I could do nothing but watch, riveted and unable to tear my sights away from the transgression taking place on the tiny screen before me. The occurrence of this dreadful action was like something I'd never come close to experiencing in my life, and it immediately started transforming me into the artist I was about to become. Yet still, the matter turned far graver, for the hooded gremlin, once finished with its ghastly deed, turned to face the camera. Although I could hear nothing, I was able to see its lips through the mouth-hole in the hood he wore, and I could read them as he articulately mouthed a dreadful sentence:
One great art form deserves another, Brion.
The video turned to black.
I ran away, feeling as if I were performing a weird dance—hopping, tilting, bobbing—all the while laughing as I made my way back to the sanctuary of the basement. I convulsed, not unlike the woman in The Archer House, but under different provocations: those triggered through madness, the sudden derangement taking hold of me, all due to the ingenious supplements the God of Art has left behind for me and my work, plus the distant and dreary desolation that would stay with me now and forever.
The photographs. The soundtrack. The video. The forms that emulate my creativity. The time had come for me to model my future as an answer to these abhorrent ingenuities. I must now create a new art form on the blank canvas that holds a place in the fourth position in the vestibule that houses my exhibition. And then, I will create a supplement like no other to complement it.
Brion Heloise, the child-like voice called. I turned to face the gremlin head on the shelf, its eyes shining, its lips frozen. Under the stairs, it said only once.
I hunkered down beneath the shelf on which the head lies and found a small closet beneath the stairs, slightly ajar. My heart thrashed wildly as I opened the door and beheld the most extraordinary sight of all. Somewhat analogous to the fact that the creator of the supplements had made my depictions come to life, here the subjects of his creativity filled a position in my world: the hanged woman with the chain about her neck; the family of three, father, mother, baby, all dead and blue; the skinless woman and her hide. All of them, left aside not unlike the sculpt-artist castaways, evidence of the greatest art of all.
Digging through the pile of corpses, I located the straight razor. I removed the chain from the girl's neck. I gathered the flayed skin. And then I uncovered something else, something that would point a finger and reveal to me the creator of the supplements. In the back of the narrow and deep closet, beneath a blood-stained blanket, was sophisticated film equipment, an audio recording device, an instamatic camera. Little gremlin puppets wearing leather jackets with slits on them. A leather hood.
And, a photograph of me I took of myself holding the instamatic camera.
I am the god of art. The creator of the supplements. And I left these clues behind to stir the sunken memories trapped in my delirious mind, to remind me that now I am to create the most unparalleled supplement of all. In doing so, I will utilize the chain to tie myself to the fourth canvas. But not before I use the skin of my woman victim to swathe myself in disguise. And not before I use the straight razor to slit my body in a multitude of places so that I may paint the blank canvas with my blood. And then, not before I carry my five victims to the gallery and arrange them before the canvas as admirers of my art.
All of this will occur, of course, before I place a mirror in front of the fourth canvas so that I can admire the supplement to the depiction entitled The Startling Supplement To Brion Heloise's Depiction.
May those who attend the gallery tonight admire it just the same, and agree with unequivocal passion, that every great art form most definitely deserves another.
Dark Ride Page 27