by Selena Kitt
“Good evening, Mrs. Rudolf.”
She glared, eyes blazing wildly. “Mr. Lowe! How dare you! I'll call the police!”
The gaunt man shook his head with a dark chuckle. “Oh, you know how long it takes them to respond around here, Mrs. Rudolf. Better to call the Salvation Army.”
“These are my rooms,” she hissed, spittle dripping from her lower lip. “You have no business here.”
“Oh, I think I do,” he responded casually. “Galatea, my darling, give the old hen back her pickles.”
Mrs. Rudolf frowned, then looked to her left, where stood an unabashedly naked young woman with the most unearthly golden hair and glittering eyes she had ever witnessed. A disgusted expression twisted the fat landlady's face as she snatched the jar from pale, offering hands. “Have you no shame? Is this what the world has come to? Naked whores running around carelessly?”
Emet shook his head with a wan smile. “Oh, my dear creation is nothing like those pathetic whores who part their thighs for the chemistry gods. She is so much more than that.”
“Well, I really don't care, Mr. Lowe,” she bristled, even as she remembered their earlier meeting, and the implication that this slight, frail-looking man had somehow chased off her buffoons. She made an effort to be amiable, despite the context. “I would ask you to leave.”
“In due time,” Emet said, then gave a short nod to the silent Galatea. Without the slightest flicker of emotion, the alabaster-skinned woman raised a large butcher knife, taken from Mrs. Rudolf's own cupboard, and advanced.
The corpulent woman blanched visibly, eyes widening in fear at the sight of the knife. “Wh-what are you doing?”
“Have you ever heard of the term 'just deserts,' by any chance?”
Mrs. Rudolf backpedaled into the kitchen, raking a fleshy hip against the counter. She fell against the refrigerator, fear blatant in her eyes as the naked inhuman woman approached. “I'll give you whatever you want! Please! Tell her to stop!”
“But why would I want to do that? I can't stop now; you know too much.”
“I won't say anything! I swear!” Even as she screeched out those words, Mrs. Rudolf raised her arms to protect herself, palms turned outward so the hands would shield her face. This, of course, left the insides of her forearms fully exposed.
She heard more than felt the quick slashes of the blade, metal singing wetly in the air. She cried out once, anticipating a death stroke, but it did not come.
With slow trepidation, Mrs. Rudolf lowered her arms, focusing past her own curled fingers to a sight which both sickened and unnerved her. Emet stood behind his voluptuous companion, chin upon her shoulder beside the ghostly, blank face. His hands had come up from behind to grope and knead heavy, fleshy breasts. His face grinned maniacally.
“Isn't she wonderful? So beautiful, so obedient, so...deadly.”
Brow wrinkling with confusion, Mrs. Rudolf became aware of the sensation of liquid warmth running down the inside of her arms. Dreading what she might find, the loathsome woman turned her arms and looked upon the long, leaking gouges which ran from wrists nearly to her elbows. Bloody flaps of flesh lay wide open, allowing the torrent of blood to spill freely to the floor.
“Oh, sweet Jesus in Heaven,” she muttered, feeling her vision blur as light-headedness set in. She could barely focus upon the two figures before her as Emet Lowe bent the naked woman over before him, thrusting his hips firmly against her backside.
The degenerate, perverse vision of two lovers fucking while she died was the last thing Mrs. Rudolf would ever see.
* * * *
“Emet!” exclaimed Michael as the lanky sculptor stepped through his doors. “How's my favorite artist?”
Emet smirked arrogantly, meeting the younger man with outstretched hand. “Oh, I'm your favorite, now?”
Michael chuckled. “Well, sure! I've sold all your pieces. Even had people coming back all week asking when I'm going to have more.”
The sculptor grinned. “Then you will be glad to accept the thirty new pieces I've completed.”
“Thirty?”
Emet nodded. “Your driver should be bringing them in shortly.”
Michael shook his head with a grateful smile and clasped Emet's bony shoulder. “I don't know how you did it, but you did. Just the other day, I showed some of your pieces to a couple of appraisers. They really liked what they saw, Emet.”
“This is only the beginning. I have even more impressive works in the making.”
“Can't wait to see them,” Michael said honestly. His eyes softened. “Sorry to hear about that mess last week with your landlady.”
Emet shrugged. “She was obviously not well.”
The shop owner shook his head ruefully. “Dangerous place you live in, old man. Your landlady goes crazy, beats a couple of her tenants to death before slitting her wrists...you ever think she might have killed you, too?”
The sculptor smiled. “Not really, no.”
* * * *
While the sun, as always, did not shine upon the Devil's Block, Emet could almost feel its warming glow as he left the train station and stepped lively along the street toward his home. The majority of his day had been spent glad-handing with the various shop and gallery owners who sold his wares. They had all agreed to the same deal he enjoyed with Michael, resulting in a flattering return for the struggling artist.
In a mere week, he had earned more than enough money to pay his rent, all other bills, and put some aside. It had been years since Emet had enjoyed a financial surplus. He looked forward to finding a better place to live, a better life, one which he would happily spend with his perfect woman, Galatea.
Head held high as he strutted through the filthy streets, Emet had no other thought in his mind than to return to his humble apartment and spend the evening indulging in all manner of carnal delights with his compliant lover. He flatly ignored the looks from dealers, pimps and prostitutes, until a lone voice called out to him.
“Well, if it ain't Emet Lowe!”
He stopped, eyes searching, finding the busty redhead as she strolled from her usual corner. Crimson lips glowed against pale skin as she smacked her gum. The bemused gleam upon her face sent uncomfortable chills down the sculptor's spine.
“Oh. You again. I thought perhaps you had died,” Emet said snidely.
“Now ain't that a terrible thing to say,” she chided him, stopping a few paces away with hands on her hips. “'Course, I was thinking the same about you. You ain't been coming and going like you always did. I was starting to miss my Emsie-Wemsie.”
He scoffed derisively. “If you have to know, I've become quite popular for my sculptures. I dare say it won't be long before I crawl my way out of this disgusting pit.” He smiled arrogantly. “But don't worry. When we leave this world behind, we'll be sure to give you a wave good-bye.”
Dierdre's eyes narrowed. Her jaw stopped working. “'We?'”
He chuckled. “Did I say that? It must have slipped out.”
The busty prostitute looked put out. “You shacking up with someone, Emet?”
He tilted his head to the sky as he laughed, then snapped it back down again before addressing the streetwalker. “In a way, yes,” he admitted. “But she is nothing like you, rest assured. I would not waste my time with anything so cheap and tawdry.”
Color rose in Dierdre's cheeks. “You always talking down about us, Emet,” she snipped. “Like you think you're better. Well, you ain't, okay? Not much difference between you and me, you know, 'cept I got something other people want.”
He glared. “As do I,” he growled, then sneered. “And I don't have to get on my back to be paid.”
“Oh, yeah?” she challenged, cocking her head haughtily. “What you got that's so damn good it pays better than me?”
The sculptor's bravado faltered. He looked away. “For you to understand art would be like a pig understanding the rich flavor of Beef Wellington.”
The self-assured prostitute did not sk
ip a beat. “So show me the beef, Emet. Unless you're afraid.”
Heat rose to the lanky man's cheeks. He glared once more upon the prostitute. “Do you really wish to know?”
She smacked her gum and winked. “Show me.”
* * * *
In the several days since Mrs. Rudolf's “suicide,” the apartment building had been placed in a sort of escrow limbo. The tenants were allowed to remain, rent-free, until a new property owner took the place over. Everyone, it seemed, had accepted the idea that somehow, Mrs. Rudolf had bludgeoned to death two of her tenants—the popular rumor was that the burly men had raped her, and she had taken revenge upon them—then, feeling remorse for her actions, slit her wrists. The police were doing little to actively investigate such a happening in an area of town well-known for crimes of passion and depression, many of which remained unsolved.
“Is this all some trick to get me to drop my skirts, Emet?” Dierdre asked suspiciously while the sculptor unlocked the door. “'Cause, if that's all it is, and you really wanna just bed me, why not come out and say it? Ain't nobody around now.”
He pushed the door open into the shadowed environs of his home and cast a sneering look over his shoulder. “If I haven't made my contempt for you clear before, let me just say this: in a matter of moments, you will see why I despise such pathetic vermin as yourself. And once you have seen, you will be sent on your way with skirts fully intact, I assure you.”
The prostitute's eyes clouded. “Fine. Let's get it over with, Emet. I've half a mind to charge you for the time. I could be getting paid right now.”
His lip curled in disdain. “You are right about one thing. You do have half a mind.”
He stepped in and flipped the switch, sending pale yellow light across the room from the standing lamp by the door. The inert statue of Galatea sat as always upon her simple cinder throne, eyes as pale and blank as the rest of her body. A veritable army of smaller figurines stood alongside the wall near the doorway, awaiting their march to the outside world.
Dierdre's eyes fell upon the lifelike, life-sized statue. An expression of wonder and awe decorated her pale features. “You did this?”
Emet frowned at his guest's reaction. He had expected the same sort of revulsion Mrs. Rudolf had shown, or at least a laughing condemnation. But the simple streetwalker appeared fully impressed with the results of Emet's skill. The redhead went so far as to approach, even touch the statue upon one sublimely-rendered thigh.
“Why...yes, I did. She took me weeks to complete.”
Dierdre smiled. “She's beautiful,” she remarked, then turned a smiling face toward the sculptor. “What do you call her?”
He blinked, somewhat perturbed that this pitiful prostitute could show any interest in art whatsoever. “Eh, G-Galatea,” he stammered.
Dierdre's smile broadened. “Like the story,” she remarked. “Pygmalion created the most beautiful woman in the world, and he named her Galatea. His love for her was so powerful that the Goddess of Love gave her life.”
Emet stared upon the woman before him, dumbfounded that she would know anything about art, history, or culture. “You...you have studied?” he asked, incredulous.
She smacked her gum and winked. “I ain't always been like I am now,” she explained. “Used to go to school, you know. But, life gets hard sometimes. Not like anyone's immune to stepping in shit, right? Not even you.”
A feeling of admonishment coursed through Emet. He found himself unable to meet the prostitute's eyes. “Apparently not.”
“So, this is the big secret, huh? What, you gonna sell it off and make a fortune, is that it?”
He frowned. “I could never sell my Galatea.”
She looked haughtily upon him. “Women are sold all the time,” she declared.
“It's not...she is more than a mere statue. She--”
Dierdre tittered. “Oh, I can see that,” she said, sidling up beside the stony facade of Emet's creation. “Don't think I ain't noticed certain similarities.”
He frowned in confusion. “What?”
She cocked her head with a chastising look. “Oh, don't play that game, Emet,” she chided. “Look at her, look at me. We got the same white skin, the same lips, the same cheeks...hell, ten years ago, I had pretty much the exact same tits! What color is her hair, Emet? Red, like mine? Are her eyes blue, too?”
Emet stared, suddenly seeing the similarities. He ground his teeth. “No, she's not the same as you,” he growled. “She is not cheap! She is devoted! To me!”
Dierdre looked amused as she licked her lush lips. She stood between Emet and Galatea, not noticing as a faint touch of color rose to the surface of the statue. “Like you wish I'd be? Huh?”
Emet shot to his feet. “No!” he cried. “Not like you, with the stain of the sweat of a thousand men upon you! My Galatea is pure! She has known only me, and will know no other!”
The redhead stiffened before the sculptor's vocal barrage. It was only then, after the echoes of his words had faded, that she detected the movement behind her. Spinning about, she stared with both wonder and fear upon the emotionless nude woman who now stood over her.
“Dear God,” Dierdre whispered, before being caught up in the swiftly-sweeping arms of the impossibly animated statue. She was lifted off her feet, held aloft by a creation which should not have been given any kind of life, yet it was. Hysterically, she called out: “Emet!”
“Galatea!” he cried.
But his creation seemed to ignore him. Pale, strong hands spread across Dierdre's back, then pressed.
And pushed.
Crack.
Snap.
Crack.
Snap.
With each jolting crush of her spine, Dierdre convulsed, limbs kicking and flailing impotently. She made little noise beyond gasps and grunts, her face showing the paralytic effect of shock.
Finally, Galatea released her victim. Dierdre fell upon her back on the floor, body limp and twisted. She convulsed only slightly, blood bubbling to her lips. Her head turned toward Emet as he crouched beside the dying prostitute. Wide, shocked eyes conveyed pain in a way words never could.
The sculptor found his own eyes dripping with tears. His heart pained as if squeezed by the hand of Death. He glared up at his creation. “How could you do this?” he shrieked. “I did not want to kill her!”
Galatea's only response was a blank stare. And a step.
Ssssmack.
Emet stiffened. “Keep your distance,” he warned. He reached to the table near him, taking up the awl. “I command you.”
Ssssmack. Galatea's eyes were like lifeless gemstones as she moved closer, weight balanced upon her right foot.
Fear blossomed in Emet's eyes. “You do as I wish! You are my creation!”
Still the golem advanced, lifting the left foot, then settling it upon the ground inches from where Emet crouched. The stark, emotionless expression upon Galatea's face became suddenly threatening.
“Do not make me do this!”
The right foot raised. She loomed over him, now, reaching.
“No!” he yelled, then stabbed down into Galatea's left foot, destroying the first 'E' in the inscription beneath her ankle.
Galatea froze instantly, the nearly flesh-like tinge of her skin vanishing as quickly as did the color of her eyes. Golden hair became as the clay from which it had been rendered, settling against her lifeless face. Still, the statue moved forward, bidden by the basic force of gravity. No longer alive, it nevertheless fell upon the form of its creator.
Emet fell back against the hard floor, pinned beneath the enormous weight of his creation. He felt the piercing of shattered bones within his body, puncturing lungs and other organs. Blood bubbled up through his throat and spilled from pale, thin lips.
His last act was to reach up and caress the cold, stony cheek of his lover.
* * * *
Rabbi Rausch stepped away from the “meat wagon” ambulance after offering a final prayer to the co
rpse beneath the glossy black bag. As the van ambled away, the aged cleric approached a disturbed man clad in an overcoat who stared down the dank stairwell toward the basement apartment.
“Detective Marks,” Rausch said as he settled a hand to the younger man's shoulder. “Are you all right?”
The detective shook his head slowly. “Nothing's right about any of this,” he said philosophically. “Last week, the landlady beats a couple of men to death, then kills herself. Then, tonight, a man kills a hooker before his own statue falls on top of him. It's all so...strange.”
The rabbi nodded. “Strange things happen.”
Marks scoffed. “Yeah, easy for you to say. But I don't have the luxury of answering to faith. I have to provide evidence. Only thing is—” He sighed in frustration. “—there's not a whole lot of that here, either.”
“Man cannot find every answer,” Rausch said.
“Well, we gotta look, rabbi,” Marks answered, then grunted in resignation. “This is nuts. I don't even know how to file this case. What am I supposed to say?”
“The truth?” Rausch offered.
“Yeah? What the hell is that?”
Rabbi Rausch stared into the darkened stairwell which lead to Emet's apartment. It was like staring down into the deepest bowels of the earth, where only darkness and madness lie. “It's simple,” he said at last.
“Well, then enlighten me.”
The rabbi turned back from the stairwell and leveled his eyes upon the detective. “Emet Lowe created the perfect woman,” he said. His eyes darkened as he finished. “And she killed him.”
About Gabriel Daemon
Gabriel Daemon has been self-published online since 2006. He lives in San Antonio, Texas, where he cheers on his World Champion Spurs and sips dark German beer at his favorite pub. His first book, Pretty Baby, is available at eXcessica.
RED SMOKE
By Elise Hepner
He would be waiting for me in the forest.
Adrenaline chased through my body making me shake out my long limbs. He was ready for the hunt. As I dressed I could feel his eyes on me. A tingling on the small of my back. My pulse like the thundering of wolves in the woods at night. The door was locked and bolted. Candles lit on my night stand. Now all that was left was the ritual.