“Ever since I learned about the Magdalene asylums, I dreamed of shutting them down. I imagined all the freed women and girls who would never have to fear abuse again. Maybe I thought of it as a penance I must do on behalf of my family. Now after three long years, not a single asylum remains in operation. I achieved what I set out to do—restoring justice, atoning for my family, whatever you want to call it. For the first time since discovering what my family did to the innocent, I felt liberated.”
The vial pendant became so heavy around her neck that she almost sank to her knees.
“But in that peace, I also found emptiness. I fell ill to something new and profound. In my confusion, I realized I had lost my purpose.”
She met the portraits of warped faces adorning the gallery. They mocked her confession with leering eyes and hungry smiles. Suddenly, she didn’t feel alone with Vivian. She spun around and saw mannequins arranged as spectators in the gallery. They clustered in the shadows in mock poses as if they were capable of appreciating the art.
Some were decapitated with a red substance plastered on the upper body. She swallowed the massive lump in her throat.
“You don’t need innocents to save to feel like you matter,” Vivian assured her. Her soft brown eyes met Camilla’s and the sight instantly comforted her. “Maybe now you can take the time to think of yourself.”
“Yes, maybe I can.”
They walked the corridors of the gallery in a haze of black light. Shadows bobbed above them and Camilla lifted her eyes to the ceiling. Limp corpses were piled in dangling cages. Nearly a dozen of them were curled up inside, their limbs outstretched for salvation.
“Just more mannequins,” Vivian said, prodding her forward. She was anxious to flee this mausoleum of a mall and return to the land of the living. The corridor led to another room that seemed devoid of art, but the most twisted display of all awaited them at the end. Candles illuminated this corner of the gallery and the grisly oddities.
Mannequins were melded with the walls. Their faces and hands bulged under the surface of the plaster, as if they had been immured. At the end of the room, a sigil was painted on the wall above an appendage on red satin. The insignia featured rich floral designs, a knight’s helmet, and a shield inlaid with a cross. Vivian swore she had seen it before.
“It looks like a family crest.”
Camilla stared at it in awe.
“Do you know what it means?”
“I—I can’t be sure.”
“Don’t keep any more secrets from me. Let’s get everything out in the open now. What is it?” Camilla stepped forward and picked up the snake-like shape on the red satin. She cried out and dropped it. Vivian roared forward to crush the snake, expecting to see blood pumping from Camilla’s hand. She halted at her next words.
“This is an umbilical cord.”
Vivian leaned in for a closer look and there was no mistaking the spiral striations and sickly pallor. Even stranger, Camilla whipped out a photo that depicted the scene before them—sweating candles, satin, and the cord of life.
“This picture was waiting outside the bedroom window after I saw the lurker last light. It seems I was meant to find this, but I don’t understand why.” An idea occurred to Camilla, and she wasn’t sure if Vivian would approve.
“Can you test this—” She indicated the tangled piece of flesh. “—at the hospital? And find out who it belongs to?”
“You don’t seriously think someone dragged you out here for an umbilical cord, do you?”
“I’m not dismissing the possibility. Also, I don’t believe this is a token from a weird admirer. I have my suspicions it’s someone related to me.” Vivian balked at the notion.
“That can’t be possible. You said yourself that the Vesely bloodline is six feet under. You’re the last remaining heir, so to speak.”
“Then how do you explain the article about the Magdalene asylums in my apartment? And now I’m being directed to an umbilical cord related to my origins. There has to be some rhyme or reason to this madness.”
Vivian’s eyes narrowed in the strange light and the cord seemed to pound under her gaze. The musical ambience swelled around them.
“You think it could be yours?”
Camilla didn’t answer. She hastily picked up the appendage and wrapped it in satin.
“Please do me a favor and find out if this belongs to me.”
“This is so screwed up,” Vivian said, accepting it. The music disintegrated.
They turned around to see a man standing in the dark. The light illuminated his face for a second, but it was just enough to ingrain the horror in memory for the rest of their lives. Black eyes bulged from a sunken face that clearly never saw the light of day. His mouth resembled a laceration that cleaved his nose and split his cheeks. Skin was stripped from around the mouth to form a raw cavity with teeth.
Vivian didn’t remember screaming. Suddenly she was catapulting across the gallery with Camilla, running through the tinted corridors.
The man streaked after them and overturned everything in his path. They heard the mannequins flying against the walls and feet with long nails scrabbling on the floor. The guttural noises coming from its throat cut right through the disorder.
Its hands outstretched toward Vivian’s hair as she fled, barely catching a few strands attached to her head.
She dove to the floor and ploughed under the security gate, scraping the skin on her knees and chin. Vivian turned around to see Camilla flat on her belly, wedged under the gate.
Just as she squeezed free, her pursuer flung himself at the gate. His gaunt arms jutted through the bars with crusty nails tipped in blood. He squealed ravenously at the sight of them, as if nothing could sate his hunger quite like tearing them apart.
After another spittle-filled scream, he retreated into the shadows, leaving a bewildered Camilla and Vivian to catch their breath.
The sunset had departed, extinguishing the last of the crimson light dousing the Black Atrium. Camilla and Vivian clutched each other tight as they stumbled through the darkness. An hour must have passed as they searched for the exit.
Their brains were wired and edgy despite the exhaustion. Every rumble sounded like that thing was lurking only a few feet away, ready to pick the flesh clean from their bones.
“Where the hell is it?”
“I hope you’re referring to the exit, not that man.”
Breathless, the girls shivered as glass crunched under their feet like ice.
“This is it. The door should be here,” Camilla said, running her hands over the surface before a sinking realization punched her gut. “It’s been chained shut!”
“I’ll be damned if I’m spending another minute in this hellhole. Find me something to break it down and let’s get out of here.” After a few minutes of scavenging, Camilla found a rusted pipe jutting from the wall.
Vivian wasted no time laying into the door that barred them from the streets. Prague’s city lights twinkled through the crack in the doors, motivating her to ratchet up the pressure.
With mounting frustration, Vivian switched tactics and attacked the hinges, hoping it would provide a softer target. The surface began to chip away under the weight Vivian was putting behind the pipe. Camilla happened to look over her shoulder and spy something moving in the dark.
“Break it down now!”
“What?”
“There’s something creeping up behind us in the dark!”
She knew it was the man she saw in the gallery returning to conquer his prey. His breathing became more pronounced and visceral as he covered the distance in long, lanky strides. Vivian’s arms ached but she more than doubled her effort when she imagined the tortures in store for them if she failed.
Her foot barreled into the door, snapping cleaning it off the hinges. They rushed into the streets as their pursuer screamed in fury. The shattering of glass pealed behind them as if the ceiling was coming undone in one final magnificent showing of se
lf-destruction. When the Black Atrium was several blocks behind them, they slumped to the streets.
Vivian’s voice came out in a hoarse whisper.
“Is that the man you saw looking through your window?”
Camilla looked to the rotting dome simmering in discontent.
“No, definitely not. I would remember that face.”
Or better yet, she would remember if he lacked a face.
FIVE
Vivian barely slept after she escaped the Black Atrium with Camilla. The morbid discoveries lingered in her thoughts as she shuffled through clinicals the next day. If she wasn’t contemplating the umbilical cord in the art gallery, she was surely thinking of the man who almost removed her head.
Too many questions remained unanswered about the encounter. Who was stalking Camilla and why? And what was this nonsense about her origins? Was it possible that someone in the Vesely family was still alive?
She was so preoccupied in her waking nightmares that she collided with someone in the hall.
“Oh God, I’m sorry!”
She locked eyes with Milo, the handsome technician from the blood lab. It was embarrassing enough to walk into someone, but why did it have to be him?
He laughed as she furiously tried to keep the blush out of her cheeks.
“No harm done. Hold on a second, we met a few days ago, didn’t we? Your name is… Vivian?”
“Good memory. And I remember you well, Milo.”
“Oh no, is it because of the vaccine? Do I hear a grudge in your voice?”
“No, nothing like that. There’s not much you can do about it if I bear you a grudge anyway. Well, since I have your attention, hopefully you don’t mind strange questions but…”
“I’ve had my share.”
“…where can I look up someone’s family history to see a possible list of living relatives?”
“Are you using a blood sample?”
“No.” She paused. “It’s an umbilical cord.”
Milo looked at her quizzically.
Oh God, I’m freaking him out. Yeah, he definitely thinks I’m weird now.
“Is this your umbilical cord?”
“No, it’s for my friend Camilla. Let’s just say she came into possession of it somehow. It’s complicated.”
Milo stared at her as if trying to make sense of this enigmatic woman. Perhaps there was something more to that vacant expression.
“I can’t say I have experience with that,” he chuckled at length. “Blood borne illnesses are my specialty, not genealogy. You may have better luck asking a family historian.”
“Thanks for pointing me in the right direction. Well, you certainly won’t have any shortage of weird questions with me around.”
Well, that settles it. I can check him off the list of potential boyfriends. Damn it, Camilla!
Milo smirked and sauntered off to the cold depths of his blood lab. Vivian didn’t know any genealogists but she knew the second best thing: Gavin. Formerly her anatomy professor, he worked the bar at the Toxic Mistress. The cybergoth hotspot was notorious for orgies, drugs, and underground trade in the VIP rooms. Smuggling an umbilical cord inside seemed harmless in comparison.
With a sigh, Vivian checked her clinical schedule for today. She was scheduled to help with transport in the morgue.
“Today is the very definition of morbid,” she chuckled. The morgue was discretely tucked away where no one would stumble across its refrigerated compartments and inhabitants. As Vivian trotted down to the basement, she wondered if the morgue shared the same refrigeration infrastructure as the cafeteria. That notion was slightly amusing to her.
The security attendant on duty seemed stingy when he greeted her. Aside from a mumbled “hey” and “let’s get going,” his social skills were severely lacking. Perhaps that was an inevitable consequence of working with the deceased. His mood was probably dampened by the low pay and undying cold, too.
Icy whispers rushed out as soon as the guard opened the doors to the mortuary. To Vivian’s relief, it wasn’t the crimson slaughterhouse she was expecting. It seemed more sterile than any patient ward she set foot in.
The red tiles were worn from tables being wheeled in and out of the room as the dead journeyed to their final destination. If not for the low temperature, the fans would have surely chilled her to the marrow.
Vivian scanned the human-shaped bundles sacrificed on stainless steel tables. Paper shrouds were draped across the nude corpses in various stages of decay. The scent of formaline masked the stench of ammonia, methane, and liquefied tissue.
One cadaver in particular stood out among the other piles. He, she, or whatever it was under the sheet must have easily weighed five hundred pounds.
“That’s the fourth junkie overdose this week,” the security attendant said. “He won’t fit inside a compartment and the higher-ups are taking too long to authorize his transfer. At this point, I just want to mitigate the stench as much as possible. Can you check the identification? Just to make sure we’re not eviscerating the wrong body.”
“Not a problem.” Vivian studied the instruments in the morgue as she approached the corpse. Scales used for hanging body parts dangled from the ceiling, oddly reminiscent of the hanging cages in the Vesica Piscis art gallery. She would rather work overnight in the morgue than return to that haunt.
She lifted the linen sheet off the cadaver’s legs and grimaced at the purplish-grey tinge of his skin. She held her breath and quickly checked the toe tag. The guard was probably getting a kick out of making her get this close to a—
The corpse spasmed.
“What the hell!”
The guard doubled over in laughter.
“He’s been doing that all morning! His nervous system is still shooting off. Sorry, I need to have my fun with the new students.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t club that thing in the head! Are you sure it’s not one of the morgue techs hiding under the sheet?”
“You’re welcome to check.”
“No, I’d prefer to keep my lunch in my stomach.”
In spite of herself, Vivian couldn’t help but grin at the poor joke.
“You want to see something really horrifying?”
Vivian turned a curious gaze on him. She wondered what else this morgue concealed besides severed limbs and maggot-infested bodies.
“I’ve seen my share of horror. Not much impresses me these days.”
“An innocent lady like you? I didn’t have you pegged as the sinister type. Well, maybe you’ll enjoy this then.”
“What exactly?”
The guard delicately lifted a shroud off a female corpse. The woman’s face was marbled with splotches of decay and degenerating vessels. The skin was slipping in folds on her face and neck, but it did little to disguise the boiling lesions. There was no mistaking, it was the homeless woman who succumbed on Vivian’s first day of clinicals. Crenshaw, the head surgeon, was too hasty to write her off as a drug overdose.
Her emaciated frame was fast disintegrating on the table as the bacteria once housed in her gastrointestinal spilled out.
“Disgusting, isn’t it?”
Vivian didn’t reply. Her head was swimming at the sight of this hub of meat-eating bacteria. Maybe I’m imagining a problem when there’s none. But if there’s the slightest chance…
An idea popped into her head that certainly guaranteed dismissal from the nursing program—if she was caught. When the attendant turned his head, she quickly flipped out her phone. Her pulse was pounding and she worked hard to steady her hands. She snapped a picture of the lesions on the corpse.
The guard looked up from his paperwork as Vivian tucked away her phone.
Maybe Gavin could answer her nagging doubts about these markings—and forgive her crime against ethical behavior.
* * *
The Toxic Mistress was every shade of splendor and debauchery that an outcast could ever long for. Located on the cusp of Wenceslas Square, it funneled str
ay onlookers inside who wouldn’t be seen again for nights at a time—if they were fortunate.
Of course, one couldn’t enter the Toxic Mistress in any other attire besides elegant, dark, twisted, and lurid. Vivian was loath to disappoint anyone who turned an eye her way.
She was dressed in a halter mini-dress strung together from liquid red spandex. Always straddling the border between sexy and excessive, the keyhole cutout plunged down to her navel. Vivian designed much of her own club attire because the boutiques simply didn’t measure up to her level of “cute.”
With the aid of contacts, Vivian’s eyes wore the guise of black sclera and white irises. Jet black lipstick was painted on her mouth and bone-colored rose was nestled in her hair.
She noted the addition of blue velvet curtains that cordoned off VIP lounges. Stranger still, the Toxic Mistress seemed refurbished in the spirit of a hospital.
Sometimes it was a wonder how such a place still operated within the cage of society. It was a fringe sanctuary for the disenfranchised and disinherited. The medical overtones in the club reminded her somewhat of the University Hospital, from the cybergoth nurse outfits to an absinthe-dispensing IV. The Victorian elements had been dialed down in favor of a more medical approach—like an abandoned surgical ward.
Vivian didn’t want to reminisce about clinicals now. She distracted herself by searching for a familiar face among the clients.
Always curious about what crawled in off the streets, she noticed a man being intravenously injected with glowing liquid. Truly, there was nothing sweeter then delirium directly shunted to the brain.
Men and women with a fetish for leather congregated in the far corners. They wore bizarre headdresses, goggles, artificial dreadlocks, or gas masks layered in spikes.
Some appeared to have prosthetic legs and arms equipped with surgical attachments. In the light, it was hard to tell whether those appendages were genuine or optical illusions. She dreaded to think someone would swap their prosthetic hands out for hooks at the end of the day.
Arsenic for the Soul Page 5