A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice)

by Michael E. Henderson

  It occurred to her that if she were indeed in the eighteenth century, there might be occasion for her to go out, or to be seen in public where she would need to be dressed accordingly. So, she had them bring her a reasonable collection of clothing from the era. To what extent she would cooperate in such events, she didn’t know, but she might be able to turn them to her advantage. If she were going to cause trouble for Charles, there was no reason not to look good doing it.

  Lastly, in the event she was able to develop a plan of escape, she would need to have a disguise. Clothes of the era that would allow her to blend in, rather than stand out as a noble. Fortunately, the Venetians had taken care of this for her. She would need only bauta and moretta masks, a three-cornered hat, a long black dress, and a shawl. All women of the upper and middle classes wore such outfits when going out. So, this she ordered as well.

  One morning the woman arrived as usual with breakfast. Rose had spoken kindly to her to gain her trust and out of sympathy and respect for her plight of being a servant in that era, but she had never asked her name. Today, she would.

  The woman placed the tray on the small table and prepared to leave, saying, “Prego, signora.”

  “Aspetta,” Rose said. “Wait.”

  “Signora?”

  “What is your name?”

  The woman gazed at the floor.

  Rose touched her arm. “Please, you can tell me.”

  “Giovanna,” the woman said in a low voice.

  “That’s a beautiful name. I’m sorry I haven’t asked you before.”

  The woman stood quietly.

  “Do you live in this house?”

  “Sì.”

  “Has Charles told you anything about me?”

  “I’m not to discuss it.”

  “You know I have a family?”

  Giovanna did not reply.

  “I would like to get back to them.”

  Silence.

  “You can help me.”

  Giovanna met Rose’s eyes with her own dark, intelligent eyes. Eyes with a touch of rebelliousness. “No, signora, there is nothing I can do. Now, may I please go? They will wonder.”

  “Yes, you may go. You and I will speak again.”

  Giovanna rushed from the room, closing the door behind her.

  BRIGHAM, GLORIA, AND MAURO crept hesitantly down a long, narrow street toward a large wooden door set in a Gothic arch. The light behind them cast tall shadows that slid along the pavement and up the wall as they moved. Across the door’s weathered, greenish-blue stain snaked red spray-paint graffiti. A huge bronze knocker hung in the center of the door, to which was tied a bundle of weeds, feathers, and bones.

  “This is it,” Gloria whispered.

  “How do you know this woman?” Brigham asked.

  Mauro looked around apprehensively, checking each corner for danger.

  “She helped me with some… spiritual matters.”

  “What is she?” Brigham asked. “A witch?”

  “Something like that.”

  A rat scampered past them out of the darkness, disappearing into other darkness.

  “Andiamo,” Mauro said. “Let’s go.”

  “Did you bring the scorpion oil?” Brigham asked him.

  “Yeah, I got it. Now, somebody knock on the door.”

  Gloria lifted the knocker three times, each time letting it fall hard. The heavy pounding of metal against metal reverberated through the house. After a short time, the latch clunked and the door creaked open.

  A woman no more than four feet tall smiled at them through a nearly toothless mouth set in a pleasant cherub face wrinkled with age and framed in white hair. She greeted Gloria with fond recognition and a kiss on each cheek. She bade them come in.

  They entered a large room around which sat small groupings of furniture and several sleeping cats, a few lying on tables, others on beds. Great oriental rugs covered the ancient terrazzo floor. In spite of its size, the room felt warm and comfortable, and smelled of incense. Small lamps provided a cozy dim light and a faint haze hung in the air. A young Chinese woman served a tray of tea and small cakes, and they all sat around a low coffee table.

  The old woman motioned toward the tray. “Prego.” She spoke mainly Venetian, so Mauro translated.

  “Please, help yourselves. Gloria told me your story. You are the shroud eater?” she asked, her eyes fixed on Brigham.

  Her look caused him to blink. “Yes.”

  “I’ve never seen one before. You look a bit worn, but otherwise seem normal. We’ve been told stories that they’re horrible creatures.”

  “We are horrible creatures,” Brigham said. “But we appear normal. That is the true danger.”

  She nodded. “I may be able to help you. Did you bring the oil?”

  Mauro handed her the vial. She held it up to the light, opened it, and smelled it.

  “Yes,” she said, “this is scorpion oil. They used it to heal wounds, but it was known to have other, more mysterious properties.”

  She sipped her tea. Brigham, not given to the drinking of tea, munched on one of the little cakes. A cat walked slowly across his feet.

  “We have heard two stories,” Brigham said. “That the oil kills shroud eaters and that it can cure them.”

  The woman put her cup and saucer on the table with a clatter and nodded. “It has both properties. It can kill a vampire or shroud eater. Combined with other treatments, though, it can cure them. Make them human again.”

  “What other treatments?” Brigham asked.

  A cat that had been sleeping on a nearby table stood up lazily and arched its back, stretching.

  “After you drink the oil, you have to drink the still-warm blood of a newly slaughtered lamb,” the woman said.

  Gloria winced. “Somewhat biblical, is it not?”

  “Yeah,” Brigham said. “Certainly has a familiar ring to it. A bit cliché, don’t you think?”

  The old woman held up her hand. “I see you are not believers, but do not laugh at that which you do not understand. Everywhere you turn in the Bible, the Lord is requiring the sacrifice of the blood of a lamb to atone for and cleanse people of sins and to purify the soul. This is why our Savior Jesus Christ is called the Lamb of God. His blood washed away the sins of the world. For you, this is what needs to be done. You drink the oil, then drink the blood of the lamb, and this curse will be lifted from you.”

  “Va bene,” Mauro said. “Good. We understand. He doesn’t mean any disrespect.”

  The old woman bowed her head.

  “How do we get started?” Mauro asked.

  “I will arrange for the lamb,” the witch said, “then I’ll notify you when you are to come.”

  BRIGHAM SAT IN HIS STUDIO ALONE, drinking a martini and talking to Pink Jesus.

  “We have ourselves a dilemma,” Brigham said.

  “We?”

  “The royal we. It seems that we have the technology to return us back to our old self.” He retrieved an olive from the glass and started chewing.

  “So? What’s the dilemma?”

  “I’m not sure that’s what I want to do.”

  “Haven’t you learned anything?”

  Brigham leaned back, crossed his legs, and spit an olive pit across the room. “What should I have learned?”

  “You have been immortal for only a short time, yet you have caused the suffering of many innocent people.”

  Brigham stuck out his bottom lip in a thoughtful pout.

  “You yourself have done little other than suffer.”

  Brigham slurped his drink.

  “You have a hole in your side, and you have slipped into a funk of drinking and killing, punctuated by short bouts of painting.”

  “Where were you when I was looking for a wife?”

  “Speaking of wives, where is yours?”

  Brigham slurped his drink again, louder this time. “Now you’re getting mean.”

  “You need mean. All these friends of yours are nothin
g but enablers.”

  “No, they’re trying to help me.”

  “Has either of them told you to straighten yourself out?”

  Brigham thought for a minute but found no response. He spit another pit across the room.

  “What do you think Rose would have told you?”

  He shuddered. “Scares me to think of it.”

  “Weren’t you happy before?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Are you happy now?”

  Brigham sat quietly for a moment. “No,” he said at last. “No, I’m not.”

  “Your witness.”

  “And what am I supposed to do about Rose?”

  Pink Jesus didn’t answer.

  “Look what we have here.” He turned to see Charles standing in the doorway with two large men, who looked strong and brutal and not particularly wise.

  Fear and panic came over Brigham, his mouth became dry, and his heart beat as if someone were trying to kick his way out of his chest.

  “Charles,” he said in a raspy whisper.

  “I’ve come to have a little chat about the matter of a stick I found through my wife’s eye.”

  “What are you talking about? A stick through Samantha’s eye?”

  Charles smiled and indicated for Brigham to sit in one of the large chairs. He sat on the sofa, and his goons stood behind Brigham. “Oh, don’t play stupid. I know what happened, and I know who did it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re—”

  A goon struck Brigham in the head with his fist, knocking him from the chair to his knees. Charles nodded toward Brigham, and the man picked him up and planted him back in the chair.

  “Don’t fuck with me, son,” Charles said.

  “If you know everything, then why slap me around? Why not just do whatever it is you’re gonna do?”

  Charles held up a hand. “We’re getting to that. First, though, maybe you could tell me why you’re running around Venice searching tombs. And by the way, you don’t look good. You eating right?”

  “I was looking for my wife, and no,” Brigham said, trying to straighten his hair. “I’m not really taking care of myself. Probably could use a haircut and a shave and drink about a liter less gin every day.”

  Charles smiled briefly, then furrowed his brow. “You still think I had something to do with Rose’s disappearance?”

  “Yes, but that’s not why we were at Santa Maria Valverde.”

  “Pray tell.”

  Brigham explained about the book, why he ended up where he found Samantha, and why they had to dispatch her. He was right sorry things turned out the way they did, but it had to be done. She had attacked him, and all he was trying to do was see if she was still alive and in need of help.

  Charles leaned back, put his hands behind his head, and crossed his legs. He didn’t seem to be as irate about his wife as Brigham had expected.

  “Have you wine in this place?” Charles asked.

  “Of course,” Brigham said, nodding toward the other side of the room. “In the cabinet.”

  “Get it. I’ll have red.”

  Brigham got up, poured the wine, and handed it to Charles. He offered some to the goons, but they declined, remaining stoic behind Brigham’s chair. He sat back down.

  Charles sipped the wine and surveyed the room. “You’re quite busy,” Charles said. “What are you working on?”

  “I’m preparing for a show.”

  “Oh, you have a show. That’s quaint. And these paintings are for the show?”

  “Yes.”

  Charles waved to the other goon, who began to kick easels over and slice canvases with a knife.

  Brigham shouted to him and tried to get up to intervene. Charles motioned to the man still standing behind Brigham, who took a spring-loaded nail gun out of his coat pocket, held Brigham’s hand down on the arm of the chair, and popped a nail through it, attaching it firmly to the chair. Brigham shrieked in pain.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” Brigham gasped. “Tell me what you want. I’m sorry about what happened to Samantha but she attacked me. Be reasonable.”

  Charles laughed. “Do I look like a reasonable man to you? You’ve seen my dungeon.”

  Brigham rested his head on the back of the chair, eyes closed. The pain from the nail in his hand pounded up his arm. Through gritted teeth, he said, “I see your point.”

  “And as to the woman, I’ve been trying to get rid of her for decades.”

  Brigham raised his brow. “Then this isn’t about Samantha?”

  “No. I’m angry because you were snooping.”

  Brigham growled in pain. “I explained all that to you. It had nothing to do with you. We were looking for my wife.

  Charles motioned to the goons. They freed Brigham’s hand, causing him to cry out.

  “Be that as it may,” Charles said, “I can’t have you running around searching tombs.”

  Brigham held his nail-pierced hand, using an old painting rag to absorb the blood. “All right, then, a word to the wise and all that.”

  Charles shook his head. “I’m afraid I have to take a more… active role in this. You need to be restrained for a while.”

  Charles motioned to his henchmen, who took hold of Brigham and led him to the door and out into the darkness of the pre-dawn.

  BRIGHAM SHIVERED VIOLENTLY in the snow and brisk wind. His hand and side burned and throbbed with pain. They dragged him down the street and through a bricked-up doorway, which led not to another time, but to a dark, cold, wet, and windowless room, piled with straw for a bed. They threw him in, shackled his legs to the floor, and shut the door. Utter darkness fell on him like deep wet sand—a darkness so intense it hurt his eyes and stifled his mind. It felt as though he were encased in lead.

  The chain on his legs, attached to the floor at a large metal ring, allowed him only slight movent. He lay on the musty, moldy, rotting straw, which mitigated the chill damp of the floor only minimally, and stared into the darkness, though he couldn’t tell whether his eyes were open or closed. The ammonia of bodily waste hung heavy in the room. From a distance came the sounds of people howling in agony, screams of torture, and the ring of a steel hammer on iron nails being driven into wood. His hand and side were wet and sticky with blood.

  He began to imagine the sorts of vermin inhabiting the place and felt them crawling on him. Struggling against the chain, he tried to shoo them away, shouting in fear. But they were not there. He thought he saw them, but in this darkness, in the complete absence of light, there were only images his mind conjured. Nothing was real. In the world of light, images had three elements: that which really existed; that which existed only as an interpretation of the light that came into one’s brain; and that which existed purely as a fabrication of the mind. Not always easy to tell one from the other, or to what extent each such element was present in what one saw. Here, however, there were only the inventions of his mind.

  Deeds done and not done; real and imaginary; images of things accomplished and things not yet accomplished; crimes committed and crimes yet to be committed… all played out in front of his unseeing eyes; not asleep, but awake and alert. Images of blood, feeling the hot breath and steamy warmth from those about to die. It occurred to him during this show, imagining the blood, that he wouldn’t be able to satisfy his need for blood here unless given it by his jailers. Maybe that was the plan: let him starve here, driven insane by the need. Maybe they would toss him something now and again. Or would he go without? What would happen in a hundred years? Now totally powerless, he could do nothing for himself or for Rose. But he had been here only a few minutes. Maybe they would come for him and let him out. No, he would die and rot here. No, wait, he can’t die. He would only rot.

  The images from his mind didn’t stop until at last he fell asleep. That is, he must have fallen asleep, for he woke disoriented, not remembering where he was, thinking he should be somewhere but seeing nothing in the solid black darkness of his tomb. Is that
where he was? In a tomb? Not dead, not capable of being dead, but treated as though dead? Buried alive. Forever.

  Feeling around, he found a bowl of water. He drank. He reckoned that he had been chained here only a few hours. No way to tell time. What could be done? Shout for help. Maybe someone would hear him. In calling out, it felt as though the sound didn’t leave the room. Like screaming under water. He lay back on the straw, trying to fathom what had happened to him and trying to imagine what might happen to him in the immediate future. Had he just been tossed in here to starve? No, Charles wouldn’t do that. He had a plan for him. Maybe he just wanted to get his attention. Maybe he would flay him and treat him like the others. Charles showed no reluctance to cause mortal pain. Oh, he had thrown in with an evil man. But then, he hadn’t been thrown in, but been hijacked. He lay back and slept again.

  He woke with his hand and side in burning, stabbing pain and an unbearable, aching urge for blood. Nobody had come, or at least he wasn’t able to find any evidence in the pitch-colored air of his prison that they had come, and he couldn’t smell anything. He would be able to smell it. He had nothing to eat and no apparent prospect of getting anything.

  He lay on his back in the straw, the darkness pressing his eyes like thumbs. Up to his nostrils in self-pity and drowning in hate for himself and the whole world—hate for man, woman, life, death—wondering how he had come to this calamitous state of affairs.

  With a thud and a ray of dim light from the door, two brutish men barged into the cell with a roll of barbed wire and the implements for stretching it, cutting it, and attaching it to the metal rings embedded in the floor.

  “What are you doing?” Brigham asked, but they didn’t answer.

  One of the men held Brigham down while the other began stringing barbed wire over him, through the rings, pulling it tight, particularly over his forehead. Brigham screamed as the barbs cut into his flesh. The beastly men ignored his pathetic entreaties to stop and didn’t answer any of his questions as to why and how long? When they had finished their horrible task he lay secured to the floor under a dense net of barbed wire and pain, unable to move and barely able to breathe. Slipping in and out of consciousness, he lost track of time. He struggled not to move, as even the slightest motion caused the wire to bite deeper into his skin. He remained thus bound for unknown hours, or days, without food or water or blood. His thirst hurt almost as much as the barbs.