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

by Michael E. Henderson

  Visions of things past, both real and not real, filled his mind. Walking on the beach in Florida just before sunrise, when the world is no longer dark, but gray. Little crabs running sideways over the sand from one hole to another, the sky a pale gray-blue, and the water an intense and beautiful silvery light blue, crashing gently over the sand. The black sky in Jamaica, foggy with stars, meteors streaking and exploding. Dreaming of things past, things as they were, or things as he wished they would have been.

  XXV

  The snappy twang of wire being cut brought Brigham back to consciousness. A figure squatted next to him, busy at work freeing him from the barbed wire. He couldn’t make out who it was at first, as it looked like half a person, yet whoever it was seemed vaguely familiar. Then he saw the hat and angular face of Tiberio. Brigham started to speak, but Tiberio shushed him, finished cutting the wire, unlocked the shackles, and led him out into the night, back to his studio.

  “Quite a little mess you’ve gotten yourself into,” Tiberio said.

  “I don’t know what happened. One minute everything was going swimmingly, and the next minute I was in a dungeon.”

  “We’ve got to move fast. You’ve pissed off one of the most evil spawns of Hell ever to soil the earth.”

  Brigham’s entire body throbbed in pain and was racked by a hunger and thirst for blood. They summoned Gloria to come over and donate blood. She came to the studio and made her contribution, but it wasn’t enough. In fact, the need grew stronger, and it was all he could do not to dispatch Gloria in the manner of the others. He had to go out. They implored him not to do it, but he couldn’t stop. On the street he would have taken her without hesitation, but not now. They left the studio, and he went out. Although ordinarily reluctant to do so, he decided this night to do his work in another time.

  THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY was the best era to visit by going through a portal. Clothing of that period was generally available in present-day Venice, and people wore masks. The streets were dark, and although not particularly sanitary, it was not the cesspool of earlier centuries. He passed through the portal that took him to the small campo behind the church of San Nicolò dei Mendicoli, where he was not likely to be noticed and which was an easy walk to Campo Santa Margherita.

  While Charles and Lorenzo tended to bring their victims back to modern-day Venice, he intended to do his work in that time. It was unusual to find a woman walking by herself at night in 1756, but there were ladies of the evening in certain parts of town, and he would perhaps take advantage of their… charms. He would hire one of these women and visit his own charms upon her in the privacy of her room.

  Although Brigham was in need of blood and flesh, Gloria’s contribution had taken the edge off the blood urge, and he had the desire for a glass of wine. In his mask and tri-corner hat, he entered a wine bar in Campo Santa Margherita and took a seat at a small wooden table in the back of the room. This was actually a fabulous period in which to visit bars and cafés. Candles provided the only light, there was no horrible music blasting from a stereo, and the only smoking was an occasional pipe, the filthy cigarette not yet invented.

  The waitress placed a half liter of wine and a glass before him, and he began to drink. The other patrons sat at tables or stood near the bar drinking, in their long coats and breeches, some with masks, all wearing tri-corner hats. A man was playing a wooden flute at a table next to the counter. As Brigham took in this scene, three people entered the bar, led by Charles, his face uncovered while his companions, a man and a woman, wore masks.

  Brigham at first felt panic, but then he remembered that his face, too, was obscured by a mask. As the three approached the center of the room near the bar, it became plain that the man was Augusto, whose white hair protruded from under his hat. The woman must be Deborah, though none of her features were visible under her lacy shawl and skirt.

  He had not yet run across Deborah or Augusto in Venice at night going about the business of being shroud eaters. Perhaps this was why.

  The three sat at a table opposite the bar with a liter of wine and a loaf of bread. This bar had gotten a tad crowded for Brigham, so he rose to leave. He paid the barista and started for the door. As he passed Charles’s table, Charles said, “Brigham.”

  How did he know? Should he stop? No, keep going. He ignored Charles and continued into the Venetian night. What now? Charles knew he was here. Or perhaps Charles thought he was mistaken. What if he followed him? Brigham turned. No one there. He would go to the Rialto and the tangle of narrow streets near the market.

  The cool air smelled of burning wood. He had been in other times briefly with others, but this was his first time alone. The similarities between present-day Venice and Venice of the eighteenth century were striking. The city was essentially the same, physically. Certainly there had been changes in some of the buildings and a number of canals had been filled in after this period, but the layout of the city was largely unchanged. The differences were also striking. Most notably, it was very dark. There were no street lamps and few sources of light. Many of the streets and squares were still paved in brick, and the city was a place for people to live, rather than a sight for tourists.

  Not far from the Frari Church, a young and attractive woman propositioned him. His desire for blood and flesh gave him pause to consider the offer, but he was too close to Campo Santa Margherita and Charles. He waved her off and continued toward the Rialto. Among the columns of the covered walkway just on the other side of Campo San Polo he was again approached. He didn’t understand what the woman said, but she was suitable, and her body language said it all. It didn’t matter the cost; he didn’t intend to pay.

  She led him to a door, unlocked it, and led him up narrow and dark stairs to a small room on the third floor. Now quite ill due to his need, he grew impatient and began to tremble. The woman sensed this and spoke to him in a calming tone, apparently believing that the shaking was due to fear.

  The woman lit a candle on a small dresser along a wall, thus revealing a large chair in one corner and a bed along the wall opposite the door. She indicated for him to put his hat and mask on the chair. Taking him by the hand, she led him to the bed.

  The matter would wait no longer. The woman fussed with the bed, facing away from him. The moment was there, like when hunting deer when the animal halts twenty yards away, standing broadside. The moment when it all comes together and all you need to do is release the arrow. Any twinge of doubt or remorse would be ruinous. He began to free the knife from his cane. The woman pulled back the covers and adjusted the pillows. The dagger was free of its sheath, and he stood with it behind his back. Why didn’t he act? Was he afraid? Did he pity her? Yes, he pitied her, but she brought strange men to her room for sex. What did she expect?

  She had not finished preparing the bed when the door opened. There in the doorway stood a man with a short club. Brigham had walked into a trap. Her fooling with the bed was a delay tactic. Or was the man just there to collect? No, this was not how it was done. The man said something and pointed to Brigham’s pocket. Brigham asked him how much; the man said “Tutto.” All of it. There was no decency in the world, not even in 1756. The man came nearer. Brigham’s remorse gone, he brought the knife up under the man’s chin, the blade penetrating into his brain through the roof of his mouth. The woman screamed and jumped on Brigham’s back. As the man fell, Brigham held on to the knife, sliding it from the man’s head. The woman clung to his back, striking and biting him. He stepped backward, slamming her into the wall. She held fast, pummeling him with her fists. He turned and with all his strength bashed her into the dresser. She fell, apparently unconscious. He took the knife to her.

  The kill of the man had been clean and quick. The woman, however, presented more of a… housekeeping challenge. When he had finished, he and the room were drenched in blood. The night and the mask would obscure some of it, but he would need to get back to the portal without drawing attention. He was in the eighteenth century, where they
dealt with such things as killing people with extreme prejudice. He had two murders for which to account, all due to the need for a tiny scrap of human meat. He should perhaps reconsider his methods. And whether to ever again leave the modern age. Perhaps he would just come back here for a coffee or a spot of wine. It was an interesting era, and he liked the atmosphere, but no more killing here. He made his way back to the portal and returned to the present.

  XXVI

  The days passed. Rose lost track of them but had a rough idea that it was on the order of a week. Or was it two? No matter. She had made progress with Giovanna to the extent that Rose was sure she would help her escape. She had developed a plan. She gave Giovanna bits of her breakfast—oranges, apples, butter, and jam—in exchange for information. Not that she had worked out such a deal expressly, but the gifts of food—a treat for a woman of Giovanna’s station—made her happy and loosened her tongue. The ultimate goal was to figure out how to get out of there back to the present.

  In addition to the food, Rose would occasionally cut a pearl or semiprecious stone from an inconspicuous place on one of the fancy dresses she had been allotted and slip it to Giovanna just as she left. Giovanna would hold it in her hand, admiring its sheen for a moment, then tuck it away, bow slightly, and all but run through the door.

  In the course of her days there, Rose explored the maze, learning her way to its center and back. One afternoon, Giovanna appeared carrying a satchel. She motioned for Rose to come to her and opened it. There lay a crossbow and arrows, or “bolts” as they are known, several inches long, made of stout wood and tipped with a heavy, imposing metal point.

  “What’s this for?” Rose asked.

  Giovanna did not answer. Instead, she set up a small wooden target on a hedge at the end of the row and nodded her head, indicating that Rose watch her. Giovanna took the bow and put her foot in a loop of metal at the end of it that looked like a stirrup. She pulled back the string, which latched in place. She placed a bolt in a groove in front of the string, notching it on the string, lifted it, and pointed it at the target. It had a metal bar for a trigger. Giovanna aimed and squeezed the trigger.

  The bolt shot with great force into the target, penetrating the wood.

  Giovanna handed Rose the bow. “Now you, signora.”

  Rose took the bow from Giovanna. The string was stiff and extremely difficult to pull back. The little woman must be stronger than she looked. Rose pointed it at the target and squeezed the lever. The force of it surprised her and the bolt went wide.

  “Again,” Giovanna said.

  Rose cocked the bow, loaded the bolt, and pointed to the target. This time, when she released it, it pierced the wood mere inches wide of the red spot painted in the center.

  “Brava, signora.” Giovanna said. “Again.”

  Rose cocked and loaded the crossbow, pointed it at the target, and squeezed. The bolt struck the spot.

  “Bene,” Giovanna said. “Good.”

  Rose thought this must be just a way to pass the time, but Giovanna retrieved the target and the bolts, took the bow and the satchel, and turned to Rose. “Now you know. Don’t forget.”

  “Now I know what?” Rose asked. But Giovanna had disappeared into the maze.

  BRIGHAM RETURNED TO HIS STUDIO to find Gloria there, and Tiberio snoozing in one of the large chairs. He sat on the sofa and put his head back. Gloria wiped his forehead with a towel. “You’ve been busy tonight.”

  “If only you knew. How’d you get in here?”

  “We heard sirens and came back to find you. You should lock the door when you leave.”

  Brigham frowned. “Good point. So, you thought the sirens were about me?”

  “We thought there was a chance.”

  Tiberio woke. “Brigham, you’re back.”

  “Yes,” Brigham said. “Back from the dead, so to speak.”

  “I hope you can function. We have work to do tonight.”

  Brigham covered his eyes with the palms of his hands. “Tonight? I’m pretty spent.”

  “It has to do with Rose. I think I know where she is.”

  Brigham looked up, suddenly alert. “I’m listening.”

  Gloria placed a freshly brewed cup of coffee in his hand. “We have to go to San Michele.”

  “The cemetery island?”

  “Yes,” Tiberio said. “I have information that leads me to believe she is there, or that we will find some evidence as to where she is.”

  “Let’s go,” Brigham said.

  SNOW SWIRLED AROUND THEM as they rode in a small motor boat toward the cemetery island of San Michele. The choppy waves tossed them around violently. Brigham, prone to seasickness, had to lie down, using the satchel Tiberio had given him as a pillow.

  “I thought you were a seagoing man,” Gloria said to Brigham.

  “I was. That’s how I know I get seasick.”

  The boat rode the waves over the lagoon toward the cemetery. Through the snow they could see the lights of Murano to the north and of Venice to the south, glowing like stars through fog.

  Toward them from the east came a single bright light.

  “What’s that?” Gloria asked.

  Brigham squinted. “I don’t know.”

  “Just another boat,” Tiberio said.

  “It’s coming right at us,” Gloria said.

  “Don’t worry, they’ll see our lights,” said Tiberio. “We have the right-of-way.”

  The light continued directly toward them, increasing speed. Tiberio steered out of the way. The light turned toward them. They turned again, and again the boat followed them.

  “They’re chasing us,” Gloria shouted.

  “Why would they do that?” Brigham asked.

  “I did liberate you from Charles’s dungeon,” Tiberio said. “Maybe he followed us.”

  They tried again to avoid the boat bearing down on them, but it made a corresponding change in course.

  Tiberio shouted the warning used in Venice as a horn. “Oy! Oy!”

  The craft continued to speed toward them.

  “Load the crossbow,” Tiberio said. “It’s in the satchel. Do you know how?” He steered directly toward the cemetery island, the engine at full throttle.

  Brigham struggled with the bag as the boat took air and slapped on the water, but he managed to get the satchel open. “Yes, I’ve done it before.”

  The force of hitting the waves knocked Brigham down, but he regained his balance. He put his foot in the stirrup of the bow, pulled back the string, and put a bolt in the groove.

  The light streaked toward them. Just before contact, Tiberio steered sharply to the right, avoiding a collision. The wake from the speedboat nearly swamped them. It zoomed past, spraying them with water. Brigham was unable to get off a shot.

  “That was close!” Brigham exclaimed.

  “Yeah,” Gloria said. “I think he’s trying to kill us.” She turned in the direction of the speedboat.

  “Yes,” Brigham said, “and I saw the driver. It’s Charles.”

  “I suspected as much,” Tiberio said.

  Charles turned and headed for them again.

  “Looks like you’ll get another chance,” Tiberio said.

  Tiberio brought them to a near stop. They bobbed in the water, watching as the boat raced toward them. Brigham began to feel sick.

  “Why the bow and arrow?” Brigham asked. “Why not a nice big shotgun?”

  Tiberio had his hand on the throttle of the small outboard motor and looked off toward the light speeding toward them. “The arrows will kill him, but the shotgun might not.”

  “It’s the old stake through the heart,” Gloria said.

  “Something like that,” Tiberio said.

  Tiberio steered them into the path of the oncoming boat and waited. As Charles’s boat sped toward them, Brigham fired the bow, and Tiberio gunned the motor. The arrow glanced off the windshield, and Charles’s boat narrowly missed them.

  “Next time,” Tiberio said, �
��wait until he passes and try to hit him in the back.”

  Again, the light zoomed toward them. They managed to get out of the boat’s path, but barely, as the other vessel grazed their motor, knocking them about the boat. Brigham got to his knees and launched the arrow at Charles’s back. It missed to the right of Charles and stuck in the dashboard.

  “One more time,” Brigham said. “I have this figured out.” He cocked the bow and loaded a bolt.

  As Charles approached them the next time, Brigham could see flashes of light. Charles was shooting at them. Bullets snapped overhead, and a few struck the boat, sending splinters into the air. Something warm splattered Brigham’s face. Gloria had taken a bullet through the neck and sat clutching her throat, blood gushing from between her fingers, her eyes wide and her mouth open.

  “Gloria’s been shot!” Brigham shouted. He reached for her just as her eyes went blank and she fell over the side.

  “The motor’s been hit, too,” Tiberio cried.

  Brigham aimed the bow just as Charles crashed into them, splintering their boat and sending them into the lagoon. In the darkness Brigham gulped mouthfuls of icy saltwater but had managed to keep hold of the bow. He kept his face above water long enough to get off a shot, which struck Charles in the thigh. The lights of Charles’s boat receded rapidly toward Murano.