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

by Michael E. Henderson

  “Yes,” Brigham said. “Right here.” He gave it to her.

  “First,” she said, “you will drink the oil. Then, I will cut the lamb’s throat, and you will drink its blood.”

  Brigham found the idea revolting, though he himself had committed much more heinous acts than that against the flesh of humans. He nodded.

  “We have to wait a few moments after taking the oil before giving you the blood. You will need to drink enough of the oil to kill you, but if you drink the blood within an hour, you will live.”

  “Lovely,” Brigham said. “Then let’s synchronize watches.”

  The witch poured the liquid into a small glass and handed it to Brigham. “Drink.”

  Brigham put the cup to his lips, hesitated for a moment, glanced at Mauro and the witch, then downed its contents, coughing and gagging. The witch stared at him, blinking with small wet eyes.

  “How is it?” Mauro asked.

  “Fucking horrible.”

  “Now we wait,” the witch said.

  “Let’s not lose track of time,” Brigham choked out.

  The witch tied the back legs of the lamb together and pulled it up, using a rig attached to a pole, positioning the animal above Brigham.

  As the witch brought out a large knife, her head exploded into a pink mist, sending blood and brain in a wide swath through the garden. She crumpled to a pile under the lamb.

  Brigham and Mauro, stunned, saw Charles standing at the entrance to the courtyard with his two goons, one of whom held a large handgun with a silencer, a fine thread of smoke rising from its barrel.

  The last time Brigham saw Charles he was lying on the floor of the hospital with an arrow sticking out of him, ready to be put into a body bag. He now stood before them looking healthy and fit, dressed in a dark suit with a large orange silk handkerchief flapping from his breast pocket.

  “I must have lost my invitation to your little party,” Charles said.

  Brigham and Mauro stood silently, staring at Charles.

  “Oh, that is a nice touch,” Charles said, his eyes moving to the lamb. “Now, why were you and this old hag torturing that poor little sheep?”

  Brigham gazed at Charles, unable to speak but thinking that the clock was running on the scorpion oil. He needed to drink the lamb’s blood or he would die. Finally, he was able to croak out, “Charles.”

  “In the flesh. You weren’t expecting me?”

  “Not really,” Brigham said. “The last time I saw you, you were pretty much dead.”

  Charles smiled. “You forget, lad, I’m immortal.”

  “But I thought—”

  “You thought that the arrows would kill me? Well, we are told a lot of bullshit in this world.”

  “Indeed,” Brigham said, looking at his watch. He had fifty minutes.

  Charles motioned to his men, who gagged Brigham and Mauro, tied their hands behind their backs, blindfolded them, and led them to a large speedboat. They pulled away from the poles along the canal and moved slowly through the narrow waterway. The boat sped up and the water became rougher. Must be entering the Grand Canal. By the tilting of the boat as they turned, he could tell they were headed toward Saint Mark’s Basin. He couldn’t see, but he knew that Charles’s henchmen guarded them. They turned right, then sped up, now in the Giudecca Canal. Where were they going? He had to act. The goons had exchanged words, so he knew where they were positioned in the boat in relation to him. He couldn’t allow Charles to get to wherever he was taking them. He had to act. Now.

  He moved closer to the men guarding them and through the gag made loud retching sounds. He moved toward the front of the boat and continued pretending to be throwing up. The guards expressed disgust and moved aside. Mauro, apparently understanding what was going on, moved toward the back, followed by one of the men. He, too, began to make the sound of vomiting. The man moved away from him to the edge of the boat. The guards yelled at each other over the noise of the engine. Brigham and Mauro fell against the men, attempting to knock them over the side. Brigham succeeded, but Mauro went over with his guard into the water.

  Brigham used the edge of the door to free his blindfold. Charles was steering the boat, apparently unaware of what had happened. Brigham crawled slowly toward the front. The boat lurched on a wave, sending him to the floor and crashing him against the bulkhead. Charles turned and, upon seeing Brigham, jerked the wheel, causing the boat to veer sharply right, then left. Brigham brought himself within reach of Charles and kicked him hard in the knee. Charles let go of the wheel, and the boat spun to the right and came crashing to a stop against the pier at the Dogana Point.

  The force of the impact sent them both to the floor. Brigham’s hands were still tied behind his back. Charles kicked him vigorously, landing several healthy blows to Brigham’s face and ribs, striking the old stab wound in his side several times. In spite of searing and agonizing pain, Brigham managed to kick Charles backward, giving himself time to sit through his arms and bring his hands in front of him. With both hands put together like one big fist, he struck Charles on the side of his head, sending him into the water.

  Brigham jumped to the street and ran. The immortal and apparently indestructible Charles climbed out of the canal and ran after him.

  A large crane stood at the edge of the water, next to the church of Santa Maria della Salute. Surely, the old man wouldn’t follow him up the crane. The erroneousness of this analysis became evident when Charles climbed rapidly behind him. Brigham felt a burning pain in his right foot and then the whiz of bullets going past his head. The son of a bitch had shot him in the foot. He slipped on the blood and found himself hanging from a bar by his tied-together hands, about two hundred feet above the pavement, with Charles approaching fast and shooting.

  Brigham got a leg over the bar and regained his footing, in spite of the excruciating pain from the gunshot. It was all he could do to remain conscious. Only adrenaline kept him going, dulling the pain and giving him strength.

  Charles closed in behind him but stopped firing.

  “Get down, old man,” Brigham shouted. “You’re going to fall.”

  “Your concern for me is touching.”

  Brigham continued to the top of the crane. Looking down, he became dizzy. He clung to the ladder, knuckles white, eyes closed, until he regained his composure. Charles grew nearer. The bastard must be Superman. Brigham crawled out on the arm of the crane, which stretched out over the dome of one of the church’s bell towers. Charles followed. He cut the ropes on his wrists on a protruding bolt, and clung to metal bars as the crane swayed and vibrated in the breeze. His arms and legs ached from exertion and fear.

  Charles grew nearer. What did this old man eat?

  At the end of the boom, Brigham had no place to go but down. He stopped to catch his breath and think. His wounds burned and tore at his flesh as if he were being flayed alive. He was out of options, time was running out on the elixir, and Charles was only a few feet behind him.

  “Jump, lad,” Charles shouted. “You’d be better off than with what I have planned for you.”

  In an instant, Charles was within arm’s reach. He grabbed hold of the foot he had shot and gave it a violent tug. Brigham felt as though his entire leg had been torn off, and nearly passed out from the pain. The force of the pull sent Brigham over the side, but he was able to hang on with one hand. Charles released the foot, leaving Brigham swinging in the wind that buffeted the crane. Wet with perspiration, his hand began to slip. He managed to get the other hand over the bar, then a leg. He pulled himself up.

  “You’re tougher than you look,” Charles said.

  Brigham lay there, trying to catch his breath.

  Charles reached out again toward the wounded foot. Brigham kicked him in the face. Charles slipped off the crane but caught himself and dangled above the towers of the church. As Charles’s hands slipped, he roared in frustration and attempted to throw his leg over a bar, but he lost his grip. He floated down, as if in slow m
otion, slamming to a stop when impaled by the cross atop the bell tower. After a moment, his body fell in two pieces to the ground.

  “So much for being immortal, my friend,” Brigham said.

  He clung by his legs and aching arms to the metal of the crane far above Venice. The canals glimmered below like rivers of stars, the boats like planets, moving silently through the darkness. The wind chilled him and shook the boom. Now, to get down and find a way back to the lamb. He checked his watch. Twenty minutes.

  Inching backward to the central part of the crane, Brigham was able to put a foot down on a rung, bring himself vertical again, and begin the descent. He thought about how to get to the witch’s house once he reached the bottom. The boat had crashed, but maybe it would still run. He looked down but couldn’t see it. Blood made his hands slippery and ran down his legs to his feet. As he made this discovery, he lost his footing, and his hands slipped off the rung. In free fall, the wind rushed past his ears until he crashed to a stop on a small platform.

  Pain tore through him like a ten-pound hammer. He had broken a leg. Afraid to look, for fear there was bone sticking out, he rested for a second, then started down again. He nearly fainted from the agony, but the leg held him up. Probably not a compound fracture. He continued down, with every cubic inch of his body searing, and blood oozing from several breaches of his hide. He was thirsty for water and blood, and had only minutes before the scorpion oil would kill him.

  Reaching the bottom, he crawled over to the boat. Water covered the bow, and the boat hung in the canal, ass-end up. He collapsed on the pavement, unable to go any farther. He lay there, barely conscious, the cold, salty water on his face. The tide had rolled over the pavement and continued to rise.

  IF HE LAY THERE MUCH LONGER, he would die. He managed to get to the wall of the Dogana, pull himself upright, and take a step on his broken leg. Pain pounded up his leg, causing him to fall back to the pavement. “You’ve got to get going, son,” he said to himself. “Find something to use as a crutch.”

  Around the corner was a gondola station and a stop for the traghetto. Maybe he could find an oar. Using the wall to hold himself up, Brigham inched around to where the boats docked. There, bobbing in the water of the Grand Canal sat a row of gondolas, a couple of taxis, and a beat-up and neglected boat with a small cabin, but was otherwise uncovered. He crawled along a wooden plank used as a pier and peeked inside. The boat contained a lot of junk and about six inches of standing water.

  He seized the edge of the boat, pulled it to the plank, and attempted to roll into it. As he reached the edge of the boat, a large wave heaved it into the air, pelting his face with icy water and nearly knocking him off the pier. A searing pain shot through his ribs and leg. He squeegeed the water from his face with his hand and tried again, this time landing face down in the filthy water in the bottom of the boat.

  Rifling through the pile of junk in the back, he found a thin yet stout piece of wood about four feet long. He tested it. It supported his weight. Getting back on the pier, he hobbled down the street toward the witch’s house, feet freezing in the water now covering the pavement.

  The scorpion oil was beginning to work. That is, to kill him. His mind was reeling, and his legs struggled to support him. The makeshift cane helped, but he was rapidly losing his strength. Careening off the buildings lining the street and leaning on his stick, he made headway. He fell onto the flooded pavement. The shocking cold of icy water on his face restored him. He staggered up with his cane and continued.

  All of his wounds burned in the salt of the water, which helped him remain conscious. The wind stung his eyes, and he found himself at a dead end. Where was the house? Close to panic, he turned about and continued the way he had come until he saw the tiny street leading to the witch’s house. He limped as quickly as he could to the door. With his strength fading, he fell against it. The door opened, and he collapsed to the floor just inside it.

  When he came to, Mauro was dragging him through the house into the garden. The lamb still hung by the feet.

  “Mauro!”

  “Brig, you’re still alive, but not for long.”

  “Help me up.” Mauro grabbed him, helping him to his feet. “Easy, I think I broke my leg.”

  Mauro led him to the spot under the lamb and searched for something with which to cut its throat. What was left of the witch lay where they had left her, the knife still in her hand. With a sweeping motion, Mauro cut the lamb’s throat, then cupped his hands under the flowing blood, directing it into Brigham’s mouth. Brigham began to lick the blood from his lips and swallow it.

  When the blood stopped flowing, Mauro hauled Brigham to a place in the garden where there was a bit of grass. “Brig!” he shouted at the still body of his friend.

  Brigham heard but couldn’t respond.

  “Brigham!” Mauro shouted, slapping his face.

  Brigham tried to speak, but nothing came out.

  “I hope that’s all there is to it,” Mauro said. “That’s all the witch told us to do.” He shook Brigham. Still no response. He put his ear to Brigham’s chest. “Still alive!” he whispered excitedly.

  Brigham tasted blood. Not human.

  Mauro shook Brigham again. “Come on, amico, stay with me. Don’t die after all that.” As Mauro lifted Brigham’s head, Brigham reached up and grabbed Mauro by the throat.

  “Water,” Brigham gasped. “Get me some water, you fucking monkey.”

  “Brig!”

  “Water!”

  XXX

  Brigham Stone, Esquire, now painter in Venice, man, not ghoul, stood at the door to his apartment. Cleaned up, hair cut, wearing a suit and tie, he prepared to enter. Perhaps he had overdone it with the suit, but he needed to make a grand entrance. He pushed the doorbell. Expecting him, Rose buzzed him in. He went up the stairs, and she opened the door to the apartment. The corgi stuck his nose out and sniffed excitedly.

  “Can I help you?” Rose said.

  “Very funny. Can I come in?”

  “Of course, but you have to be gone before my husband gets home.” Rose leaned up against the door frame.

  “You really should take that act on the road. You’re a natural.”

  Rose moved out of the way, motioning for Brigham to enter the apartment. The Corgi jumped on him and barked with excitement. The mutt hopped around, shaking his toy. “At least someone is glad to see me. The master of the house has returned.”

  “Now you are the funny one,” Rose said, closing the door behind him.

  “I do have a biting wit, as you know.”

  “Is that what they call it where you come from?” He approached her and looked her in the eyes, which turned red and filled with tears. He embraced her, and she began to sob.

  “Don’t cry,” he said softly. “I’m back.”

  She buried her face in his shoulder. Through her sobs, she said, “I thought I had lost you forever. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Neither did I.” He squeezed her tightly.

  After a few seconds, Rose leaned out so they stood in a loose hug. “Tell me what happened,” she said. “What did you do to your leg?”

  He hesitated for a moment looking down at the cast. “Oh, it’s a long story.”

  “Maybe you’ll tell me later.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked, wiping tears from her cheeks.

  “Coffee, thanks.”

  “Coffee? It’s well after noon,” Rose said from the kitchen doorway.

  “I stopped drinking.”

  Rose’s mouth dropped open. “You what? No booze? The gin industry is going to go under.”

  “They will have to make it without me. I’m dry. For good.” She made him a pot of coffee, they chatted for a while, then reconciled and made up. Repeatedly.

  “You’re not immortal anymore; you’re going to die someday,” she said after a short rest.

  “I’m good with that.”

  “You’re
good with that? Wasn’t this whole thing about your being afraid of death?”

  He waved his hand. “Not afraid of death, just not wanting to die,” he said, putting his arms around her waist and tugging her closer. “Now I’m cool with the idea.”

  “Then you have come around to believing in God?”

  “Now let’s not get nutty. I still don’t believe in God.”

  “Then what happened during your sojourn to change your mind?”

  “I have been to the mountain top, as it were.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Immortality isn’t a natural state of affairs. Creatures are born, they live, and they die. To do otherwise is an abomination and requires acts of incredible brutality and violence. It requires an utter disregard for human life and sacrifice of others for your own life. It is patently unjust and inhuman. A person, or more accurately, a thing that lives like that is not living. The idea seems fantastic upon first hearing, but the reality of it is so vile that it becomes worse than death.

  “I believe that death is a ceasing to be. One no longer exists in any form. But I didn’t exist before I was born, and I won’t exist after I die. All anyone can hope for is to live a long, happy life and to die without pain.”

  She smiled and stroked his hair. “You had to go through a lot to realize what most of us already knew. And you put us through a lot.”

  “Yes. I am a fool.”

  “Not anymore.”

  BRIGHAM WORKED THE NEXT DAY, first cleaning his studio and then painting. He still had the show in Rome coming up, and he had to crank out another work or two and repair or replace the paintings that Charles’s goons had sliced.

  He had never seen such filth. It reminded him of a cage at the zoo. Once things were organized, he assessed his paintings. Not bad. This might fly. His polluted, horrible mind had generated some decent art. Now what would happen? He was about to attempt a new work while sober.

  He sat at an easel with a blank canvas, swished a brush around in turpentine, squeezed a few colors onto a palette, then looked at the white monster with a blank mind. What to do?