by Barbie Wilde
Reviews of Barbie Wilde’s The Venus Complex, Comet Press, 2012-14
“After purposefully killing his wife in a car accident, art history professor Michael Friday finds his perspective on things has become a little…warped. Via his personal journal, we’re allowed into his mind to slowly watch the disintegration of it, bearing witness to his unnerving sexual cravings and ideas about killing: intertwined with the paintings he loves so much. As Michael writes, he’s “turning into something dead”; but at the same time he wants to be somebody, not a nobody.
“Using his diary to rant against the world in general—including everything from banks to popular culture, from national holidays like Christmas to politics—he reveals more about the big, gaping hole in his own life. But as the novel goes on the first person narrative tensely builds up, displaying his dark dreams and innermost thoughts; his way of filling that void and presenting his grisly ‘works of art’ to the world.
“As intelligent and cultured as Hannibal, easily as disturbing as American Psycho and infinitely less “reassuring” than Dexter, this is a sexually-charged real life horror story that will definitely stay with you.”—Award-winning horror and fantasy author, Paul Kane
“I love dark crime, and this is by far the darkest story I’ve ever read. I felt guilty for enjoying it so much. The Venus Complex is tense and fast-paced, dizzying in its bold perversion. But like a serial killer obsessed with his next victim, I could not turn away.
“…Barbie Wilde follows the tradition of Ellis’s American Psycho and Oates’s Zombie yet breaks new ground in the field of sadistic crime fiction. If you like the lurid and shocking, you’ll love The Venus Complex. It’s Dexter, without a moral code.”—Lee Allen Howard, Midwest Book Review
“The Venus Complex is a delicious collision of noir thriller and visceral horror. Whip-smart devious and jolting!”—Jonathan Maberry, Multiple Bram Stoker Award Winner and New York Times best-selling author of Code Zero and V-Wars
“Wilde expertly charts Michael’s diabolical descent into voyeurism, stalking and murder in a transgressive tale that would make Patrick Bateman blush.”—Alan Kelly, Hell’s Shelves, Rue Morgue Online
“The Venus Complex is an epistolary portrait of psychopathy as razor sharp as Jim Thompson’s The Killer Inside Me or Hubert Selby Jr.’s The Demon. Disturbing, erotic and powerful.”—Jovanka Vuckovic, Author: Vuckovic’s Horror Miscellany, Zombies! An Illustrated History of the Undead & Filmmaker: The Captured Bird, The Guest, Clive Barker’s Jacqueline Ess
“A novel by a female Cenobite that gives the world a smart, artistic, cynical, cultured serial killer who could give Hannibal Lecter a run for his money. On top of that, this is a poignant, funny, sexually-charged, hardcore critique of popular culture and a deconstruction of relationships, academia, and art.”—Gabino Iglesias, HorrorTalk, Top Books of 2012
“But I think what I like most about this news story is that she kicked my ass so hard with her first novel. Turns out Barbie Wilde is even scarier than we thought. And that is a terrible, beautiful thing.”—New York Times bestselling author John Skipp for Fangoria Online
“... Hitchcockian in its tale of murderous obsession.”—Jon Towlson, Starburst Magazine
“Barbie Wilde has crafted a serial killer story every bit as warped as Level 26, as exacting as Harris’s Hannibal series and more sexually adventurous than Fifty f**king Shades of Grey could ever hope to be.”—Annie Riordan, Brutal As Hell
“This is not a novel for the faint of heart and definitely NSFPT (Not Safe For Public Transport), but the skill with which it is written means that some of the darker imagery will haunt the reader long after they turn the final page.”—British Fantasy Society
“Shocking and explicit, Barbie Wilde’s The Venus Complex is an intimate tour of Michael Friday’s mind as he morphs from a misogynistic, hyper-intelligent university professor into a sexually charged, calculating serial killer. Written in journal form, Friday reveals his most gory necrophilic fantasies, and then makes them a reality. Not for sensitive readers; after finishing this book you might never feel clean again.”—Jessa Sobczuk, Rue Morgue Magazine
“Wilde is adept in creating true terror by holding up the mirror to our darker side.”—Horror Drive-In
“This brilliant look into the mind of a serial killer is full of poetic anger and beautiful vitriolic ranting that it makes you wonder from which pit of hell the lovely Barbie came from. In a genre saturated with bland serial killers, and even blander plots, this book shines out like a beacon.”—Ginger Nuts of Horror, Best Books 2012
Reviews of The Venus Complex from Goodreads & Amazon
“A taut, gripping work. Oozing with sinister brilliance.”
“Shameless. Sexy. Frightful. Gorgeous.”
“… thrilling, erotic and intelligent.”
“…sickeningly brilliant.”
“The whole thing is so graphically visual, Ms Wilde should have film-makers knocking on her door any day now.”
“...thought-provoking and sexy piece of work.”
“Gruesomely graphic and sexually explicit, The Venus Complex is the very definition of a page-turner.”
“...terrific and compulsive reading.”
“...twisted and beautiful.”
“Visceral And Disturbing…”
For Georg
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title
Copyright
Thanks
Blurbs
Dedication
Foreword by Chris Alexander
Sister Cilice
Artwork by Clive Barker
Zulu Zombies
Illustration by Nick Percival
American Mutant
Illustration by Vincent Sammy
The Alpdrücke
Illustration by Ben Baldwin
Valeska
Illustration by Daniele Serra
The Cilicium Pandoric
Illustration by Eric Gross
Gaia
Artwork by Clive Barker
Polyp
Illustration by Steve McGinnis
Botophobia
Illustration by Tara Bush
Writer’s Block
Illustration by Daniele Serra
The Cilicium Rebellion
Illustration by Eric Gross
Afterword by the Soska Sisters
Barbie Wilde Bio
Chris Alexander Bio
The Soska Sisters Bio
About the Artists
FOREWORD
Chris Alexander
I first encountered Barbie Wilde the same way most of you reading this foreword did as well: bald, white, pierced and poured into black leather, trailing behind one of the genuine icons of contemporary dark fantasy, seen as a shadow on a silver screen (or cathode-ray illuminated box). Indeed Wilde’s presence as Pinhead’s right hand, the Female Cenobite in Clive Barker/Tony Randel’s Hellbound: Hellraiser II was instantly iconic, said performance coming loaded as it did with extra gravitas because of who Wilde was: a lady who was a glowing presence in cinema, music, television and flamboyant pop culture, full stop.
Wilde existed in a dream to me; a fascinating woman and the leader of many lives who I never imagined I would ever meet. But meet I did and, nearly three decades after I first saw her slink around on screen, she’s an artist whom I consider a dear friend, someone I admire and care about deeply. When I took over as editor of US horror film magazine Fangoria, I had a blast indulging my interests, connecting with performers and creative people that had inspired me as I could now offer them a widely-read platform to tell their stories. Wilde was among the first I pursued. I had learned that she had parlayed her fame as a key member of Barker’s cinematic universe into a newly minted role
as a writer of psychosexual horror fiction and this added an extra layer of fascination and, if I must be frank, erotic interest. Smart women are my Achilles heel, I must admit and Barbie’s cerebral, stylized energy was intoxicating.
So, with that, after some emailed correspondence, Barbie sent me a big box full of books she had contributed to and once received, over the next several days I read many of her short stories. I found her tales to be singular in their dark, sexual, violent, lyrical and atmospheric drive. To know Barbie is to adore her sense of humor, but these tales were grim ... almost as if her perversions were finding necessary release via her pen, thus causing her to be lighter in “real life.” I loved the stories (especially the blistering “U for Uranophobia” [entitled “Gaia” for this collection] which I would love to adapt as a film someday) and, after running a well-received interview in Fango, I enlisted Barbie to supply our sister magazine, Gorezone with stories.
That collaboration has been a happy one and I’m always thrilled when Lady Wilde releases some new project. Her first novel The Venus Complex is about as hardcore a crime fiction novel as you’ll read and to see her fans respond so positively to its lyrically vile charms has been a thrill. And now, here in this vibrant collection of wordplay and image, you too can immerse yourself into Barbie’s steamy, sanguinary depths, a weird world filled with dreamy imagery, excruciating violence and deviant sexuality, all tempered with a kind of warmth that’s hard to pin down. It’s almost like, no matter how extreme Barbie’s stories get, you can hear her giggling quietly, her bright eyes alive behind her glasses as she paints yet another baroque literary portrait.
Sex, death and madness. Welcome to the world of Barbie Wilde.
Sister Cilice
(Part I of the Cilicium Trilogy)
“Loved be pain. Sanctified be pain. Glorified be pain!”
For many years, Sister Veronica was in the service of a Higher Power. She prayed nine times a day. Her life was work, prayer, a few fitful hours of sleep, then more work, more prayer. Thousands of her pious words floated up to the ether, but no answer was forthcoming; only a cruel, empty silence.
When her depraved dreams became too overwhelming, mortification of the flesh was the only answer. She remembered the Sainted Father Escrivá’s maxim on suffering: “Loved be pain. Sanctified be pain. Glorified be pain!” ... and so she used the whip with greater vengeance, but although she assaulted her flesh, nothing could chase the demons from her mind, those familiars that had tormented her all her life.
Throughout her childhood, entering an Order was the only option available to her—the one way to cleanse her heart of the many sins her parents were convinced she had committed. “Every sin, no matter how inconsequential, is a blemish on your soul and will lead you to eternal damnation,” her mother used to say. According to her parents, her every thought, word and deed was sinful. There was no relief from the guilt. No relief from the remorseless burden of her countless transgressions. And no relief from her rage, which she hid from the world along with her dark fantasies of revenge and pain. Sexual thoughts and acts were forbidden, of course, but that didn’t mean these evils left her alone. Perhaps celibacy made it worse, although how was she to know? She’d been sent straight to the Nunnery at the age of seventeen, without even kissing a boy, let alone knowing what it was like to be with a real man in the real world, flesh to flesh. And she would never know.
During her early days in the convent, in an attempt to save her rotten soul, Sister Veronica made the appearance of perfect devotion, to prove to the other Sisters that she had a vocation. Her every act was irreproachable and every word she spoke was blameless. The strain of such unrelenting good behavior, of maintaining such a mask of utter innocence and sanity, was almost unbearable, but her parents—who suffered from an overdose of scrupulosity—had brainwashed her into believing that this was her only way to salvation.
Her predicament got worse when Father Xavier was appointed to celebrate Mass every morning. He was so handsome, so virile, so different from the dried-up, old men that had previously seen to the nuns’ spiritual needs. Sister Veronica was convinced that many of the other Sisters felt as she did about him. She could sense their spirits rise when Father Xavier came into the room. Feel the heat from their bodies as they knelt before him as he tenderly ministered the sacraments to them. The occasional accidental touch of Father Xavier’s hand on her mouth when he gave her the Host sent little electric shocks through her body. Sister Veronica lived for that random physical contact, even though she knew it was meaningless to him.
Every night, after the others had gone to bed, she would mortify her bare flesh until she bled, but that didn’t chase the thoughts of the good Father away, it just made her suffering more sensual. She imagined that Father Xavier was the one with the lash, beating her senseless. She’d fall to the ground exhausted, bleeding, eyes shut, body completely open and vulnerable, imagining his presence standing over her. Still with eyes clenched shut, she would use the leather handle of the whip, pretending it was him—thrusting inside of her, hurting her. His pain was loved, his pain was sanctified, his pain was glorified. She’d stuff a rag in her mouth to stifle her cries. Sister Veronica came for the first time like that: bloody, naked, sweat-soaked, lying on the cold, stone floor. Momentarily sated, yet forever unsatisfied.
After a while, she refined her technique. To heighten her pleasure, she’d take the end of the whip and wrap it around her neck, pushing the handle deep inside her at the same time; each thrust tightening the lash and ever so slightly cutting off the oxygen to her brain to make her orgasms more intense. She would come again and again, shuddering like an old car dieseling on a frosty winter morning. But the taste in her mouth was bitter, because when she opened her eyes, she was alone. Sister Veronica would always be alone. No man would ever come and fill the dry, empty well of her heart. So she would get up, clean herself, wipe away the tears of anger and frustration, kneel on the cold floor and flog herself again and again for her despicable thoughts and acts.
During the day, Sister Veronica would wear a cilice—a small metal chain with inwardly-pointing spikes—around her thigh. She would pull the cilice as tight as she could without cutting off the circulation. It was supposed to remind her of Christ’s suffering, but all it did was bring back memories of her private moments with the phantom Father Xavier. Her sexual fantasies were now beginning to torment her during the day. The irony was she could not make penance and cleanse her soul, because the only person she was allowed to confess to was Father Xavier. So the sins just piled up one on top of the other, multiplying and becoming more putrefied with time.
Then a new scenario began to fester in Sister Veronica’s mind. She would confess all her sins to Father Xavier. He would be horrified and drag her out of the Confessional to the altar, rip her robes off and scourge her using a whip with metal tips, degrading her flesh until she begged him to stop. Her cast-off blood would stain the fair linen altar cloth and splatter the faces of the Saints’ statues. Then Father Xavier would take her, right there on the marble floor in front of the altar, underneath the enormous suspended golden crucifix. His cassock would fall away from him and reveal the wonders of his flawless body and his sex. She could only imagine what it would look like: ivory in color, hard, and shaped like a Knights Templar sword perhaps. In her fantasies, Father Xavier used not only his saintly member to impale her, but any other implement to hand—the holier the better—to sanctify and cleanse her polluted body and diseased mind. Sister Veronica felt her sanity slipping away, fueled by her feverish, obsessive thoughts. Haunted by her desires, she continued to torment her wretched body until it was laced with scars.
Finally, Sister Veronica asked to be assigned to the library archives in the convent’s catacomb-like cellar as a way of calming and cooling off her mind. There were thousands of books down there, ancient papers, letters and epistles, missives from Popes and Cardinals. Perhaps she could immerse
herself in history to distract herself from her miserably empty present.
It was there, late one night, that Sister Veronica found an ancient manuscript in an old leaden box whose lock had long since rusted away. It was hidden in an alcove far from the entrance, forgotten for centuries. The box was littered with crunchy long-dead black beetles, a few blood-red, dried roses and a dusty mummified crow; beak open and tongue lolling out as if in accusation.
The book was called the Grimorium Enochia and it was written in the 15th Century by Raphael Athanasius. Sister Veronica spent weeks trying to translate the Latin text. For the first time in years, something was taking her mind away from the bloody world of her profane imaginings. She soon realized that she had discovered something far more engrossing than her fantasies. Athanasius was an alchemist, necromancer and cryptographer, and was a friend of the notorious serial killer, dabbler in the black arts, and brother-in-arms to Jeanne d’Arc, Maréchal Gilles de Rais.
At first glance, Athanasius’s book appeared to be about his accounts of summoning forth and speaking with angels and demons. However, it soon became obvious to Sister Veronica that his manuscript was far more than just a few incantations and stories. Athanasius’s invocations were a pathway into another dimension: a place where the chthonic inhabitants might understand her needs. These beings were called Cenobites and were members of another kind of Order altogether, where pain as pleasure was the norm, not a hidden vice. She was intrigued and hopeful that somehow she might be allowed access into this world, to find an answer to her torment from those who seemed to be fellow travelers.