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Book: A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) by Michael E. Henderson
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Authors: Michael E. Henderson
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first time the big ceiling spider had terrorized him. One of these days he was gonna get that cocksucker, though he knew the spider didn’t exist. “Whatever happened to pink elephants?” he wondered aloud. “Why does it have to be fucking spiders when I see shit that ain’t there? Why not a monkey or a fucking clown?” Well, maybe not a clown, those bastards were scary too. But please, God, no more fucking spiders.
PERHAPS HE SHOULD GO OUT FOR WINE. He went to the mirror to make himself presentable for the society of other humans. He looked like hammered pigeon shit. “You disgusting sack of meat,” he said to his reflection. “You’re an ancient, fat, ugly drunk, and you can’t paint.” He knew, though, he was neither fat nor ugly, but thin for a man his age, and handsome, in a rugged sort of way. He straightened himself the best he could, put on his least-wrinkled sport coat, and left the studio, looking like a fucking Gypsy.
Mid-afternoon sunlight glinted off the canal, reflecting the adjacent houses on its mercurial surface. He caught the reflection of his own ugly face and the upside-down image of the buildings, giving him the impression of looking down from a great height. Dizzy, he pulled back from the brink of the canal and again faced down the street in the direction he desired to go and resumed his journey.
In Campo dei Carmini, he counted his money. Not enough for a glass of wine. As he jiggled the change around to count it again, an old woman put a coin into his hand and continued down the street. She walked toward the afternoon sun, and Brigham couldn’t make out her features in the brilliant light. He now had enough to buy a glass of wine.
Bottles lined the shelves of the little wine shop in Campo Santa Margherita. He stood at the beautiful white marble bar, running his hands across its cool, smooth surface. This shop had excellent wine at a fair price, and the woman running the place was very nice, with a sweet smile. She greeted him with recognition, not commenting on the fact that he looked like someone to whom an old woman would give spare change, and poured him a glass of his favorite wine, a Sicilian Syrah. A short time later, she returned with a little sandwich, a different bottle of wine, and a glass.
“Let me offer you a sip of this wine, which we have just opened,” she said. “I know you like good wine.”
“Sure,” he said. “Thanks.” The key word being offer, as that meant “free,” and that was the only kind of wine he was going to get after the first.
She poured not a sip but a full measure. He tasted it. It was the most delightful he had ever had. It tasted of cherries and chocolate and leather, all covered in velvet. How could he ever drink cheap wine again?
He wondered what it cost but didn’t ask, and also what it would be like to be able to afford such wine every day. What would he give? What if the devil came to him this minute and offered all the kingdoms of the world and the means to have this wine in exchange for his soul? Throw in eternal life and he’d have a deal.
BACK AT HIS STUDIO, Brigham sat on the sofa drinking wine and studying Pink Jesus. After a few minutes, he went over to the easel.
“What do you need?”
Pink Jesus said nothing.
With white paint he brushed in an angel, or at least a series of strokes meant loosely to represent an angel, with one wing spread behind Pink Jesus in a sort of embrace.
The angel seemed to glow. Just what Pink Jesus needed. He sat back down on the sofa studying the painting, happy with the addition.
He put Brahms’s Requiem on the stereo, programming it to repeat the movement “ Denn alles Fleisch, es ist wie Gras ” (For all flesh is as grass), and sat contemplating the white angel, Pink Jesus, and death. The music brought tears to his eyes. After a time, the wine got the best of him, and he fell asleep.
Charles appeared in a dream, looking at first like a young man dressed in a
PERHAPS HE SHOULD GO OUT FOR WINE. He went to the mirror to make himself presentable for the society of other humans. He looked like hammered pigeon shit. “You disgusting sack of meat,” he said to his reflection. “You’re an ancient, fat, ugly drunk, and you can’t paint.” He knew, though, he was neither fat nor ugly, but thin for a man his age, and handsome, in a rugged sort of way. He straightened himself the best he could, put on his least-wrinkled sport coat, and left the studio, looking like a fucking Gypsy.
Mid-afternoon sunlight glinted off the canal, reflecting the adjacent houses on its mercurial surface. He caught the reflection of his own ugly face and the upside-down image of the buildings, giving him the impression of looking down from a great height. Dizzy, he pulled back from the brink of the canal and again faced down the street in the direction he desired to go and resumed his journey.
In Campo dei Carmini, he counted his money. Not enough for a glass of wine. As he jiggled the change around to count it again, an old woman put a coin into his hand and continued down the street. She walked toward the afternoon sun, and Brigham couldn’t make out her features in the brilliant light. He now had enough to buy a glass of wine.
Bottles lined the shelves of the little wine shop in Campo Santa Margherita. He stood at the beautiful white marble bar, running his hands across its cool, smooth surface. This shop had excellent wine at a fair price, and the woman running the place was very nice, with a sweet smile. She greeted him with recognition, not commenting on the fact that he looked like someone to whom an old woman would give spare change, and poured him a glass of his favorite wine, a Sicilian Syrah. A short time later, she returned with a little sandwich, a different bottle of wine, and a glass.
“Let me offer you a sip of this wine, which we have just opened,” she said. “I know you like good wine.”
“Sure,” he said. “Thanks.” The key word being offer, as that meant “free,” and that was the only kind of wine he was going to get after the first.
She poured not a sip but a full measure. He tasted it. It was the most delightful he had ever had. It tasted of cherries and chocolate and leather, all covered in velvet. How could he ever drink cheap wine again?
He wondered what it cost but didn’t ask, and also what it would be like to be able to afford such wine every day. What would he give? What if the devil came to him this minute and offered all the kingdoms of the world and the means to have this wine in exchange for his soul? Throw in eternal life and he’d have a deal.
BACK AT HIS STUDIO, Brigham sat on the sofa drinking wine and studying Pink Jesus. After a few minutes, he went over to the easel.
“What do you need?”
Pink Jesus said nothing.
With white paint he brushed in an angel, or at least a series of strokes meant loosely to represent an angel, with one wing spread behind Pink Jesus in a sort of embrace.
The angel seemed to glow. Just what Pink Jesus needed. He sat back down on the sofa studying the painting, happy with the addition.
He put Brahms’s Requiem on the stereo, programming it to repeat the movement “ Denn alles Fleisch, es ist wie Gras ” (For all flesh is as grass), and sat contemplating the white angel, Pink Jesus, and death. The music brought tears to his eyes. After a time, the wine got the best of him, and he fell asleep.
Charles appeared in a dream, looking at first like a young man dressed in a
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