A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) (8 page)

“Tell me why I shouldn’t throw you all into the canal,” he said to all the paintings. They didn’t respond but sat quietly like wrongly scolded children. Good thing he wasn’t fucked up. He might very well have taken the whole bunch of them and tossed them into the water.

After staring hopelessly at the new painting for a few minutes more, he applied blue in the same manner as the black, resulting in numerous drips of turpentine-diluted blue paint. It didn’t look so bad, and he thought maybe he should stop there and declare the painting finished. He sat on the sofa. Tired, weak, and beaten from his labors, he soon fell asleep.

WHEN HE WOKE, a huge spider dangled from the ceiling and dropped toward him. He flew off the sofa, shouting in terror, landing on the floor on his rump. He scrambled backward to the other side of the room in a crab walk, knocking over a table, sending paint and turpentine crashing to the floor. When he looked back, the eight-legged son of a bitch had vanished. He moved the cushions of the sofa with a broom handle, flipping them up and jumping back. Nothing there. And for good reason: there was no spider.

“I fucking hate that,” he said. This wasn’t the 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 tuxedo, white scarf, and top hat. When Brigham looked away and then back again, Charles was an old man with a beat-up fedora, raggedy coat, and worn shoes.

Old man Charles walked to the edge of a canal and stepped onto the water, walked a few paces, and then turned to Brigham. “Follow me,” he said as he walked down the middle of the canal without disturbing the surface.

Brigham followed him onto the canal, staying a few paces behind.

Pale eyes watched from the edge of the canal, peering out from skulls covered in dry, crackling skin.

“What do you see?” Charles asked.

“Skeletons. They’re watching us.”

“You see death. Follow me and see life.”

Charles turned and walked through a large doorway that had been sealed with bricks, and vanished. Brigham followed.

They entered a vast room. Before them on a table was a girl of about eighteen, bound and gagged, writhing and nude.

“Drink,” Charles said, and like a vicious animal tore out the girl’s throat with his teeth, which had become huge and animal-like, sending blood spraying into the air and into Brigham’s face. Blood bubbled at the wound as the girl tried to breathe.

Brigham watched in horror as the girl morphed into a young man, though still missing his throat and still gushing blood. Charles again commanded him to drink. With this, he woke, full of terror and disgust, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. Thankfully, the spider wasn’t there.

AT AN OUTSIDE TABLE AT A CAFÉ on the Rio Terà Canal, Brigham ordered red wine and watched people go by. He was surprised to find that a large part of the population parading past seemed now to be the shroud-eating vampires the old woman had talked about.

A girl of about seventeen came to the café and sat at a table near him. She was slight of build with black hair and pale skin, wearing layers of black clothing and platform shoes with high laces. Exotic. Sexy. A vampire, perhaps. No, too stereotypical. Just an eccentric art-student girl, reading a book and drinking coffee. Another character walked past wearing clothes from the early nineteenth century: a light-colored top hat, vest, and long coat, walking like Groucho Marx, which he did because there was something wrong with him, not to be funny. Eccentric? Or vampire? Brigham couldn’t tell, although without the dream it never would have occurred to him to ask the question.

Oh, they could be legion, these shroud eaters, he thought as he returned home. Rose had gone out, so he went into the living room, shut the door, got a bottle of Scotch from the cabinet, and for the first time in his life drank alone behind closed doors to hide what he was doing.

THE NEXT MORNING, Brigham woke up to a pounding head. He felt like refried shit. His whole body ached. It was all he could do to move. He remembered that he had arranged with Mauro to go back to the herbalist that evening. She had a magic potion designed to deal with the shroud eaters. Brigham didn’t really want to fool with this hogwash, but Mauro had insisted, and Brigham had nothing better to do. On the other hand, the dream had affected his thinking. A rational and educated man starting to believe in vampires because of a dream? But people all over the world believed in them. Couldn’t he? Nah. Snap out of it, dummy. The effects of the dream on his mind had faded in proportion to the pain in his head. The meeting wasn’t for several hours, though, so he had the day to recover. He went back to sleep.

X

A few old men stood at the bar talking loudly, laughing, gesturing, and drinking tiny glasses of wine the Venetians called o
mbre
. Rose imagined they had known each other for sixty or seventy years. Grew up together, served in the army, went to each other’s wedding, were godfather to each other’s kids. Mauro was sitting in the rear of the room, a glass of prosecco in front of him. He got up and greeted Rose with a kiss on both cheeks.

She ordered a hot tea. “Thanks for coming out, Mauro.”

“No problem. Is there something wrong? You seemed worried on the phone.”

The waiter delivered a pot of hot water, a teabag, and a cup. She put the bag in the pot.

“I’m worried about Brigham,” she said. “Something’s not right.”

“How do you mean?”

She poured tea into her cup. The waiter had not brought milk. As she turned to say something, he appeared with a small pitcher and placed it in front of her.

“I’ve noticed a change in his behavior lately,” she said, pouring milk into her tea.

“Like what? Is he depressed?”

“No, nothing like that. It’s subtle, and maybe only I would notice it. But he’s also drinking a lot more than he used to.”

Mauro motioned to the waiter for another glass of prosecco and a bowl of potato chips. “I did notice that he drinks a lot.”

“Did you know that he sees things when he wakes up?”

“Sees things? You mean like hallucinations?”

“Yes. For example, he sees spiders and snakes. When he wakes up from a nap, he flies off the bed or sofa screaming because he sees a big spider falling from the ceiling toward him.”

Mauro frowned. “No, Rose, I didn’t know about that.”

She put her cup down and leaned forward. “Do you know he fell into a canal the other day?”

“I didn’t know that either.
Mamma mia
, that’s bad. How did he fall in?”

“He says that people were chasing him, and he jumped in to escape them. But I think he was drunk.”

“Oh man. He could have drowned.”

“I know he could drown—someone drowned last year because they fell into the canal when they were drunk—and that’s what scares me. And now he is seeing people walk through walls.”

“Yes, he did tell me about that.”

Mauro’s drink came, and they waited for the barista to leave before continuing.

“I know he told you,” she said. “I think that is part of the problem.”

“What?”

“That you are going along with it. I know you took him to the herbalist.”

“I believe him, and there are stories in Venice. Going to the herbalist was my idea.” He crunched a chip.

“You actually believe that he saw someone walk through a wall?”

Mauro leaned back in his chair, glass in hand. “Yes, I do.”

“That’s nonsense—superstitious nonsense,” she said. “The herbalist is just an old superstitious woman.”

“You sound like Brigham.”

“Well, he’s not always wrong.” 

“I think he really saw something, and so does the herbalist.”

She frowned. “This is part of the problem. You are encouraging him and helping him.”

“If he’s right, Venice could be in danger.”

“Look,” she said, “he’s not right. There’s no way he saw anyone go through a wall.”

“How do you know?” 

“Give me a break, Mauro. It’s simply not possible for a person to go through a wall. I was hoping to get you to help me.”

“Well, we’re not dealing with humans.”

“So you believe him?”

Mauro nodded. “Absolutely.”

“Then you’re not going to help me?”

“I didn’t say that. What do you want me to do?”

“These things are caused by excessive drinking. He may be an alcoholic. That could explain some of his behavior.”

“He does like to drink.” 

“I need you to do a couple of things.”

“Of course. Tell me.”

“For one, stop taking him to the herbalist.”

Mauro hesitated, knitting his brow. “I don’t know. I made a big deal out of it, and I think he only goes because he thinks he’s humoring me—keeping me out of trouble. If I quit now, he’ll think something is up.”

She looked at her cup. “Hmm.”

“We only need to go once or twice more.”

“Just try not to make such a production out of it.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“And two: discourage him from drinking.”

“How am I going to do that?”

“Don’t drink with him—have coffee, instead.”

“What good will that do?”

“He has great respect for you. Haven’t you noticed that whenever you go to a bar with him, he always gets what you get?”

Mauro nodded. “I guess that’s true.”

“Then order coffee.”

“Okay. One more question, though.”

“Yes?”

“He said he jumped into the canal because people were chasing him. Did he tell you why they were chasing him?”

“He told me some story about how he saw a man dragging a body disappear into a wall and then men started to chase him.”

“I see. Thanks.”

“Does it matter?” 

“I don’t think so. Just curious. I have to go now. My partner will be expecting me.”

“Thanks for coming, Mauro, and thanks for  understanding.”

“Happy to do what I can. Ciao.”

“Ciao.”

THAT EVENING, THE HERBALIST’S SHOP was its usual mess. The old woman locked the door, pulled the blinds, and told them to follow her to the back. A small glass flask of a bluish-green liquid, the color of which reminded Brigham of the canals, sat on a table in the middle of the room. The woman handed the flask to Brigham. “This potion is lethal to shroud eaters. If they ingest it, they die.”