From somewhere within the lower floors of the house, I heard a voice. It was a voice that once ruled over me and all my world. As familiar as it was, I did not know the name of the speaker. But the speaker knew mine. “Vincent, you impish little wretch! Come to me this very instant! Come to me now or I’ll forget the fine plans I’ve laid for you, and you can join the rest of them to fester in undying colors and unflinching smiles. Is that what you want, boy? Come to your father right now!”
I found myself standing without so much as a stitch of hesitation. My family loomed before me, barring the way downstairs, but I marched forward, heedless of their burning stares and lethal smiles. I would have answers, even if they would destroy me. For once, I invoked the solidity of the Deadworld and banished the specters before me to the darkness whence they came. It pained me to treat my sisters with such coarseness, but I trusted they would forgive their big brother this one indiscretion. My father, however, would seek his vengeance against me when the opportunity allowed.
The interior of the house became a ghostly memory of my past, and I remembered with painful difficulty the features that greeted me as I lowered myself into the hateful din of a man’s commanding voice—a man who called himself my father. As I went along, I heard strong winds roaring at the glass of the now unbroken windows. I could smell the acridity of fresh blood. With each step I took down the stairs, a feeling I had rarely known began to freeze every layer of my being. I was terrified.
The darkness at the bottom of the stairs began to drift away at the somber touch of candlelight, and the twitching shadows that remained were not my friends. There, framed by the clutch and titter of the gnarled branches moving against the windows behind him, stood the man who had stalked unnamed and unrealized behind the scenes of my every nightmare—my father.
There was a haze upon him borne of candle smoke, or my mind’s mercy perhaps—I could not tell which. But I could see that he was average of height and quite lank, not at all like the thing his son would become, if indeed I was his son. He was dripping with blood, and his eyes played in tones of rage and hate. Yet there was a graceful repose to his glare, the whispered poise of a perfectly balanced weapon. And his hands were liquid in their movements, aglow with a quantity of natural talent rarely concentrated within such dainty things.
His voice came at me again, but this time his words carried the prettiness of a cleverly baited trap. “Ah, there you are, my very good boy. How the dim light loves you, Vincent. Not even the sun could better reveal the truth of you. I’m so lucky to be one of the few who can recognize your potential—what you truly are. Those better not be tears I see on your cheeks, my boy. If they are, they had better not be for that mother of yours, or your sniveling siblings.” He sighed. “Despite the weakness it betokens, I can’t deny the beauty of your sorrow. It’s sweeter than the dawn laid out across a fresh silken corpse on burial day. Whited death, all made up in bows of youngest light, soon to be lost to the catch and drowse of funeral memories. Do you want to see them now, son? Do you want to see what a wonderful, if completely undeserved, gift I’ve given to them? Shall we replace to the gallery?”
Before I could take a single step toward or away from my beckoning forebear, a knife slid across my neck, followed by a whisper at my ear. “Looks like I caught you unawares, man-giant. Your vaunted silence seems to have let you down. But fret not, for I shall raise your spirits, all the way into the sky and beyond. Or perhaps below, yes? Regardless, your affinity for silence and darkness holds no advantage over magic—mine in particular. And so, the time has come to make you disappear, from the world of the living and from my enchanted list of names. So, Presto— ”
I thrust myself backward, attempting to deny the blade in my throat any additional depth. Firing my elbow behind me, I hoped to catch my attacker in some vital place. Nothing. I felt as if I were struggling with a wisp of smoke, with only the smiling wound in my throat as proof of a solid attacker. My elbow swept across what could have been the fabric of a long coat, which hung loose and flowing around its wearer, but nothing so firm as a killer who managed a blade as a poet wielded words.
The man continued to talk as if my actions had done nothing to disturb his perch near my ear. “Well done, my less-than-gentle giant, but I’ll still see those guts of yours vanish, compliments of my very splendid and very serrated disappearing act, likely in the next second or so.” I swung my sister behind me, her teeth hissing through air. I began to suspect the Red Dream worked altogether differently for this particular Wolf.
Desperate to find some use for my hands, I clawed the spaces around me. Finally, I seized the wide collar of a coat. I wasted no time in hoisting the killer above my head, hurling him into the darkness. Or at least I would have, had the man not disappeared entirely. All that commented upon the wolf I held was a magnificent cloak, its silken blackness tucked firmly into my grip.
The room—stage, perhaps—had become a void. I wiped the blood from my neck and released my sisters into the darkness around me, supposing my attacker nearby. Their smiles fell upon only dust and air. I moved to the doorway and peered over the tangles of creepers and moss-smothered cement blocks that had once formed a formidable courtyard.
From the moonlight and willows came the voice that once lingered at my ear. “What sport you’ve given me, big friend! I’d taken you for an oaf, given your size. But you’ve a smidge of magic about yourself, as well. Or is it those blades that smile like children at a magic show? Why, they very nearly touched me—a rarified miracle, if I don’t say so myself. And of course, I do. But the show is far from over, Family Man, and you must be warned—not a single soul has lived through all of my acts. I somehow suspect you won’t either. But, whatever the outcome, we’ll give the audience quite the show, won’t we?”
The voice faded into the night. I turned back toward the abandoned house and reexamined it. This was not a structure serving only as a provisional surface upon which a dream of a forgotten house had been projected. Rather, this was the forgotten house itself. I lived here once, as a child. Almost immediately, the thought of my recent attacker passed. I was filled with wonder at the house fallen at that very moment from dimmest recollection.
My sisters tried desperately to pull me into the forest, far from the house, but I refused their invitations to play. Likewise, my father burned me where he dwelt upon my back, demanding my withdrawal. But I ignored him as well, instead returning inside.
While I was apparently entering a material structure, I felt as if I were passing into the halls of my own mind, where a secret past barely lived, having nearly been crushed to death beneath so much time and neglect. One room above all others called to me, and I instantly knew why. It was a most curious art gallery—an ever-growing tribute to visions lurking the other side of the eye. It was a secret place hiding beyond a false wall. Its presence was so smartly concealed, not even the inhabitants of the house knew of it—save for the master of the gallery, my father.
My real father, through means of his artist’s blood. The memory I’d chased round in a circle finally stood still, waiting for me to seize it. My real father was an artist from hell, whose paints were the stuff of the unraveled human body, the incomplete translation of a dream. He strived, perhaps quite in vain, to return flesh to its rightful place—in service to the dreams it tried so hard to forget. But like all those before him—and quite possibly after him—he had failed. I realized, sooner than I was prepared for, that I had always been my father’s son. I unconsciously outlined his life’s purpose, all while walking and waking as he had—lonely and inspired and lethal. I could remember nothing else about living in the house, save perhaps the still-glowing embers of a single horrible night.
***
My father took me gently by the arm and led me through a great hallway. The darkness of an unlit room fell over us, but his pace remained brisk. A door was opened somewhere, and I could feel a cold breeze kiss my cheeks. I b
reathed it in, tasting smoke and death. There were stairs leading gradually downward, gently glazed in the smolder of orange candlelight. My father cautioned me to mind my footing.
But I stepped upon the hem of my night-coat enough times to draw criticism. “Art should fill your feet as well as your hands, my boy. Grace is the grammar of art. Never forget that.” When we reached the bottom of the stairs, I could see cold marble flooring, polished so completely it resembled grey glass. We stopped just short of a huge room, where a massive archway emerged from the sparkling sea of marble. It was like the chiseled mouth of a great whale, perpetually breathing orange light and threatening to swallow the world. “You still want to see your wretched mother and your worthless brother and sister, do you?” I must have nodded, for we proceeded beyond the yawning archway.
Quite suddenly, one memory cannibalized another. I could hear my mother’s voice—my true mother, which should not be misinterpreted to mean my real mother. Truth and reality should never be confused for one another, as the two are often bitterest of enemies. I could hear her clearly, superimposed atop the memory of my father’s gallery. “Flesh obligates us, doesn’t it, Vincent? It can determine who and what our family will consist of, if you let it. It can force mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters upon us, solidifying our families as surely as a seating chart carved from prehistoric bone. In truth, we are not beholden to such conventions, as I’m sure your father has already explained to you. Skin can be severed, blood rechanneled, even bones can be broken into bridges that span worlds. We needn’t be troubled by the whispers of the flesh, Vincent. They are the bearers of half-truths and complete lies. What is the skin when compared to the dreams they imprison? You and I have different skin, but we are closer than shadows at dusk. I am your true mother, Vincent. And I always will be, no matter what your skin may tell you.”
My mother’s words faded into the prior memory, where I stood before a large sculpture within my father’s great gallery. The sculpture was molded from the preserved trappings of three dead dreams. His creation had been formed from gristle and guts, bones and plastic-coated brains, broken smiles and whispered pain. All of it had come from the hideously transformed bodies of my remaining—biological—family. My mother, brother, and sister had passed into art and beyond the world. Despite the deadness of her eyes, I could feel my real mother’s gentle gaze upon me, whispering across my face, trying to wipe the tears from my eyes.
***
The lost memories slowly died into the darkness of the dead house. The skin on my back had practically melted from the heat of my father’s anger, and my sisters danced across my palms, hoping to rouse a laugh from me. I stood silent for quite some time, burning and bleeding and crying.
The days when things could remain hidden from me were gone. The secret door to my father’s gallery yielded to my strength. Cold air and unbidden memories rushed at me as the door crashed open, revealing a secret only slightly younger than myself. As I descended the crudely chiseled stone stairs, the shadows embraced me, welcoming me home. The marble floor was no longer glittering, as time and the advance of the earth had long since laid a thick tarnish across the meticulous stonework. However, the great archway was no less impressive for the passage of time, even if it no longer billowed with the glow of candlelight. Even now, its great jaws appeared ready to devour the world—my world, at least.
I lingered at the threshold, wary of the things that might lay beyond. My father continued to burn me, and my sisters still called upon me to play—but finally, I walked into the gallery. With my first steps into the antechamber, I was but a shivering child, cold and shaking, in awe of the unknown. With my next steps, memories became my master, and the darkness tumbled beyond time.
Small cages hung from the ceiling, each containing the tiny bones of children. Thankfully, the little skeletons had been deprived of their eyes—eyes that had once clawed and pinched at my tender flesh. This was the room where my father kept a good deal of his most prized art supplies. He insisted his paint be mixed with the blood of children, as it was “the protean stuff of dreams, worthy of only the finest artists.”
My hands glided across the cages, at one point grazing a slender, white finger bone. It came away in my hand, light as a baby’s breath, yet heaving with finality. To my father, the child was nothing—just an empty tube of paint. I cannot deny my father’s methods, but I’ve always held children to be closer to dreams than any other creature. I have never felt impelled to use them in my own work.
All the days I’d spent in this room, the subject of many a hateful and panicked stare, started to overfill me. After all, it was I who delivered them here, into the hands of my father. He would lead me to such beautiful places, filled with love and laughter. I’d fly to them—to play, to laugh, and to lie. He taught me how to play like a cherub, to widen my eyes to reflect the blazing sun. To laugh as sweet as sugar, to smile like innocence. Of all the things he taught me, the lie was most important—my promise to take them somewhere secret and wonderful, beyond the sun, beyond all eyes. But all paths lead to the inside of the same black canvas bag. They’d just hang from the ceiling, encaged and gagged, staring at me. So many eyes, all of them screaming, Betrayer, betrayer, betrayer!
I just wanted to play with them. I always hoped it would end differently. It never did, except for the last time, of course—when the two little girls came to me, smiles like crescent moons. I dropped the finger bone to the floor and continued into the next room.
The walls of the galley were like curving glass, the frozen contour of a sea wave sweeping over and above the room, framing the art of hell in cleanest relief. As I looked out across the arcade of dead things, I realized my own works had yet to outnumber those of my father’s. His life was spent almost entirely upon his art, and the grey that swam through his hair remarked on the length of his time upon the earth.
My eyes landed upon the centermost piece, showcased like a diamond upon a bed of silver. It was my father himself, just as I’d left him. The recollection fell upon me like a ravenous beast, ripping through layers of forced forgetting, sinking stained teeth into the flesh of my hidden, tender memory.
My father was my first piece of art. The realization drew me into a red memory.
***
When I entered the gallery, my father had already placed the bag filled with the two smiling twins upon the floor. He stood at his work area, a place covered in the stains of countless works, many still in their incipiency. As he sorted through a variety of his wicked “artist’s tools,” I noticed something was wrong—the occupants of the bag weren’t crying out. In fact, they might have been giggling. Out of nowhere, the gleam of a knife pierced the big bag. I chose to say nothing—they say curiosity is the muse of any good artist.
The girls slipped silently from the bag, twin shadows brandishing bladed smiles. Within seconds, the candlelight was gone, replaced with dancing, glittering laughter. A voice from somewhere behind me spoke, filling me with unexpected glee. It whispered, “Hello again, Vincent. We can’t wait to play some more. Our time together has only just begun.” My father called out to me, but the tiny voice advised me to remain silent, shushing me softly. I didn’t make a sound, only covered my mouth with my hands. I felt the smallest breeze and knew immediately the little girl was gone. My father continued to call for me, his voice growing louder and somewhat doubtful. The whispered slash of a knife transformed my father’s words into screams. He pleaded with me to come to him, to help him. I did nothing.
From the sound of things, he had started searching clumsily through one of his cupboards. After a moment or two, there came the small click of a flashlight. The beam of light shot frantically about the room, searching, occasionally broken by the flitting shapes of the knife-wielding girls. After some additional probing, my father’s light discovered me—squatting in a corner with my hands covering a grin that had likely slipped past the edges of my fingers. My father frow
ned as he put his free hand to the bleeding wound in his left leg. He’d taken the actions of the little girls to be mine.
“The time has come, boy, for you to take your place within the gallery. There is too much of me in you, now. Those eyes of yours, son—cast of perfect darkness. I’ve always known what you are, what you would become. This will be my one true sin, to take you from the world. You should have succeeded me, but this life is too much with me now. I can’t leave before I’ve finished. I only hope that I can do you justice. You may be beyond even my skills.”
As my father’s words faded, there came a sound like wet thunder trudging through gravel. “You are correct about one thing, little man—he is beyond you, now.” My father’s light rose from me, ascending well over my head until it fell upon the face of a monster. Its face was an open wound frozen still with countless scars. The beam of light raced around the room chaotically, describing my father’s frantic attempts at escape. Despite his best efforts, I heard my father’s breath rush from his mouth, and I knew his neck had come into the hands of the monstrous thing. The flashlight fell to the ground, and a gigantic booted foot crushed it into darkness.
There was an enduring silence, and I began to wonder if I wasn’t dreaming. Slowly, the smell of burning flowers filled the room. And then the sound of light footsteps slowly descended the stairs. For whatever reason, I decided to stand up within the pitch. I had known the burning perfume from a dream. Someone stood directly in front of me. They knelt, their soft breath murmuring at my cheeks. I could feel a gaze, even in the dark, falling across my face. I knew it was a woman, with eyes that could pluck out a child’s worst fears, turn pain into laughter. It could only have been my mother, back from the dead. Tears rushed from my eyes. Thin arms embraced me, cool lips pressed to my forehead, and the softest hair played at my ears and cheeks. Only a single word escaped my lips. “Mother.”
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