The Monster's Corner

by Christopher Golden

  Time after time they turned him away with little or no money in his pocket, and after a while even those few friends who remained stopped lending him space. For several months he wandered, mired in depression and faced with the failure of his life’s dream. He never doubted he had talent (or not for long, anyway), but it remained frustratingly coy. It spent less and less of its time with him, and he began to wonder if the struggle was worth it.

  He took up work in a meat market, carving up legs of beef and lamb. There he met Fowler. Fowler introduced him to another world that existed between the seams of light and behind every dark alley and shadow. Fowler’s clients were the eyes staring at you from the depths of your closet. They were the chill winds lurking at automobile accidents and behind the gaze of serial killers and madmen. Ian didn’t think Fowler had understood what he was getting into at the time, any more than Ian had understood himself. But soon it was too late.

  He took the old freight elevator from the back lot and lugged his stinking, soggy cargo through quiet corridors. He had to make several trips. It was late, and the building was all but deserted anyway; he had seen to that soon after he had moved in, renting the space around him whenever something opened up.

  Once inside he lit several thick candles and began to pace the floor, seeking that elusive well of creativity. This would be his masterpiece. It would have to be entirely new. And it had to be raw. He would create something born from the butcher’s block, an assembly of everything foul and bloody the mind could imagine. They would be astonished, amazed, excited to a frenzy of lust. And they would pay with the almighty dollar.

  Ian slipped his tools from their place on the wall. This section of the huge room resembled a medieval torture chamber, a look he had purposely cultivated for mood. Unfinished brick ran dark with water stains; edges of bone-scraping steel winked and smiled from hooks. Stravinsky’s Mavra playing softly in the background, he crouched on the giant metal basin and separated the limbs of the two recently buried corpses, a child and its mother, with blade and saw. He paid careful attention to the areas less preserved from lying in particular positions. Slime and clotted blood quickly covered his hands. He did not wear his gloves, for this would be a creation close to his heart, an intimate relation.

  After he finished with them he went to his freezer for more parts. His mind danced with imaginative multiple-headed creatures, three legs and no eyes, muscle and bone outside of skin. But these were only previews of the climax of his talent. A kind of frenzy overtook him. He had the answer floating about in his head, not to hide the manipulations of the flesh, but to showcase them, emphasize every unnatural joint and union.

  For this he took a coroner’s needle and thick black thread, working with slippery skin and mating it to bone. A woman’s breast became a truncated child’s limb, a fingerless hand punching its way through exposed ribs. Eyes without lids glared upward through a membrane of stomach lining. A layer of teeth planted themselves amid a pucker of flesh. Ian sliced and hammered holes, brought flesh together and ripped it apart with a violence he had previously held in check. Layer built upon layer, both intricate and roughly sculpted visions of death.

  He worked through the dawn and into the afternoon. The candles burned down to nubs. The only sign of time passing was a slight glow around his heavy blinds. He lost himself in a feverish, glittery delirium.

  Finally, as night fell once again across the city beyond, he stood in aching silence and observed what had grown up out of his studio floor. Candlelight flickered upon the backs of the dead. Black thread like veins lay everywhere, up one seam and down another. Toothless mouths turned to wombs, gave birth to things unmentionable. Limbs reached up and clawed the sky in agony.

  Ian retched into the drain as traces of old booze turned his insides out and left him shaking and sore. A hand wiped across his mouth left a foul-smelling, slippery trail. He stood and held the heaves in check. His camera was within easy reach. Ian fumbled for it, every pore tingling at the raw power of the thing, stomach lurching and rolling. He had never before had the feeling that he had captured what his mind had been striving to create; he had always felt empty, unfulfilled, as if somewhere along the line he had stumbled off track.

  But this, this was perfect.

  He took to the streets the following evening to work off the ache in his legs. He had slept like the dead for a full day and woke to a clear head. He had created something unimaginable. Pornography for the supernatural. Demons did not exactly orgasm, as he understood it. But the pictures set off an erotic reaction that was both frenzied and powerful. And the Taratcha always wanted more, however satiated they might seem at first. How he could create something that might satisfy them the next time around made his blood run cold.

  Anna wouldn’t have understood any of it. He had kept her from his secret so far, but it was only a matter of time before she saw something.

  Then there was the matter of his immortal soul. Ian had begun to sense the changes. Driving past the scene of a car accident, he would catch himself drooling a little, wanting to stop and run his fingers through pools of blood. The visits to the morgue were swiftly becoming less businesslike and more pleasurable, the sight of those lifeless, cold-blue limbs physically exciting him. Not such an unusual reaction, he reasoned, after so much effort and time spent in the company of such things, but nonetheless it was dangerous. He had never intended this to be his life’s work.

  By full dark he found himself in an area of nightclubs and movie houses, neon lights blinking in and out. Twenty-four-hour peep shows beckoned from behind half-lidded windows. There were people of all sorts here, businessmen scurrying home in trench coats like roaches before the sun, hookers and transvestites, bikers, drug addicts with starved faces and bruises up their arms.

  Sandwiched between a tattoo parlor and a sex-toy shop was a tiny wooden door with a sign above it that read GATEHOUSE. Ian ducked through into a narrow stairwell that smelled of urine and followed it down into dim silence. The stairs seemed to go down much farther than they should. The last time he’d been here was almost five years ago, when he’d first grappled with the details of his craft. The Gatehouse had likely saved his life then, and now with a little luck it would give him the key to saving himself again.

  The place was like an oasis between worlds. Occult objects, books, and charms crammed the walls, alongside the latest scientific texts. Drugs of all kinds helped prepare the mind for new experiences. If you sat down at the table near the back and had your fortune read you might never get up again, for this fortune was real, and as so many customers had found, reality was often painfully blunt.

  “So what is it this time?” The voice came seemingly out of nowhere. “Looking for demon repellent? A little soul patching? Or are you already too far gone for that?”

  “Come out where I can see you, Frost.”

  “Nervous, eh? Ah, you’re human yet.” A shadow flickered and a small, lithe form materialized from the back. It was difficult to say whether the wrinkled, hairless creature that came forward was female or male, or whether it had been hiding or simply appeared out of thin air. Ian chose to believe the latter, in both cases.

  “I thought you would have come earlier,” Frost said. “I imagined you were dead. You’ve held up well, considering.” He stepped closer and peered into lan’s face. One clawlike finger reached up and traced the line of his jaw. “Though they’ve taken their toll on you, haven’t they?”

  Ian nodded. “I want out.”

  Frost chuckled. “We all say that.”

  “I mean it. I’ve done it for the last time.”

  “But you like it, don’t you? Or is that what you’re afraid of, that you’ll become like them?”

  Frost had always had an unsettling ability to find the heart of the matter. He had his feet firmly placed in both worlds. Knowing someone had been there before was an odd comfort.

  “Fowler’s lost already,” Ian said, surprised to find his voice shaking. “He wants me to keep going
as much as they do. He gets off on it now. I can’t get rid of him.”

  “You’re afraid he’ll come after you? Why don’t you just kill him?”

  “I don’t kill people. And I’m not sure he wouldn’t just … come back.”

  “I see.” Frost stood almost a head shorter than Ian, his skull moist and gleaming under the yellow light. There was no way of telling his age. His ears were curiously withered, and his face looked like a half-eaten apple. “He might at that. Unless you catch him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve heard of the tribes in South America that are afraid of cameras? Do you know why? They believe the camera has the ability to trap the soul. Not entirely true. But it can trap other things.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Taratcha are creatures of the night. They live off fear, the inability to see what might be coming. If you are able to photograph one, it will remain caught on film.”

  “Forever?”

  “Until such time as you choose to look at the prints.” Frost smiled. “They can get very angry at a trick like that. I’ll leave the details up to you. But it seems to me that it could be the answer you’re looking for.”

  “Thank you, Frost.”

  “There’s the matter of payment? Even otherworldly advice isn’t free.”

  Ian handed over a wad of bills and turned to leave. Frost caught him at the door. “Ever wonder where things like that come from?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Demons. Taratcha. The sort that you might call your customers.”

  “I assumed they were once like us. In Fowler’s case, he’s a greedy bastard. I always thought he would change completely, given the time.”

  “It’s something to think about.”

  “Are there other things I should be thinking about?”

  Frost shrugged. “I won’t tell you everything, that wouldn’t be fair. But I will tell you this: Be true to yourself. And be careful, Ian Quinn. They’re closer than you think.”

  Closer than you think. Frost’s words followed him home. Had he made an unforgivable error in judgment? Was getting rid of Fowler not the answer after all?

  As he stepped around the corner near his building, a shape slipped from the shadows into the light of a streetlamp. “If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were avoiding me,” Anna said. She wore a white tank top and jeans that clung to her curves. She’d put her black hair up, loose strands curling down to kiss her neck. “I’ve been calling your cell and getting voice mail.”

  “I turned it off,” Ian said. “Needed some sleep. And the landlord’s been looking for rent and I’d rather not talk to him.”

  “You want to know how I found you. I knew you lived in this neighborhood and drove around a couple of blocks until I saw your van. It needs a wash.” She wrinkled her nose. “You need a wash.”

  “Water’s off.” He shrugged. “What can I say, I’m a little behind …”

  “Why don’t you come back to my place. I can cook you something nice, get you cleaned up.”

  “I really should get some work done.”

  “We need to talk, Ian.” She crossed her arms over her breasts and did not step any closer. “Come with me, please. I need to know what’s going on.”

  Back at her apartment Anna busied herself in the kitchen while Ian stood under white-hot needles of spray, washing what felt like months of grime from his skin. He hung his head under the water and breathed slowly through his mouth. Something floated and spun in the circling pattern of drain water. He waited until the water finally turned from light gray to clear, and then he stepped onto a fluffy sage green bath mat and toweled himself until his flesh stung.

  He dressed in one of Anna’s oversized T-shirts and sweatpants and went into the living room while she worked in the kitchen. He took a photo album from the bookshelf, sat on the couch, and flipped through its pages. Here stood Anna as a girl with a smiling man and woman, in front of a Tudor with well-trimmed shrubs; Anna in a softball uniform; vacations with white sand beaches and cruise ships the size of small continents; a series shot against a lush mountain backdrop with another woman with similar features. They wore backpacks with sleeping bags strapped to the sides. Each shot perfectly captured a smile or look, a gesture or a thought held in someone’s expression.

  The smell of food made his mouth water. In the kitchen, Anna had placed a full plate of chops, rice, and beans on the wooden farmer’s table. She watched him rip into the meal with a half-formed smile on her face. “It’s almost morning, but I thought you needed something meaty. At least someone will eat my cooking.”

  “Right now, I’ll eat anything.”

  She elbowed him in the ribs and tucked one foot under her in the chair. “So where were you coming from tonight?”

  “I had to take some photos of the waterfront for a client. They’re going to rebuild.”

  “You didn’t have a camera.”

  “Yeah, well.” He shrugged. “I was scouting the location.”

  “Are you seeing someone else, Ian?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why won’t you tell me the truth?”

  “It’s none of your business, Anna.”

  “When I’ve been sleeping with someone for a while I kind of expect things to move forward. I like you, Ian, you’re funny, sweet, sensitive. But I don’t like your secrets.”

  “I’ve got a dark side.”

  “I want to see that, too.”

  “You’ve got to understand something about me. My work, it’s like another woman I’m in love with. I can’t just let her go, and I can’t share her with you. The two of you wouldn’t mix.”

  “How do you know? Maybe that could be fun. You should try me, you might be surprised.” She took a deep breath as if gathering courage. “You know what I think? You’re scared of a boring life. Wife, kids, house in the suburbs. You think it’s death. You think you can’t have that and still do what you do. Maybe you need the darkness, depression moves you, am I right? If you were happy, you’d lose your hold on that creative muse. But what good is it to shut yourself off from everyone who loves you, just because you’re afraid of what might happen?”

  “It isn’t like that.”

  “No? You tell me, then. I’m in love with you, Ian. I’m willing to take the next step. I’d like to meet that other woman. But I can’t be in a relationship like this, not anymore. You let me know if you ever decide to let me in.”

  He had left the blinds in his apartment closed. But when he opened the door they had been pulled back, bright early morning sunlight streaming down onto the stinking flesh on his sheet-metal stage. A moment later, Fowler came strolling out from the little kitchen alcove, eyes hidden behind dark glasses. “Magnificent,” he breathed. His jowls trembled with something like lust. “You’ve topped yourself yet again. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Ian said. “If any of them followed you here—”

  “Get real.” Fowler swept a hand toward the window. “It’s light out, or haven’t you noticed? Tends to hurt my eyes, and it makes them scream. If they want to know where you live, they’ll find you without any help from me.”

  Ian grabbed his camera from the table. He fixed Fowler through the sticky lens, found the image of the man with his palms up, gesturing. “Hey—”

  Click. The flash popped and whined; bright light painted the interior of the room. Fowler winced. “Jesus Christ, will you cut it out? Hurts my eyes …”

  Click. Pop. Another wince and a muttered breath. Ian let the camera drop to his chest. Fowler was still there.

  “What the hell did you do that for?”

  “You looked good standing next to it.”

  “Yeah. Well, don’t do it again.” Fowler’s eyes momentarily glowed red through the dark lenses and then faded. “You ain’t so cute either, you know that? You ought to look in the mirror once in a while.” He moved to the door. “Get me those prints.�
� He stole one more glance back at the creation lying still upon the bloodied silver platform, the longing plain in his face. Ian imagined him caressing its gory flanks, leaning down to touch his lips to slippery flesh. And then he was gone.

  Ian pounded a fist into his palm. Fowler was not yet a Taratcha, and would not be as easy to trap as Frost had suggested. He would have to find another way.

  Late that night the solution came to him. Like most solutions born of desperation, this one came upon him by chance.

  He had long since gone to bed, but sleep wouldn’t come at first. He couldn’t yet bring himself to disassemble his masterwork. And so it sat, alone on its altar like the remains of blood worship. Ian had begun to think of it as more than his Art, a testimony to all he had accomplished, a showcase of his talent. More than that, it was his child; and as frightened as he was with that thought, he no longer had the strength within himself to be disgusted by it.

  He did not know when he slept or when exactly he awakened, but for a moment the flitting shadow shapes and crawling, tentacled dream creatures remained with him. The huge loft sat black and silent as a tomb. He lay there blinking up into the dark until his bladder forced him out of bed.

  When he flicked on the bathroom light he almost screamed at the image glaring back at him through the mirror. Heavy brows overshadowed sunken, bruised eyes with a spark of red at their centers. He flicked the light off again and stood blinking in the dark. Fowler was right. He hadn’t noticed how far it had progressed. But it was a reversible transformation. It had to be.

  Something nagged at his mind. It was all too easy to think of the Taratcha as simply evil given form and substance, part of an ongoing underworld war, a system of checks and balances between lightness and dark. But that alone did not give them definition. It did not make them real. Now, with the image of his own face floating like a ghost in the blackness that surrounded him, he began to understand their true essence. Creatures born from a collective unconscious. Trace memory of a human race too savage to bear the light. The monster under the bed, the spark behind a pedophile’s eyes. The stuffing of a madman’s brain. They were human creations, weren’t they? And what better place for the birth of a demon than within the dark heart of an artiste?