ART: A Novel of Extreme Horror and Gore

by Matt Shaw

  I’d chased her down with ease and knocked her to the floor before throttling her into a state of unconsciousness too - just as I’d done with the schoolgirl and the whore. The stirrings below, just like the ones I’d experienced before, were powerful and I desperately wanted to release myself there and then - give myself the climax my body was calling for. I didn’t though. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to waste it. Not when there was a bump to play with. Not when... the baby.

  I knew there had been a blackness in me. Before the sexual urges, before the killing. It was only when I reached up, fully lubed, with the razor sharp knife into Mrs Andrew’s bloody vagina and cut the baby awkwardly from within, accidentally slicing it here and there while doing so, that I realised how dark the blackness really was. For this, someone would need to invent a darker colour to have described the state of my soul.

  Of course I hadn’t cut the baby out where I’d knocked the man and the wife out. I’d managed to get them into the van. Sure I wanted to kill them immediately but I couldn’t. I just knew that Detective Andrews would have been expecting a phone call to be made. It was clear, from the bags the wife had left the house with, that he was sending her away with an officer for protection so I thought I’d play safe and get them both to make a call to him when they regained consciousness - cuffed together in the upstairs bedroom.

  Just thinking about getting them up those stairs made me start to sweat again. That had been a heavy night...

  Of course neither of them had wanted to make the call. They needed encouragement. A knife to her throat and a knife to his. When she made her call, I slid the blade across the man's throat, slicing through his windpipe and arteries. He bled out quickly with a satisfying, bubbling spray. At the time I was surprised at my lack of sexual urges as I watched the life gush out of him. I was almost disappointed, at least I was almost disappointed... When I then crushed the life from Mrs Andrews and my thoughts moved back to the tiny life, fading within her cooling corpse, the urges had returned. With a vengeance.

  I couldn’t help laughing again as I sat in the back of the police car. The officer in front turned to face me and asked what I was laughing at but I didn’t answer him. He hadn’t been upstairs yet. He hadn’t seen what I’d done. He was merely babysitting me. He’d hear soon enough, though. The whole world would.

  “Freak...” the officer said as he continued to stare at me. I didn’t verbally retort. There was no need. I merely gave him a friendly wink. He should be thanking his lucky stars. He has no idea who he is sitting in the car with. He has no idea just how well known I am going to be. If he did - he wouldn’t be name-calling. He’d be begging for my autograph. Of course - he’d have to take the cuffs off first. But if he did... I’m pretty sure I’d have to take care of the stirrings below as I remember what I did to mother and child.

  I laughed again.

  * * *

  My wife was sitting in a chair, our unborn baby, no more than a slick, bloody mound clutched in her arms. Wyatt was propped up behind the chair, dead hands clasped on her shoulders, his bruised head lolling on his chest due to the knife wound which had slit his throat almost to the spine. I screamed again, my pained cry reverberating around the room: I couldn’t help but stare at what he’d done, at the level of depravity that he had gone to. There were… things protruding from what remained of my unborn child, things placed in its undeveloped body by Benton. Like a passenger in my own body, I staggered into the room, pushing Wyatt’s corpse aside, ignoring its dead man’s stare as his head lolled and his body crumpled to the floor. I took Lucy’s face in my shaking hands and put my head to hers. I knew she was gone, it was plain just by looking. I willed her to live anyway, but her skin was cold, and her body already starting to putrefy.

  “Come back to me,” I screamed, cupping her hands in mine, tears and snot running down my face. I didn’t care, I had already lost everything.

  “Just come back to me,” I repeated, looking into her dead, doll-like eyes and praying for some flicker of recognition.

  I vaguely heard Patterson in the distance, telling people to get me out of the room. I turned and screamed at them not to touch me, My eyes blurred with tears. They backed off and I turned back to Lucy. Her lower half was a fleshy mess where Benton had cut the baby out of her. I glanced down at it, hoping against hope that there would be nothing there human I would recognise, but the tiny, perfectly formed hand burned into my brain, and that miniature, screwed up face was something that would haunt my every waking moment until the day I died.

  I grasped Lucy’s face again and put my hot forehead against her cold one. It came to me then. The message she had left me on Saturday night. I thought it was just a check in, and that she was perhaps upset about having to leave, but now, in context, it made sense.

  Benton had made her call. Benton had made her say her goodbyes just as he’d made Wyatt call me too. I glanced at Wyatt on the floor, at his bruised and beaten face. There was a distinct footprint, the tell-tale pattern of a boot across the side of his face. How he must have suffered and resisted before Benton had finished him off. It all fitted. It all made sense. With a shaking hand, I fished my phone out of my pocket and pressed the voicemail key, somehow remembering to set the phone to loudspeaker. I lifted Lucy’s head and looked into her eyes as the message filled the room.

  It’s just me checking in… I don’t know how this will all end… but I just wanted to tell you that everything will be alright, and that I love you no matter what…

  The line had clicked off then, and I knew she had known she was about to die. Another scream welled up in me and was unleashed with such fury that I tasted blood in my throat.

  I

  Love

  You.

  Just three little words. Surely now I would be able to say them, surely now, in death was my one chance to put it right, to tell her how I felt. I wanted to, I wanted to more than anything I’ve ever wanted before. The words just wouldn’t come. I blinked through tears at the distorted corpses of my family, and waited for those words to arrive. Instead it was another roar, a grunt. I knew then it was too late. Those words were never going to come. I was never going to be able to say them. As strong hands started to drag me away, I could only stare at her, my Lucy, my world. Why couldn’t I say it? Why couldn’t I let those words out? I wondered if I would wake in the night screaming them later, alone in a house as empty and dead inside as I was. It was possible, if I ever slept again, anyway. The will to fight was long gone along with my ability to stand, I let them drag me out of the room. I held on to the pain, held onto it like a security blanket.

  Did I deserve it? Had the years as a liar and an insecure prick who was disillusioned with life made me worthy of such punishment? Or was I a victim? Another statistic, just a number to crunch in the database. A case file which would eventually be filed away, never to be seen again? Probably. Not that I cared right then. All I could think about was the pain, and how much I deserved to be feeling it.

  I clutched the phone to my chest and replayed the message as they dragged me to the hallway. I listened to her words, the impact of what they’d meant hitting me harder and harder with each listen. I couldn’t help myself. I played it again. Then again, and again, all the time with those images in my head as concerned officers buzzed around me. It was after that fifth listen when everything fell into place. Everything made sense. I looked back into the room, my training forcing me to look past the blood. It was then that I understood my part in the process. The signpost glimmering in the gloom, the scrawled hand perfectly readable from where I knelt in the hall.

  Happy Ever After

  I was half-led, half-dragged downstairs, but that didn’t matter. What I’d seen would stay with me forever. The fleshy remains of the fat woman made sense now, and I knew what the purpose of the thing grafted into her stomach was.

  “Press it,” I screamed at Perkins who was standing beside the body, my throat raw and sore.

  He glanced at Patterson, who t
hen looked at me.

  “I said press it!” I screamed again as I shook myself free of the officers who had dragged me from the room. Perkins hesitated, and then did as he was instructed. Music began to filter out of the putrid remains, and it all made perfect sense. I fell to my knees by the door and for some reason that I can’t explain, I started to laugh. This was his way of telling me it was over. This was his way of letting me know it was done.

  The fat lady was singing.

  No wall mounted sign needed. Message received loud and clear.

  I glanced outside to the patrol car containing Benton, and could see him watching me, a small smile on his face. My fellow officers were watching me too. A look of pity on their pale faces. It wasn’t until then that I truly understood.

  I was Benton’s final piece. I was the grand finale. I was his masterpiece. He had won.

  EPILOGUE

  I bounced around on the hard back-seat as the van violently turned one of the last corners in our long journey. A little warning would have been nice. I heard the driver mutter something about there being a media circus ahead. His passenger uttered a swear word in response. From where I was sitting I couldn’t see much despite my best attempts. A slight ache of disappointment as I felt as though I were being cheated from what I was owed.

  Further conversation from the front of the van ended with the passenger getting on his radio to state we’d be going in via the back entrance. Further disappointment on my part as the van raced towards the end of the road.

  The crowd they were talking about must have been big as - for a split second - I heard them shouting as we drove by.

  All of them calling my name.

  My real name.

  Arthur J. Hopkins or variants of it at least.

  My favourite being ‘Art’.

  I couldn’t help but smile.

  My only two regrets being that Detective Andrews wasn’t sitting here with me to see that I was right - I would be known - and that the van hadn’t stopped to let me see the faces in the crowds.

  The disappointment was short-lived though as we turned another couple of corners - and the van began to slow - I heard more shouting and yelling. My name amongst the many words being screamed from the people waiting to see me. Of course there were negative words being thrown around too but I didn’t mind. Art is subjective and it’s nearly impossible to please everyone no matter how hard you try.

  The van juddered to a stop as the shouting outside continued. I stood up and awkwardly straightened my suit jacket and tie. Would have been easier had it not been for the cuffs binding my wrists. A few seconds later and the back doors of the white transit van opened and I was finally confronted by a large crowd of people all surging forward to see me. Some had papers in their hands, some had signs, but mostly they had cameras - just as they had done in the dream I had back in my apartment when I started down this journey.

  I laughed as I gave them all a wave and thanked them for coming to see me.

  One of the officers helped me step down from the van as the other kept the crowd from getting close - helped by officers who had appeared from the courthouse.

  I didn’t get much of an opportunity to speak to my fans, and critics, as I was pushed towards the back entrance of the court. It didn’t matter though. I didn’t need to talk to them. I didn’t need to engage in conversation as to whether they liked or disliked my work. Seeing them was enough. Knowing these people had come out to see me – that was enough. For as long as I live, I’ll never forget this moment and the chants of the crowd.

  If only mum and dad were here to see me.

  Not a failure now, am I?

  We walked through the doors of the courthouse and they slammed shut behind me, cutting the noise of the people outside short. Goodbye my friends. Don’t forget me. Not that you’ll be able to.

  ~ FIN

  AUTHOR NOTES

  Matt Shaw

  ART has been in the back of my mind for many years. Just like most of my other stories it first started life as an idea for a new screenplay (my fourth major idea according to my book of notes which I used to carry with me everywhere I went). The date next to the rough synopsis reminding me I was only fifteen years old when the first vision crept into my somewhat dark mind. I’m not sure what is scarier - the fact I was only fifteen when I had some dark thoughts or the fact it has taken me over fifteen years to turn those thoughts into anything other than rough notes!

  I’d better just take the time to point out that this wasn’t down to laziness but more to do with the fact I couldn’t find a way of writing the story that I was happy with. After all - I’ve written many serial killer books using the first person narrative (a style I am comfortable in and enjoy) and I didn’t want the character to sound the same as others who’d been written before (such as Peter from the Happy Ever After book).

  Funnily enough this book ended up being written in the way you’ve just read because of Happy Ever After - a story of a serial killer and a victim told through the eyes of the two characters living the nightmare. When I first wrote that story the pieces of the puzzle clicked together and the story flowed effortlessly. More importantly - having the two characters giving their points of view made it keep fresh and interesting (something I hoped would work again with this story).

  With regards to how Michael Bray became attached to the story - I didn’t set out to write with Michael. I knew I wanted to work with another author to make sure the voices of the two main characters were distinctly different (despite having similar flaws) and I’d seen it work well with other writers. I put an advert up, on my author page, to see if anyone would want to work with me and he was one of the first replies. Now Michael and I have been acquaintances on Facebook for a while now (not sure how long exactly) and I knew he had a solid reputation as an awesome writer so I jumped at the chance to work with him. I told him the idea I had for the book and, thankfully, he was still interested. We started almost immediately with early excitement from a publisher who later went their own way for their own (valid) reasons and much to my surprise given where we were at with the project.

  Undeterred Michael and I decided to simply self-publish the book. Yes it would have been nice for me to have a publisher - considering all my works are self-published - but it wasn’t the end of the world considering self-publishing is more my area and certainly something I am comfortable with (everything seemed foreign working with the publisher).

  The writing process was strange compared to how I normally write books. I usually sit down and don’t stop until a headache forces my submission or I’ve finished. This time I found myself writing a chapter before emailing it to Michael and then waiting around, twiddling my fingers, whilst he worked hard on finishing his section before emailing it back to me so I could continue.

  With each new email came direction I wanted the story to head for (we both knew the ending from the start) and plot points for him to pick up on. Other than that the characters he created (and their reactions) are entirely his own.

  Now that may sound like a frustrating way to work but, I have to be honest, it was fun. Yes it was a challenge and yes there were moments where I found myself wondering what we were doing but overall it was exciting and - more importantly - it felt fresh. It felt new. And in a market saturated with the same old story being told again and again, I felt as though it were needed. But then, having written it, I could be biased. I guess I’ll just have to wait for the readers to make up their own minds...Either way, whether you end up liking the story or not, thank you for giving it a go.

  MATT SHAW started writing when he was 25 years old. Always of a creative mind he originally wanted to be a filmmaker but the dream faded, like the dreams of so many other people, when the harsh reality of 'needing to earn a living' got in the way.

  Now in his thirties Shaw has written over 40 publications and now started turning his stories into films (starting with MENU).

  http://www.mattshawpublications.co.uk/

&n
bsp; https://www.facebook.com/mattshawpublications

  Michael Bray

  I was familiar with Matt’s work long before I saw his advertisement looking for an author to work with on a new project. He and I move in the same literary circles and had worked together indirectly on the Best of British Horror charity anthology. At the time of Matt’s advertisement, I was torn as to what to do. On the one hand, here was an author who I had a huge respect for and one who I was hoping to get a chance to work with at some point. On the flip side of that, however, I was absolutely snowed under with work and was deep into writing the sequel to Whisper. By rights, I didn’t have time to work on a new project, however I was drawn in enough to drop Matt a quick email to see what he had in mind. Matt gave me a brief outline of the story which eventually grew into this book. I was immediately drawn in by the idea of each of us writing from a separate point of view as different characters. The story was interesting too, and despite the growing workload, I couldn’t help but volunteer to be the required co-author. As you can probably guess by now, Matt agreed and we started work in the story.

  As a writer, my usual method of working is to plot out my books chapter by chapter in bullet point form. I do this without exception, and never start writing until this outline is done. This method was scrapped for Art. The process was much more organic. Matt would write his chapters and send them to me, then I would write mine based on the content he had given me. When I was done, I would send mine back to him and the process was repeated.

  For someone who is so structured in my approach to writing, it was very liberating to work in such an organic manner. I should just take this quick second to point out that although my name is on the cover and my words are within the pages, this is very much a Matt Shaw story. It was his baby. I was just there to sprinkle a little bit of a different perspective. Fans of Matt’s work will recognise his visceral, pull no punches style. Long term readers of my work will hopefully recognise my trademark writing style as I tried to paint Detective Andrews with multiple layers to his character.