Today is Saturday. It’s a day of rest.
Therefore, I’m going to offer up a hanging around the apartment piece that doesn’t address a damn thing of any concern to anyone, but is delightful in its own unique manner. In fact, I think I’ll do this every Saturday, and just give us both a break from the seriousness of the weekday grind.
I wrote this little vignette a month or two ago, and published it on one of those “we’ll publish you for free” sites. It’s a cute piece that pays homage to the great gothic horror writers of the 19th century. The men and women who taught us how to picture the dead rising from their fitful slumber to have their way with us, so that if it ever actually occurred, we’d know what to look for. This one kind of bows to HP Lovecraft, while giving a specific shout-out to another brilliant crafter of ghoulish celebrity as it does so.
I call it The Critic, and I hope you enjoy it.
The Critic
He lifted his head as soon as he smelled it. He coughed. It was a horrid smell. Like rotted meat. He knew that he’d have to deal with him…with it…yet again. He dropped the pen into the ink well and sat back in his chair.
“Yes?” he exhaled. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Slowly, the form of a man - in the most liberal sense of that term imaginable – came together just beyond the desk that stretched out before him. The stink filled every nook and cranny of the study, pushing even the impressive racks of books that lined the walls aside in its effort to squeeze into the confines of the room itself. He hated this wretched thing and its endless demands. He regretted the day that he’d begun this effort, stirring this grotesque abomination from the bowels of its prison hell and unleashing it anew into this world that had decided long ago that it had suffered quite enough of its malignant presence.
“Sir,” he spoke yet again, “Is there an issue I need to address?”
It gurgled. He hated how it seemed to revel in its own twisted version of drama. Where it had learned this tediousness was beyond the writer’s ability to imagine. Maybe in some Eastern European countries this sort of pregnancy was an effective delivery mechanism, but here in the Queen’s England, this sort of melodramatic nonsense was just plain irritating. He called out again. This time in a timbre less likely to be mistaken for a greeting.
“My good man, please state your business!”
“My business,” came the reply, dripping with a loose phlegm that gave it the aural quality of a death rattle.
“…My business,” it repeated,
“…Our business, don’t you mean?”
“Yes,” the author grunted, “our business. What is it that you need?”
“…I took the liberty,” It pushed out each segment as if in effort, followed by short pauses to collect itself for the next burst yet to come.
“…Of reading the manuscript.”
“…Last night while you slept.”
“…I have an issue.”
“Good grief, man,” he fumed, “This is merely an initial draft. I have many rewrites yet to endure. I assumed that you understood the writing process.”
It seemed to writhe slightly at this assertive response. Its form, bent and withered, slipping laterally in an unnatural manner. Back and forth, ever so slightly. A quick series of darting movements. Almost indiscernible in the dim light that reached it from the pair of candles on the desk.
“…Not the grammar,” it seemed to almost smile. That is, if what it was could ever be seen as capable of a smile at all. Still, it seemed amused.
“What, then…?” he demanded of the ghoul that undulated before him, striking him more with disgust than with the fear that it had initially inspired so many months ago.
“…It’s not…Sexy,” it gurgled softly.
This was an outrage. This deranged curse of a creature had finally gone too far. Sexy? He reeled at the thought of it. Hadn’t he agreed to immortalize this sludge and make it famous in exchange for its story? Hadn’t he continued in an honest effort to deliver on his promise to this…this existential defecation? This twitching, chortling, grimace of a thing. Hadn’t he already given it so much more than it could ever deserve? He was a well respected author, for God sake. A lettered man, with the means to turn this pathetic vulgarity into a haunting celebration of gothic horror for generations to come. And yet, it persisted in slithering into his life, as if invited beyond the walls that had been established when he’d first made his arrangement with it. It’s life story – if one could even call it that – in exchange for his genius in the telling of that story.
“Sir,” he choked, the stench having reached a level of repugnancy that could no longer be politely ignored. “By what manner of delusion does the term sexy enter into any of this?”
Suddenly, his mind was filled with images of himself as the creature standing before him. An eternal repugnancy, centuries grinding beneath his foul existence as he lingered just short of death but well beyond the sweetness of life.
“…Do I have your attention?” It’s words sloshing around within what must have been, at one time, a normal mouth. In the face of a normal man. The author immediately flashing back from the nightmare it had just treated him to. The alternative to his giving it whatever it wanted.
“…I was once,”
“…A beautiful man,”
“…Long ago.”
It seemed to shrink ever so slightly at the memory of what it had been at one time. He looked across the room to it and felt a sharp tinge of sympathy. Not pity. Not anything so condescending as pity. This macabre disgrace had once been a man. He, all too often, neglected to take that into consideration. He wouldn’t forget again. The threat was real, and he knew that. However, this small vulnerable moment between the two began the flicker of a true connection between them. After all, this had been a man of stature at one time. One who’s friendship he would have valued if he’d been alive during the time of the reign of this man.
“Would you like dark hair?” he suggested gently.
“The creature quivered slightly again.
“…dark, and long,” it burbled.
“…Thick. Like rope.”
He smiled and jotted down the requests.
“Shall I give you women?” he asked.
“…Oh yes,” it dribbled in obvious glee.
“…May I win one as well?” it sloshed.
“You know that you’ll have to be killed in the end?” he reminded the nightmare. “This is Victorian England. We don’t want to violate the sensibilities of our readers.”
“…Yes,” it slithered in response to this reality check. It was ghastly, but it wasn’t stupid.
“We’ll let you have her for one long night,” he suggested after a moment’s consideration, “Will that do?”
“…I would like that,” it replied.
“Then you’ll have to be dispatched by the hero,” he smiled.
“…I understand,” it conceded.
“…Will she be beautiful?”
“Oh heavens, yes,” he agreed. “She’ll be the spitting image of your character’s true love. The most beautiful of all.”
The beast began to vibrate suddenly, as if launched by what he’d suggested.
“…She shall be raven haired,” it choked.
“…Slender. With large almond eyes”
“…Tiny hands. Long graceful neck”
It continued laboriously listing a very specific arrangement of physical traits as if describing a woman who had once lived. One who had likely once lived, and had been his when he, too, had once lived.
The writer recorded it all as the thing struggled through its delivery. When it was done, it paused and the room grew silent.
“…Thank you Herr Stoker,” it oozed after a while.
“…It has been a long time.”
“Since you thought of her?” he looked up from his notes.
“…Yes,” it quivered.
“I will treat her as if she were my own beloved,” he promised. He meant it. This had changed everything for him. He now could see past the appalling sight of it. Past the sickening stench that enveloped it. It was human after all, and it suffered more being as it was than anyone could ever have suffered merely encountering it. The curse of it was aimed at it, reserved for it alone. He felt a rush of empathy surge through him.
“I’ll leave it here for you to read when I’ve finished the first new draft,” he declared.
As the words left his lips, he felt it begin its slow release from the environment. He walked around the desk as it gradually evaporated from the spot it had occupied in the center of the room, and opened the windows on either wall. Lifting his desk pad, he fanned the lingering odor, clearing the room of the toxic air left by the subject of his next novel.
“Maybe I’ll combine my research into that Romanian madman, Vlad Dracul, with this account,” he mumbled to himself as he closed a window.
He smiled. That seemed like a great idea. Regardless of who this thing had been in life, it couldn’t balk at having been a Romanian prince at one time. Especially one that is still celebrated so long after his heroic death. It was a definite step up in any case. Status and position in Eastern Europe being as it was.
He grabbed his pen and scrawled down a note to look into this notion in the morning. Surely, it would see the honor in the blending of the accounts. Literary license. It would understand. Besides, beyond the historical setting, it would be his story. Their story. That won’t change.
The wind beyond the rattling windows signaled a storm coming into the local area. He needed to get some sleep. Some rain against the panes would give him a nice backdrop within which to nestle for the night ahead. He blew out the candles and left the study. The darkness of the rest of his townhouse hugged him warmly as he climbed the staircase to his chambers on the 2nd floor. He smiled. It all was coming along nicely.
