Black Magic - An Urban Fantasy Colleciton Page 12

  He moved the dress around until it concealed her legs completely, and then folded one of her hands over the other. They looked so delicate in her lap, with those long fingers draped together. She sat so demurely.

  She was finally ready. It had taken him so long to get her perfect, but now his work could begin. But what to use? He had so many things in the room, so many possibilities. There were the paints, the charcoals, the pencils, those with color and without, the clay. So many options, but he chose the boxy camera. He could get angles, and lighting differences to really bring out the joy of her smile. Thousands of pictures, and he only needed to find the right one, the perfect one, to keep.

  “Do not move,” he warned her. “Do not flinch unless I tell you to.”

  She did not answer. She never answered.

  And the pictures began. The flash went off every few seconds. He moved around the room, getting different angles of her face. Some, he would move up close, and others he would stay far away. For hours it seemed, for the light in the room changed, and he had to stop to set up new lighting. To give her a different look. All the while, she did not move, her smile did not fall, and even though the flashes must have burned her eyes, she did not blink.

  He shifted her position, so that her eyes looked down, and then began work again. It was important to get her at every angle. To see her in every light possible. How else would he capture the perfect image to keep forever?

  Finally, night fell, He had taken thousands of pictures, and had to stop countless times to change film. He set the camera aside, and realized an ache had formed in his bones and stomach. He’d moved around for too long with no food, and no rest. It was worth it, though. Always worth it.

  He would have a meal, and then go to bed. Start again tomorrow. The plans had already starting forming in his head. Same outfit, same hair, same everything, but tomorrow she would be sad. The contrast in pictures would be lovely. Everyone who looked upon them would wonder what had happened to take her joy away. They would ask and ask, and he would never tell, keeping his quiet secrets to himself.

  Back at the jars, he removed his most used one. The lid was rusted, and creaked when he pushed it open. On the inside, a scant two dozen tablets remained. He pulled one out, and palmed it. Shaking with exhaustion and hunger, the artist moved back over to his model. She turned those joyous eyes on him, and did not move as he pushed the tablet between her lips.

  “Tonight,” he whispered. “You will be empty.”

  And all the joy drained out of her. All of everything drained out of her. Her eyes turned empty and reflected his image back. He could see his scraggly hair, and his too wide eyes. He could almost see his dirty skin, and the way the rags he wore hung off his body. All of those were problems for tomorrow. He left her there. He needed to eat and sleep. He needed to be fresh for tomorrow.

  ***

  He left her there, but she did not sleep. She could not remember the last time she had slept. She could not remember much nowadays. Her body ached, and her mind swam in thoughts. Always with the thoughts. Never ending, crashing into each other. How could she have so many thoughts at once? It choked her slowly, and she couldn’t do a thing about it.

  She watched as the artist moved around the space. Getting himself some food, and forgetting about her. Her stomach had stopped its aching a long time ago. Or perhaps not that long at all. She couldn’t be sure. The lights went out, leaving her in the darkness, and he disappeared into his room, like he always did. Leaving her there all night, with nothing but her thoughts.

  Time ticked by, and she waited. Waited until the moon had risen overhead, and illuminated the room. Getting off the stool always hurt. She had been sitting still for a very long time. Her legs didn’t want to move. The handful of times he allowed her off the stool were not enough to keep them strong. She could feel her weakness in every bone and limb, and that was the only thing she could feel.

  For tonight she was empty.

  Like so many nights before.

  The dress she wore shushed against the ground as she walked. She turned in loose circles around the space, looking at the thousands of eyes that stared back at her. They all looked like her eyes, but they were all strangers. Imposters that tried to be her. They stared at her from paintings, and drawings, and pictures. Half-finished sculptures that he never really had the patience for.

  And in each one of them, she couldn’t see herself.

  Oh, they all had her face, her hair, her eyes. They all wore clothes that she could remember putting on. They wore her tears, her smiles, and her lies, but all of them were imposters. Ghosts. Thousands of ghosts of what she used to be. She hated them for that. She hated them for being lies that she had to see. For being strangers that she had to look upon.

  But she only hated them when the sun came up, for at night she was empty.

  Like now. She could look upon her faces, and see what the artist always seemed to miss. They were poorly constructed lies. There she stood, staring with love. And yes, it seemed genuine then. The first picture he ever did of her. But they became less genuine as she moved on. Down the line sat another picture where she was supposed to look up with love, but her eyes seemed wrong. Her face looked soft, her smile sweet, but her eyes filled with rage. A kind of rage that burned her center, and clawed at her flesh, like the caged animal that it was.

  All day, every day, it tried to break free, but it never seemed capable of fighting back its trappings of happiness, sadness, love… All these emotions that acted as chains to keep her rage at bay.

  There she was with tears in her eyes and on her face, holding a rope in her hand. The next image showed the rope around her neck. She could remember how sick she had felt that day. How much she wanted to step off her stool, and dangle in the air until she was no more. She could remember it clearly, but underneath it all, the rage had boiled. It shined through her mirrored eyes, yet he couldn’t see it. He could only see the tears, and how the light touched her here or there.

  He couldn’t see what he had created.

  There she was, her hands curled underneath her chin, lying on the floor in front of her stool. He had spread her hair spread out artfully as she fell asleep. There she sat with flowers in her hand, her face tucked into the petals. Over there, she sobbed on the floor. Right there, yes right there, she held a knife against her wrist, like she threatened to end it all. She wished she had pressed down with the blade sometimes, but only in the light of day.

  He told her that she would live forever with these pictures. People would look at her and see the life she had lived. They would envy her, and they would want to know about her. He said, in a thousand years, people would be holding these pictures and looking at her face, long after they had both gone.

  Only, how were people supposed to get these pictures when he had locks on the door, and bars on the window? How were they to know they even existed when no one came by? No one bought the pictures. No one was ever there to see her sitting upon her stool, never moving, never talking, never blinking. So how was she immortal?

  She was not. She had been lied to, but that was the least of his sins.

  And maybe she did not have the right to complain. She sat on that stool, never moving. She feared his rages, but that did not mean she should let that fear rule her. There had been plenty of things she could have done differently, she supposed. None of that mattered now, because her body ached, and she was empty. During the day, she would’ve been filled with his false emotions and that rage that belonged to her. She had grown tired of it.

  Her legs moved stiffly, and slowly, but they did move. They carried her into the kitchen. He didn’t have much in there, never had much in there. He occasionally gave her scraps from his dinner, but she could not remember the last time that had happened, or what the occasion had been.

  What she needed sat on the counter. It wasn’t a large knife by any means. The edge glea
med in the light, and she could feel the power in the blade, though. It wouldn’t need to be a large blade. The trip down the hall was arduous. It took her a long time, and several rests before she got to his bedroom door. She pushed the wood open, and peered into the space.

  It looked dark, but she could see the artist lying in his bed, his head tucked into the pillow. His shaggy hair had splayed across the white pillowcase. The model thought he would wake up while she made her way over to him. She was okay with that. He would kill her, and this would’ve been over with, right? There used to be other pictures, of other girls. They had their freedom now, didn’t they?

  He did not stir, though, so deeply asleep, snoring softly. He did not stir when she leaned down on the bed, nor when she rested one of her hands against his chest. His eyes only opened when the tip of the blade touched his throat. He stared at her with blank eyes as she pressed that tip in, and sliced.

  Blood poured over her in a hot wave, but it didn’t bother her. She hadn’t felt warm in what seemed like years. This warmth splashed across her face, down her chest. It absolutely ruined the dress, staining all that careful pearl fabric a deep, unmistakable red, and she fancied that she’d like that in the morning. When she was no longer empty. For now, it did not matter.

  She stood next to him while he died. One should never die alone, and there was no connection more intimate to a dying person than the one who killed them. It didn’t take long for his last breath to puff out of his mouth. As he laid there, staring at the ceiling, in a pool of his blood, she thought about the freedom she wanted. She thought of many things. She always did.

  Turning from him, she made her way back to the room of ghosts. They all looked at her, and she at them. She wanted them to die, too. They were all lies. It took her several minutes to find the stinky stuff that he used on the canvas. Months ago, he said something about having to be careful about it. Or maybe not months ago. Maybe it had only been the day before. She overturned the bucket, and watched the liquid flow across the floor. It spread fast, reaching the deepest crevices and dips in the wood she hadn’t even known about.

  As she walked, she tracked the liquid and blood across the floor. The train of dress grew heavy, and dragged. It slowed her steps further, but that didn’t matter. She wanted the windows open. He had skylights that he always kept open, to catch rays of sunlight and moonlight. He liked how they colored her eyes, and her face. She wanted to see the city. She wanted to watch the cars move past her, and see the shine of moonlight on steel structures. She had missed the city so much since the artist had taken her.

  The model pulled curtains opened, and only found the boarded up windows. The wood bit into the skin of her skeletal fingers, but that did not stop her from tearing the boards down. After all this time, she would not let anything stop her. The boards came down on by one, and piled up against her feet. When she had removed them all, the model stared out into the city she had once loved.

  The buildings stretched tall, and the cars dotted the street. It all looked so marvelous, and welcoming. She imagined walking out the door, and letting the cool air touch her. She imagined it, and felt nothing. Empty. She had wanted it for so long, but that night, she was empty.

  She turned her eyes back to the room. The chemicals had spread as far across the floor as they could. Blood streaked the wood, and she saw that some of it touched his paintings. She liked to think that would have cheered her up, at another point in time. For the moment, she had a job to finish. The model lifted her heavy skirts, and started moving again, one agonizing step at a time, as her body fought with her mind.

  She stopped in front of the shelves of jars. The labels had been worn some, but she found them all legible. She had seen him take things out of so many of these jars. Had felt the bitterness dissolving on her tongue.

  The model took one of the jars down, and opened it up. Inside, dozens and dozens of tablets waited for her. She pulled one out, looking at the X scratched into the surface. She put the tablet on her tongue, and allowed it to dissolve. As the bitterness stung the back of her throat, she removed one of the matches from the box next to the jars. He loved candles, for the lighting they provided.

  She looked into all her ghosts, and smiled. These were all the people that killed her. Thousands of them, all standing around to watch her. She struck the match, and the orange glow filled the room.

  Today, she thought. I will be happy.

  DEMON HUNTING

  BY ELIZABETH A. LANCE

  Into the Dark Alley they go to explore;

  To find demons, ghosties, and ghoulies galore.

  Michael tells Elsa to go forward as planned.

  At the mouth of the creepy, red door, he stands.

  Sweet little Elsa doesn’t make a sound;

  As demons and ghosts spawn all around.

  Elsa draws her dagger just a little too late.

  She knew she should never have agreed to be bait.

  And so she fights to keep them at bay;

  As Michael leaves, just running away.

  Elsa’s heart breaks as she dies on the ground;

  She vows to haunt Michael forever, when her body is found.

  THE MIRROR WITHIN

  BY SJ DAVIS

  “What do you do at work, Daddy?” Cora asks with the squeaky voice of a young girl, her head peaks around the magazine he is reading. Her kindergarten teacher calls her effervescent. “Do you color?”

  “I take pictures,” he sighs. His glasses slide down his nose reddened by the sun, alcohol, and allergies. “Photographs.” The last word hung in the air. He looked at the ceiling fan as it whirled around their heads, humming in dizzying crescendo.

  “Take a picture of me, Daddy!” She twirls around. Her skirt flies up to her hips as she gracefully spins around the living room floor.

  “No. Not of you.” He stands quickly and rushes from the room.

  “Why Daddy? Why?” She runs down the hallway as her mother stops her.

  “Let him go, Cora,” she instructs. “He is tired. Taking pictures makes him…tired.”

  Eventually, as the years pass, he takes family pictures again, almost compulsively as if to negate his work for the newspapers.

  20 Years Later

  Cora is called home to identify her father. As she enters her home she finds a picture taken two years ago. It is the last picture taken of his eldest daughter, strangely labeled ‘Picture One’. It is crumpled and smeared with tears as it lies next to her father’s dead hand. Beside the camera aimed at her father’s dead body rests another manila folder of pictures. ‘Picture Two’ through ‘Picture Six’. She instinctively grabs his camera; the strap is frayed and smells of her father. She scrolls to the last picture. Her father is falling to the floor, halfway to a fall like a dropped marionette. His eyes are open and his temple is bleeding. This is his parting shot.

  Picture One

  Cora knew what her father expected. Her sister stood under the boy’s arm in front of the van, smiling on command. The dusty bumper was warm behind her sister’s knees and the remnants of the plumber’s name and phone number framed her in the photograph. The lighting and composition could certainly be better. But this is the picture her father deserved, ambushing these two unwilling subjects as they rushed from their house.

  Her sister was small and dark haired like her mother. But she had her grandmother’s large eyes and quick smile. She wore shorts, flips flops, and a faded gray hoodie. Her smile was perfect - slightly annoyed but still fetching. The boy, he didn’t matter. A friend, a lover perhaps, but the relationship was of little consequence – on and off, irrelevant.

  None of them will see her again. Her face will be frozen in time, framed by years of smiles, birthdays, and milestones that have been stored neatly on the family computer, classified by year and by event. Thumbnail pictures of a once living girl. In two nights, she wil
l disappear, a few hairs left behind inside that van, and this is the final photograph that her father will take of her.

  Picture Two

  The house stands behind a rusted For Sale sign. The yard is dusty, the front storm door hangs from its hinges, and cardboard covers the living room window. Three children and their mother stand outside. Their house is in the shadows of a West Virginia mountain. Three-year-old boys smile at the world, their identical faces look like sunshine painted with happy eyes. The mother is gaunt. She is as skinny as the day she will die. While she isn’t as happy as her sons, she does seem relieved to be standing outside again. The thirteen-year-old daughter is the most alarming subject. Looking over her shoulder, the girl glances nervously at the house nobody wants to buy. Most of the bad things in the family happened to her. At her feet is a framed picture of a smiling man who resembles the twins but not her. This man was trapped and found dead in the coalmines three days ago. Three days ago, she came back to life. With her right foot, the girl stomps on the picture, leaving her stepfather’s face cracked through a tangle of bright lines. The camera clicks as she lifts her foot again.

  Picture Three

  The eye can’t count faces and feel certain about the number. Perhaps fifty Iraqis stand together, no room to spare. They were almost dead for eight months, burned in a club fire set by a man who was angry with his girlfriend. By chance, the girl survived. Alone, she sits on the floor of the hospital lobby before the others, the flesh on her face incinerated by the heat.

  She wonders why should you be able to keep your fingernails and your teeth but not your hair? None of them grow hair anymore. But she is beautiful, and her lovely body wears a fine dress that is a counterpoint to her stretched and pulled skin.