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TURN OF THE SENTRY
Chapter One
Nick’s Tavern. Had he ever been here before?
Jack Gardner couldn’t recall, but then again, that wasn’t a big surprise. Not for him, anyway.
The
But he had to tell someone—and soon. It was driving him nuts. The same damn nightmare, over and over; it had to mean something. Just thinking about it made him queasy. Luther was the only one who might possibly understand.
The tavern sat at the end of a dead-end street, shrouded by a clump of unkempt palm trees. No billboards or marquees proclaimed its existence. Thin lines of withered morning glories weaved along the cracks on its bleak façade. The washed-out exterior seemed virtually colorless in the waning afternoon, and from all outward appearances, the place looked abandoned. Except for one thing: a small neon sign hanging on the door—three concentric circles glowing red, white and amber. As Jack approached the entrance, the erratic hum and flicker of the peculiar sign instigated a wave of anxiety so strong it stopped him in mid-stride. Goosebumps prickled his flesh, and he shivered despite the oppressive heat.
This was all wrong. He shouldn’t be here. There was something he needed to do, somewhere he needed to be . . . but where?
As always, the answer danced just beyond his grasp and the spark disappeared as quickly as it came, leaving him frustrated and aggravated. And yet the reluctance to enter Nick’s Tavern remained. Jack buried his hands in the pockets of his jeans and shook his head, trying to stave off the insistent anger gnawing at his gut, a constant companion over these past weeks.
It was just a bar. He usually liked to do his drinking alone, but it wasn’t like he’d never been in a bar before. And that stupid sign—well it was probably some new trendy beer or something. Just a sign. Nothing to worry about. Besides, Luther never would have suggested the place if there was any problem. The stress of the past few weeks had jangled his nerves, that’s all. But still . . .
“Jack? You okay?” Luther stroked the white stubble on his chin, concern reflected in his cobalt eyes, so startling against his charcoal complexion.
“Yeah, I guess.”
Luther nodded and swung the door open. A handful of people seated at a long bar turned in unison. Their chatter ceased as they stared at the doorway.
Jack hesitated, and the goosebumps returned in full force. “Luther, are you sure . . .”
But his friend had already marched inside. Jack took a deep breath and followed him into the haze of cigarette smoke, his head down as he passed the long bar. The place was eerily quiet. No music played in the background, no televisions blared with ESPN. The only sound came from his own sneakers squawking on the sticky tiles as he made his way to a small table across the room.
As the burst of illumination from the open door receded, the people at the bar returned to their drinks and resumed their muffled chatter. Jack sat with his back angled to the bar, his cheeks still hot with embarrassment. He didn’t like crowds to begin with, let alone crowds that stared at him. Did everybody get the same unsettling reception? If so, it was no wonder the place had such a grim air about it.
“Have a seat,” Luther said as he motioned to the waitress. “You sure you’re okay?”
Jack nodded absently as the waitress hustled over to the table. She was short and stubby, and with the look on her face, would have made a perfect model for a gargoyle. No “good afternoon” or “may I help you”; she just glared at them silently.
Luther smiled, deepening the creases on his face. “How you doin’ today, Selina?”
Selina scrunched her face. Her marble eyes darkened beneath her heavy brow. “I was fine before you two came in. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Luther’s pleasant expression didn’t change. “I’m orderin’ a diet Coke, that’s what. And my friend here will have . . . ?”
“Uh . . . Miller. Draft, if you got it.”
Selina swiped a strand of hair away from her face. “Your friend? Is that what you call him now?”
“A diet Coke and a Miller, Selina. If you please.” His smile didn’t waiver, but his eyes narrowed with a determined look Jack knew well.
Selina grunted and cast a venomous glance in his direction before scurrying away.
“What the hell is with her? You know her?”
Luther waved a hand in Selina’s direction. “Don’t pay her no mind. She just takes some gettin’ used to, that’s all.”
Jack fidgeted in his seat, his right leg bouncing up and down. This was crazy. He shouldn’t be here.
Luther was saying something about a bag lady that had wandered into the diner before lunch today, how he’d have given her a soda if he was in charge, but Jack was only half listening. This weird little bar rubbed him raw. It wasn’t just Selina. The whole atmosphere of the place seemed off kilter—hostile, even. He’d been on edge to begin with and this place wasn’t helping. Maybe his nerves were just getting the better of him again. He should have ordered a scotch instead of a beer. At least it would have calmed him a little. One beer wouldn’t do much to ease the tension creeping up his spine.
With a huff, Selina delivered the first round of drinks, then stormed away without a word.
Luther shook his head. “So, what did you want to talk to me about?”
Leave it to Luther to get right to the point. But it wasn’t that easy—not like talking about the weather or the latest loss by the Marlins. This story needed a little lubrication.
With a shrug, he drained his beer in one gulp. Before he could ask for another, a stout man, looking out of place in a starched shirt and bowtie, strolled over to the table. He introduced himself as Nick, the owner of the bar. He exchanged a few pleasantries with Luther, then asked for a private word with him.
Luther rolled his eyes and turned to Jack. “Order what you want. I’ll be right back.”
“Sure, okay.”
Carte blanche at a bar—that should help trim away some of the uneasiness. After all, hostile atmosphere or not, liquor was still liquor. He wondered if Luther would think it was rude if he shot for the top-shelf stuff. It’d be a nice change from the rot-gut he usually drank. Then again, Luther probably couldn’t afford the good stuff either. After all, The Nook didn’t pay either of them that well. It’d be great if the bar had a menu. He wasn’t really hungry, but maybe if he got something in his stomach, he’d feel better. With his pittance of a salary, hearty meals were not that common. A bag of peanuts or a Slim Jim usually sufficed, so long as he had something to wash it down with.
Selina was busy cleaning off another table and didn’t seem all that anxious to give him a refill. Just as well; he didn’t need any more of her lousy attitude. It’d be easier to order what he wanted himself.
He got up, stretched some of the tightness out of his back, and wandered over to the long bar, half-expecting the patrons sitting at the rail to turn and glare at him again. But they didn’t. They continued their quiet conversations, uninterrupted.
What the hell were they talking so intently about? It wasn’t like there was a game to discuss, or something like that. Were they talking about him? No, that was just him being paranoid. Still, maybe if he leaned in close enough, he’d catch a snippet or two, just to be sure.
But as he stood at the bar, it wasn’t the army of top-shelf liquor bottles or the bits of idle conversation that caught his attention. It was the mural.
How could he have not noticed it before? The bizarre display took up nearly the entire wall behind the bar—an exotic swirl of colors and images clearly visible even in the gloom. Its vivacity stood out in stark contrast to the rest of the place. The way the colors contrasted and blended was both repulsive and alluring. It tugged at him, pulled him in. As he analyzed the intricate patterns and designs, his insides squirmed and a shadow moved in the corner of his mind. The ever-present anger churning in his gut grumbled more fervently. When he focused on the mural, the colors twisted and undulated every so slightly—a trick of the eyes, for sure, but fascinating nonetheless. He could almost make out a picture, a pattern, but then it changed.
A tap on his shoulder broke the spell.
Jack turned. Selina stood nearly toe to toe with him, barely reaching his shoulders. She held a small, round tray with two half-empty beer mugs, and the scowl on her face suggested she’d like nothing more than to hit him with it. “You’re pretty ballsy, coming in here.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me, asshole.”
Jack gritted his teeth, straining against the rising anger. What was it with her? Did she just not like the way he looked? “What’s your damn problem, lady? You’ve been giving me an attitude ever since I walked in here.”
Revulsion glinted in her eyes and her knuckles bulged as she gripped the tray. “Shouldn’t I?”
“You don’t even know me.”
“You think I’m blind? Of course I know you.”
The writhing ball of emotion suddenly mingled with a twinge of hope. Did she really recognize him? Could this miserable little bar jockey really have some answers to his questions?
“Okay, you think you know me? Who am I?”
“You’re a filthy piece of scum. Shit, all you have to do is look in the mirror to figure that out.”
It wasn’t just her words that got to him, but her tone. The flicker of hope melted in the heat of his fury. Disappointment and confusion fanned the flames and his anger surged forward, crashing through a thin wall of resistance he’d built around it. His heart thudded in his ears, dulling the sounds around him and the room pulsated to the internal beat. He knew he should just walk away and go back to his table. Luther even motioned to him from the back of the bar.
But Selina kept pushing. “Did you enjoy your beer? I spit in it, you know. A big hawker.” Her lips parted in a sneer. “I hope it was tasty.”
Her snicker was like a match touching a pool of kerosene. The fury within leapt to life, devouring him with sudden ferocity.
There was no other way—he had no choice.
With an internal flash, his insides exploded. A cry of angry surprise escaped his lips as a white-hot current raced through him, nearly knocking him off his feet. Every nerve splintered and crackled as a powerful pulse leapt from him and struck the jeering waitress.
Selina went airborne.
Airborne? How was that possible?
The round tray flew out of Selina’s hands, ricocheted off the floor and showered remnants of warm beer over several customers. She landed in a heap against the opposite wall. The sight might have been comical if it hadn’t been so alarming.
Selina looked stunned—and more pissed than before. Dazed, Jack ran his shaky hands though his hair, now slick with sweat. He hadn’t touched her; hadn’t even raised a finger against her. At least, he didn’t think so. Yet, against all logic, something told him that he was unmistakably responsible for what had just happened.
For a moment, there was silence. Conversations stopped and no one moved. Then bar stools scraped against the floor as several patrons rose from their perches, ready to assist Selina or beat the crap out of him. Probably both. Although younger than most of them, he couldn’t possibly hold his own outnumbered ten to one, especially since he still felt weak and unsteady. He could run. But then they’d think he was a coward. Instead, he should stay and fight. But what if they all came at him at once?
A heavy hand on his shoulder proved that Luther had made the decision for him. “I think we best be goin’ now.”
Luther steered him quickly past the patrons, in the direction of the front door. Selina scrambled after them, flooding the air with a caustic river of profanity.
The small crowd eyed him with malice as they murmured and rustled. A big guy appearing quite natural in his Giant’s football jersey clenched his fists and looked ready to take a swing at him as they hurried past. But he and Luther escaped into the late afternoon haze with no further confrontations.
Outside, Jack squinted at the relative brightness and braced himself, waiting for Selina to charge after them, accompanied by one or two burly supporters. But the entrance remained quiet, disturbed only by the sputtering neon sign. Luther stood, his arms folded across his chest, silently studying him.
Jack winced at the stab of guilt he felt. It was his fault—all his fault . . . “Luther, I’m . . . I’m sorry.”
“You thinkin’ you got somethin’ to be sorry for?” Luther’s mellow
Jack wiped his palms on his jeans. “I don’t know. Do I? You saw what happened?”
“Yes, I did.”
“I didn’t touch her. I swear—”
“I know you didn’t.”
How could Luther stay so composed? What had happened in the tavern was insane. It made no sense. He’d gotten angry, but that alone couldn’t have caused Selina to fly backward like that. There had to be some explanation for it.
“She must have tripped,” Jack said.
Luther raised his eyebrows. “Tripped?”
“Yeah, you know. Then she fell backwards—”
“She didn’t fall, Jack. She was pushed.”
“I didn’t push her.”
“Not with your hands.”
There was a nervous flutter in Jack’s chest. He took a step closer to Luther, his legs still shaky. “What do you mean, not with my hands? How else could I have . . .” He stopped as Luther eyed him like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit the last hole. Jack had a sudden strong impression that his friend was hiding something, that he somehow understood what had just happened in the bar.
Luther turned to walk away, but Jack grabbed his arm. “Don’t walk away from me, goddamn it! You know, don’t you? Was it the anger? The dream? What aren’t you telling me?”
Luther glared at Jack’s clenched hand. “You don’t wanna be doin’ that now, do you?”
Luther was not a terribly big man—slightly taller than Jack and about twice his age—yet he had a presence that could simultaneously intimidate and inspire. Jack loosened his grip. “But you don’t understand . . .”
“I think you got that backwards, Jack. It’s you that don’t understand.”
This wasn’t like Luther. Over the past few weeks, throughout his many moments of confusion and uncertainty, Luther had been the only one he’d been able to depend on, the only one who had bothered with him. Now he was walking away.
“Luther, please.” He could hear the desperation in his own voice. “Talk to me.”
Luther spun around, his eyes reflecting angst so real Jack had to take a step back. “See, Jack, I can’t do this. I done too much already.”
“Can’t do what?”
“I need to think.”
“Think? Why?”
“You got to give me time.”
And with that, Luther turned away again.
“Luther, wait!”
But this time, Luther kept walking. Jack watched until he was out of sight, feeling somehow more alone than he had since he first awoke in the hospital eight weeks ago.
At the entrance to Nick’s, the strange sign with its three glowing circles still taunted him with a vague but powerful sense of urgency. He needed to be somewhere…needed to do something. But, as always, whatever it was remained just out of reach.
Should he go back in to Nick’s? It was possible someone in there might be able to explain what had happened. That is, if they didn’t kill him first. Probably not a good idea. Besides, if he had to confront that horrible waitress once more, the whole thing might happen all over again. He couldn’t face that. Not now. Maybe not ever.
Dull anger still simmered in his gut, nowhere near as intense as it was before, but there all the same, just below the surface. Could that anger really have been the cause of what just happened at Nick’s? No. That was impossible. There had to be an explanation. And now, more than ever, he sensed that Luther might have the answer. His friend would be at work in the morning, flipping eggs as usual on the prehistoric grill. He could talk to him then, after they’ve both had a chance to calm down. Things might not seem so crazy when viewed from the familiar confines of the back kitchen of the Nook.
With that in mind, Jack headed home to his shoebox apartment on the west side of Palm Cove, trying to ignore the grim feeling that by sunrise things would indeed look different, but not necessarily better.
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SHUTTERBUG
A Short Story by A.M. Boyle
Holly
Benson hesitated in the entrance of the empty reception area. No
phones shrilled, no keyboards clattered.
A fog of muted shadows enveloped the room and the chair behind the tall,
curved desk was vacant. The tomb-like
stillness was disturbed only by the soft whoosh of the frosted glass door as it
closed behind her. Holly glanced at the invitation, squinting to
make out the words and numbers in the insipid light that filtered in from the
hallway—Mantis Studios, September 17, 2006, 2:00 p.m,
“Hello?” She waited. No answer. “Anyone here?” The air seemed to absorb her words, swallow them whole. Something in her gut tugged at her, urged her to turn around. She ignored it. This was her shot. Chances like this didn’t come around every day. Holly straightened her shoulders, flicked back her long black hair and moved toward the overstuffed sofa in the corner of the room.
Perhaps they had forgotten. Or maybe they just weren’t here yet. Either way, she would sit and wait. Someone was bound to come around eventually.
The room was large to begin with, but several strategically placed oval mirrors gave it a gaping, hollow feel. Various photos of stylish and seductive models gazed down at her with hardened eyes, as if incensed by her intrusion. The models were all men. Strange. Not one woman. Maybe the agency specialized in male models. Holly clutched the invitation, trying again to ignore the apprehension gnawing at her stomach. She didn’t claw her way to the top just to have so some childish case of the heebie-jeebies ruin it all. This was the opportunity she had prepared for, a chance to let her beauty glow, make all those other girls wither with envy. After all, she was more beautiful than any of them. She deserved this—they didn’t. Besides, she was seventeen now. In a short time, she would be past her prime for the modeling world. It was now or never. She scoured the gloom for a light switch, but found none.
“Take a seat please.”
Holly nearly jumped out of her skin as the voice thundered into the silence. It came from directly above her head. Looking up, she saw the circular outline of an intercom planted in the low ceiling. And something else.
Was it a lens of some sort? Had someone been watching her the whole time? Goosebumps tickled her arms as she peered into the empty shadows. No one there. Heart hammering, she perched on the edge of the sofa. Her skirt covered little more than her hips, and the leather felt clammy and cold against her bare legs. A shiver coursed through her.
She needed to get hold of herself. This was probably standard practice for a private shoot. Auditions were always crowded and noisy with too many ugly wannabees preening and posing as they waited for their turn in front of the camera. But this—this was by private invitation only—a step above anything else she’d ever attended. Besides, the studio, although deserted, certainly looked legitimate.
Of course, studios came in various shapes and sizes, some large and impersonal, others small and impersonal. Some were out and out shady. Holly certainly wasn’t naïve. She knew the dangers, like that one place on the west side of the city. She’d seen the ad in one of those free metro papers on the subway. The brownstone looked like a private residence, not a studio, and when she went inside, she stumbled into a world of leather sheets and handcuffs, where chains and various ominous apparatus hung from the walls and ceiling. It wasn’t that she was necessarily above that sort of thing, but the pay had better be damn good. From the look of that brownstone outfit, it was doubtful that pay was even an option. She was probably lucky they didn’t force her to stay. After all, she was alone. She always went to the auditions alone. They were usually during school hours, and her bitch-of-a-mother would never agree to take her out of school for a chance at a photo shoot. The woman just didn’t understand. Maybe it was because dear old mom was an obese slob who didn’t even wear make-up. Only someone who possessed the kind of uncanny beauty that Holly did could understand the need to use such a gift.
Other girls came to the auditions in gaggles, whispering and sniggering about their competitors. Holly had no time for any such nonsense. She had no friends because she had no equals. Other girls were too jealous, or too awed, to even pretend to be her friend. It was a good thing that true beauty was so intangible, or else the others would have surely devised a way to steal it by now. It was her greatest asset, carrying the promise of money, of fame, of worth. Without her beauty, she would be just like everybody else—mediocre, ordinary, ugly. She simply couldn’t live like that. Instead, she was destined for greatness, and the invitation clutched in her hand proved it. This was an actual shoot—a private session to which no one else was invited. It was her own personal career launching pad.
The studio had found her on the ModelMaker website and had naturally been taken by her unmatched beauty. Holly was glad that she had sprung for the premier package on the site. It was worth the extra two hundred bucks, and by the time her mother figured out what the extra charge was on the credit card, Holly would be well on her way to stardom. She had googled Mantis Studios, and found them to be reputable, with some recognizable names on their roster of clients and covers. This was the real deal.
The lights came on and Holly blinked against the sudden glare.
“Miss Benson?”
Her breathe caught in her throat. This time, the voice didn’t echo throughout the room—it came from beside the sofa.
How did he get there without her noticing?
Holly scrambled to her feet and, as she squinted at the figure before her, almost lost what little composure she had. The man was sickly thin, looking more like a stick-figure than a flesh-and-bone person. His cheeks were sunken around the lines of his jaw and his eyes, partially obscured by stray wisps of greasy black hair, bulged unnaturally from their sockets, giving him a distinct insectile appearance. Holly instinctively recoiled as she struggled to suppress a wave of revulsion.
A smile darted across the man’s face, lingering long enough to reveal a crooked row of yellow teeth. “My name is Pedran Mantis. This is my studio.”
There was an uncomfortable pause. Holly tried to look away, disengage herself from the man’s features so she could recover her voice. But those bulging eyes were locked on her. They were a peculiar shade, reflecting the light as crimson red, like the steady red eye of a camera before it captures its forever-image.
“I hope you will forgive the delay. I was engaged on the phone in the back office. An important opportunity with a local clothing store. I simply lost track of time.”
Pedran’s voice had a shrill, tinny quality that was as disagreeable as his appearance. Holly nodded slightly, still trying to find her voice. Pedran made an unusual high-pitched humming noise as he looked her up and down appraisingly.
“This is your first professional session?”
Holly nodded again. “Yes.” The word came out weakly, and she cleared her throat. “I mean, I’ve been to plenty of auditions . . .”
“Yes. Auditions.” Pedran made that odd humming noise again then turned abruptly on his heels. “Follow me, Miss. Benson. We are short on time. No fault of yours, but true nonetheless.” He strode crisply toward the doorway on the far side of the reception area.
Her stomach sank to her feet—she had not made a good first impression. Looks aside, when dealing with obvious egos like Pedran Mantis, first impressions were vital. Small talk—she needed to make small talk.
“Ummm . . . this is a lovely studio you have here, Mr. Mantis.”
“Thank you, but you have only seen the reception area.”
“Well, the reception area is nice.”
Pedran said nothing, but reached into his pocket and withdrew a collection of keys.
“The photos in the waiting area are terrific. Great looking models.”
Pedran paused and turned, protruding eyes wide. “Do you really think so?”
Holly took an involuntary step back. “Well, yeah. They’re all pretty much hunks.”
Pedran cocked his head, then turned and proceeded down a short hallway, past a small kitchen area. They stopped in front of a gray door.
“How come there’re no girls, though?”
“Girls?”
“You know. The photos on the walls. Just curious.”
Pedran swiveled around and stared at her again. Those red eyes seemed to glow, and Holly was immediately sorry she had asked the question.
“There are no girls, my dear, because those photos are all me. I am not a girl.”
Holly didn’t know how to respond to that comment. Pedran must have misstated or misunderstood. He returned his attention to the lock and, after a moment, swung the door open and proceeded inside. Holly followed him into the darkness.
“You mean the photos were all taken by you, right?” she said, trying to keep up the conversation.
“If that’s what I meant, that’s what I would have said. I always say what I mean, my dear. I never lie.” The lights came on. Holly expected to see a full-fledged studio with lighting apparatus, mounted cameras, backdrops, settings, props and other devices used to create the enticing illusions gregariously displayed within so many magazines and newspapers. But there was none of that here. The room was small, 10 by 10 at the most, and it was covered—wall to wall, floor to ceiling—in plush crimson carpet. The cubicle was empty except for a single metal chair and a digital camera nestled in the corner. Holly’s insides lurched. This didn’t look right. Not at all. This time, she yielded to her instinct and turned to leave. But Pedran had already slinked behind her and shut the door. The keys were back in his pocket.
“Something wrong, Miss Benson?” That smile flitted across his face again and the flash of lemon-colored teeth seemed to accentuate the pallor of his skin.
“Look, I think I should go.”
“Really? Why would you do a thing like that?”
“This isn’t what I expected. This is not a studio.”
“It isn’t?”
Holly shifted uneasily.
“Look, I’ve changed my mind, okay? Maybe some other time.”
Pedran made that humming sound again. He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder, pressing down lightly, digging his fingers in a bit. “I’m afraid that would be unacceptable. After all, you did consent to my invitation, and we’ve hardly even begun.”
The place where Pedran laid his hand felt suddenly strange—tingly. Holly cringed and tried to shake him off. “Like I said, this is not even a photo studio. I mean, it’s just a room. Where’s all the equipment?”
Pedran took his hand off her shoulder. “My camera is all that I need. It is a very specialized camera.”
“Look, Mr. Mantis, all I know is the invitation said I was coming to a photo shoot, and this is not—”
“Do you know how to read, Miss Benson?”
“What?”
“You did read the invitation, did you not?”
“Yeah, sure I did. I have it right here.” She indicated the paper still in her hand.
“And does it say anything about a ‘photo shoot’? Does it use those words?”
Holly glanced at the invitation. The words looked a little fuzzy. Must be the lighting. “Well, no, but . . .”
“What, exactly, does it say, Miss Benson.”
“Well, you sent it right? You know—“
“Indulge me for a moment.” There was that smile again, shallow and insincere. Holly glared at the embossed invitation more as a way to avoid staring at Pedran’s repulsive features than as an act of indulgence.
“It’s addressed to me. It says, ‘Dear Miss Benson, Mantis Studios requests the honor of your presence so that we may personally capture the essence of your beauty. Mantis represents many well-known clients, and judging from your profile and portfolio, we believe you meet the criteria established by those clients for desirable print features.’ And then it gives the date and time and stuff.”
“Exactly. See? Perfect honesty.”
“So? You were talking about a photo shoot.”
“Not exactly. At least, not by your definition.” Pedran stepped to the corner of the room and gently lifted the camera, cupping it in his hands.
While he momentarily had his back to her, Holly considered bolting toward the door in case it wasn’t locked, or maybe wrestling him to the ground, grabbing the keys—after all there was not much to him, and she could probably overpower him if she tried. But she was suddenly very tired, her body felt heavy. She barely had the energy to lift her hand to her shoulder and caress the numb spot where Pedran had touched her. Her shoulder was damp, slightly warm and sticky. Panic surged through her. It was blood. Her heart skipped to double-time.
“What did you do to me?” The words felt thick on her tongue.
“Don’t worry, my dear. Only a pinprick. Just to help you relax.”
Her legs felt weak, shaky. Drugs. He must have injected her with some kind of drug. But she didn’t see anything in his hands except the camera. Pedran stared lovingly at the camera as he cradled it, caressed it. At first glance, it looked like an ordinary digital camera—maybe a Canon Rebel, with a zoom lens—but then Holly noticed an unusual modification. The camera had two long tendrils, thin and snake-like, that extended from its base. As Pedran gently stroked the camera, the tendrils quivered ever so slightly. Her stomach roiled.
“Do you know who I am, Miss Benson?”
“You’re the guy who owns this place. I’ll make sure the police know it, too.” The words came slowly, as though having a hard time finding their way from her brain to her mouth.
“Yes, I do own the studio,” Pedran smirked, “but I am also a model.”
Despite the situation, the absurdity of his comment was almost funny.
“In fact, as I mentioned, I am the model that you saw in those photographs hanging along the walls.”
Okay, the man was not only a psychopath, but delusional as well. Drugs or no drugs, she had to get away from him. It was insane to come here alone. Lesson learned. This was definitely the last time she would she would do anything like this by herself.
“You see, Miss Benson, I am what is known as a Shutterbug.”
Pedran’s expression shifted slightly, and the distortion of his face became more pronounced. His blood-red eyes locked on hers once more.
“A Shutterbug, as in, you like to take pictures,” Her own voice sounded impossibly far away.
“That is the slang definition, true. But like many slang expressions, it has its basis in something more substantial. I like to take pictures, yes. But not just to gaze at them. You see, the pictures I take with my camera sustain me. They give me something which I do not have.”
Dizzy now, Holly struggled to stay upright. She fought the rubbery feeling in her legs and clutched the metal chair for support. Pedran’s laser eyes continued to burrow into her as he repeatedly caressed the camera. The tendrils moved with more definition now, undulating with every stroke of his hand.
“You see, a Shutterbug, like many bugs, is parasitic by nature. We need to feed off of others, taking from them what we ourselves lack. In my case, it is beauty. You have clearly noticed that I lack a degree of elegance and attractiveness. So I take it from others, use it myself for my own purposes. When that quantity is used up, I simply find more. This studio helps me to find a constant, fresh supply.” This time the smile that spread across his grotesque face appeared genuine.
Holly wanted to speak, but could no longer find her voice. Her legs finally gave way and, as Pedran spoke, she sunk onto the cold metal chair.
“I said nothing about a photo shoot in my invitation. I only told you what I intended to do. Capture the essence of your beauty.”
With that, he lifted the camera to his face. The two tendrils slithered around his arms, and he tensed as they burrowed into his veins. There was a flash, and Holly gasped at the twisting, wrenching sensation in her gut. Another flash, and she writhed with sudden agony. It felt as though her insides were being sucked through her skin by some invisible force. The room spun as a haze of black dots shrouded her vision. That horrid high-pitched humming filled her ears, interjected by whispered words of ecstasy. Then everything went black.
Slowly, Holly’s eyes fluttered open, and the world came into focus. The reception area of Mantis Studios was still dark, expect for the hazy light that filtered through the frosted glass doors. She stretched, muscles stiff from sitting so long on the leather sofa. The invitation lay at her feet. How could she let herself fall asleep like that? It would’ve been awfully embarrassing if someone had come in. A vague dream hovered in the back of her mind—something about tentacles and red carpet—but it was too nebulous to grasp. Holly glanced at her watch. 4:05. Two hours had passed. Apparently, the studio truly had forgotten about her appointment. She better get home—her mother would be looking for her, and she didn’t want to risk getting grounded again. Maybe if she called the studio tomorrow, she could reschedule. Disappointed, she headed for the door, glancing briefly into one of the oval mirrors to make sure her makeup wasn’t smudged from sleep.
She froze.
Holly stepped closer, staring wide-eyed, certain that the reflection—her reflection—so distorted, so grotesque, so ugly, must be an illusion, a cruel trick of the poor lighting.
But it wasn’t.
Her screams rebounded off the walls of the empty reception area, unheard by anyone.
One
of the local high-end clothing stores placed a full-color glossy circular in
the Sunday paper, boasting its latest sale prices on men’s apparel. They had found the perfect model to display
their merchandise, and were sure the ad would generate great revenue. Mantis Studios never failed to come through
with just the right model for the job. The
circular was tucked into the fold of Section C, and tended to distract readers
from the brief story on the back page about the seventeen year old girl who
committed suicide. The young girl, Holly
Benson, had jumped in front of a subway train at the station three blocks down
from the
