What Lies Within



  What Lies Within

  By:

  Clare de Lune

  What Lies Within

  By: Clare de Lune

  Crescent City Crypt Press

  New Orleans, LA

  [email protected]

  Copyright 2016 by Clare de Lune

  Cover artist: Margò Wiessman

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Crescent City Crypt Press, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For Mom.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sophia: Cleanliness Equals Godliness

  Sophia Varga drowned in hopelessness long ago, her responsibilities and daily life her only marionettes. The sun had long since faded and only the dull phosphorus streetlights lit the way to a rather inconspicuous warehouse near the San Francisco Airport. Sophia parked her car on the side of the building and went in, flicked on fluorescent lights, inhaled the stale air, and cursed the fact that the warehouse had no air conditioning. In one of the side rooms of the warehouse, the one with sufficient ventilation, she boiled the fat of a dead transient boy, age twenty-two, in a vat of caustic soda.

  Once the pot of thick, vicious mush had melted, she would add a bottle of fragrance. Soon, the boy’s remains would be packaged in beautiful thick paper and tied up with a purple ribbon. His packaging would have the words ‘Everlasting Beauty’s Luscious Lavender Soap’ inscribed with care in fine ink. Then, he—rather, the soap--would be shipped off to Hawaii.

  The melting always took time, so Sophia turned on her laptop, opened an email, and downloaded a video. A pretty young girl smiled with pained awkwardness. She was thin, with cheekbones sharp enough to cut your finger, dyed blond hair and flat brown eyes. She pivoted in the shower in slow motion, billows of soft white bubbles clinging to her body.

  “When I want to feel rejuvenated, soft and clean, there’s just one soap for me: The Everlasting Beauty Bar. This amazing soap takes years off your skin, leaving you feeling revitalized and youthful!”

  The camera cut to the package and a close-up of a bar of soap, with a man’s voice explaining how this soap made a splash in international markets, how it’s made with all-natural, secret ingredients, and how it’s the alternative to plastic surgery.

  Sophia didn’t even finish watching it. She hit the ‘Reply’ button and her fingers flew over the keyboard:

  “If our product takes years off your skin, you should hire models that don’t look like they’ve come straight off Hooker’s Row. Get rid of her and get another model.”

  Flustered, she huffed and clicked ‘Send.’

  Mere seconds passed before the reply came:

  “And you should find suppliers who aren’t skinny little boys or trannies.”

  No use in replying, she thought. She dug her fingernails into her palm and waited for the anger to subside.

  She stayed at the warehouse all night, and just before the sun came up, she closed up the building and headed north towards Ocean Beach. She knew he’d be there this morning, showing off his impressive surfing and swimming skills.

  Paul. That was his name. It had been easy to find out. She would make him hers. She wasn't sure how to do it yet. She wouldn't use him…at least, not yet.

  She gazed at him once more as he paddled out, savoring the moment, then finally, she began walking back towards her car with much reluctance. She had to sleep. The caffeine from earlier had fizzled out, its small remnants still clinging to the edges of her brain. She glanced at the rising sun and guessed the time.

  The drive back up to her neighborhood was full of twists and turns, and Sophia took them with no caution. Her little Honda hung to the road in desperation, its tires squeaking on every turn.

  She had been walking back from the grocery store, bags in hand, when she’d first seen Paul. He walked down the street, his pace quick and his strides long. She noticed people gave him plenty of room. He looked confident and thoughtful and it intrigued her. She followed him.

  Following people had always been second nature for her. If she saw someone interesting, male or female, she’d follow just to see where they’d go, what they’d do. A person’s walk revealed a lot. If they exuded a certain sense of superiority and confidence, she’d follow them out of curiosity. There was so much to learn from people. Sophia often found herself in situations where she would mimic someone she’d followed and observed. If they walked and looked around, unsure of themselves, she’d stalk. She always thought following and stalking were two different things. Following meant you admired the person for whatever reason. Stalking meant you had it out for the person.

  She had been following him for so long, the condensation from her frozen food started to form a dark, wet patch on the paper grocery bag. She didn’t care. Paul carried himself in a way that was so different from others, making it hard not to notice him.

  He was tall with blond hair. She could tell he highlighted or dyed it, something like that. She could tell when he passed her that his eyes were blue, sapphires set into a childlike face. He had a defined jaw, broad shoulders and an Armani suit.

  Back in the city, blocks away from Ocean Beach, Sophia fiddled with the lock on her door, which almost always jammed. As she wiggled the handle, she could hear her cat yowling inside the apartment. No wonder. She had been busy all night catching up on work things. Argie, her cat, was used to getting what he wanted, and that meant she had to get up at odd hours of the night to let him in and out. When you're an insomniac, demanding cats are the last thing on your worry list.

  She swung the door open wider, dropped her bag on the floor and headed to the back for a long shower. She did nothing for at least ten minutes but stand in its massaging path. Then deep, luxurious sleep.

  She awoke at 10:13 that evening and took her time dressing and manicuring herself to perfection. Later, she stepped out into the night and inhaled the clean, salty air. Time to have some fun.

  She enjoyed the sounds of her heels tattooing on the stairs, out onto sidewalk, and the sharp, cold sting of impending autumn on her face and in her lungs, and the hum of traffic over on Market Street. Other than a few people out and about, it was quiet and she enjoyed the alone time on the long walk to the bar.

  She usually slipped in and out of bars unnoticed, especially if they were dark like Club X. The only illumination glittered from a few tiny Christmas lights framing the bar, and a projector screen showing scenes from old B horror movies. She recognized a few, but focused her attention on making it to the bar and seating herself, saying "whiskey" to the annoyed bartender and getting comfortable. It took her a moment or two to get acclimated to being in public and around other people. She downed the drink and instantly took note of her soon-to-be friend for the evening out of the corner of her eye. She smiled while letting the cool rim of the glass rest against her bottom lip.

  Drunk, dumb musician type.

  Delicious.

  * * * *

  Everything felt amplified by a thousand-fold. She could feel every crease in her skirt against and between her legs. She could feel every fiber of fabric against her skin...her skin...she held out her hands...her skin had taken on a new glow. It felt alive, detoxed, supple, fresh. Energy soared through her veins like sugar. The whiskey she drank tasted wonderful, but burned her throat at the same time. She kept polish
ing it off in small glasses, relishing the sound of the crackling ice, tonguing the last drops of the fiery amber liquid out of the bottom.

  The guy in the bloody bathtub, whatever his name was, had certainly been a musician. He’d insisted on buying her the nice bottle of whiskey, which must have cost him a couple of hundred. What was his name? Scott, or Sam... something like that. Her lips curled a little when she thought about him, the way the hot blood felt on her mouth, the sound of her fingernails popping the skin on his wrist and on his neck, his hard-on still pressed against her leg.

  Anyway, she’d have a lot of cleaning to do before morning rolled around. The digital clock on her microwave said 5:24 a.m., and she decided to step out on the fire escape to watch the sun come up.

  She was glad she did. The sky glowed a shocking pink at first and reminded her of the inside of a seashell. Then it turned juicy orange and the fat sun slowly crept up over the San Francisco skyline. Despite the calm beauty of the early morning, something troubled her. She had a distinct feeling of impending doom. But she wasn't sure what. She realized she hadn’t seen her cat since she’d returned from the warehouse. He was probably hiding from Sam-Scott. She took a deep breath and savored the scenery once more before going back inside to fix coffee and clean up the bloody mess in the bathroom.

  She completed everything by mid-morning. Exhausted, she showered with the last bits of alcohol fading out of the corners of her eyes and her system. She crawled into bed, relaxing every muscle fiber and relishing the clean sheets on her nude body.

  The dream started out where she and Paul were in some comfortable bed. She straddled him. She kissed him and felt every little detail, relished the texture of his lips. She awoke in a sweaty, confused fit.

  * * * *

  From Sophia’s Journal

  I don't really know exactly what I am. I know I am different. I've always felt like such an alien in this world, like I can't relate to people at all. I can only really relate to animals: they eat, sleep, hunt, mate. Life is so simple for them. I know I am too unusual to find a mate, so I always look for a Mr. Right Now.

  I have been thinking about Mother lately. She was a great beauty frozen in time, and I don't recall her aging much. On her deathbed, I told her I felt an emptiness overcoming me. She smiled, but a weary look was buried in there somewhere. She tutored on her ways: how to talk to people, how to get them to do what you want, how her mind worked. I'd always wondered how she did it. For a single mother and child, we lived quite well. Strange men floated in and out of the apartment like ghosts, but I never knew they were taking care of us. After my mother died, Claude appeared like a mysterious phantom at our home. He assured me he would take care of me, and that he was one of my mother's closest friends.

  He made me wary from the get-go. I didn’t recognize him from the past, but he swooped in and “took care of things” with great ease and speed. Everything from then on blurred together. He made me call him Daddy and we did things I thought very strange. On the other hand, he took me on trips all over Europe. I fell in love with Paris and Budapest, two places my mother frequented. Claude even bought me a condo in San Francisco, not far from where I live today.

  The condo had great bay windows that fascinated me, and we were in a posh district close to shopping, something that definitely held a seventeen-year-old’s interest. Claude suggested we open a business, which I learned meant I would provide the services and he would manage the money.

  Our first customers weren’t exactly of the seedy sort, but I was quick to learn the true nature of our business. I remember them well: a husband and wife. She looked like a poodle and he a bulldog. She had permed hair piled high on her head and a perfect, petite nose, and he had sagging jowls. It helped. I already hated them.

  I smiled as I held the door open. The woman put on a high and mighty front. She said she wanted a manicure. The man wanted a massage. They were extremely condescending and rude. They treated me like a slave and commented on my skin color and accent, mentioning how I must come from a poor place. “One of those Eastern Bloc countries, right dear?”

  Infuriated, I left the room to get a few things and informed Claude of our new customers. The couple proved easy to overpower--Claude entered the room, a looming figure, lean and muscular. The woman, despite her lashing tongue, did not have even the slightest force when it came to defending herself. Our emotions ran leaps and bounds, our wallets burst with cash, and we became perfect partners in crime.

  My ‘Pampering Services’ business continued for quite a while, especially since I learned how a body could become a beautiful contribution to the power of cosmetics…the most exquisite, deepest shade of blood red lipstick you’ve ever seen, rich soaps made from the finest fats …all those parts put to wondrous use for our benefit. And for those who used them. Little did they know: they were using me for forbidden sexual pleasure, Claude used them for an even higher level of unmentionable pleasures, and their leftovers were used again…sold in the shop or used to bathe, scrub, soothe and relax my clients. The entire business cycle bloomed into a beautiful, profitable circle, one that hasn’t even been close to being broken since its inception.

  Claude taught me everything I needed to know. Would I have helped him if I had other options? I think not.

  The business was in a bustling city center spot. Everything happened with impeccable timing. Folks in the neighborhood began to become suspicious of my business partner and me. They whispered to each other about the odd smells trickling from the condominium’s windows, and our even stranger hours of operation.

  Claude took care of everything with a roaring house fire. We said some of the oils and the candles started it all (technically, they did), and we collected the insurance money. This was Claude’s solution every time the shit hit the fan. He even told me that I should burn down the San Francisco warehouse if things got out of hand. “We only store stuff at the New Orleans location now and that'll be the best place to ship our product from. Not as many questions in New Orleans, you know what I mean? It's more laissez faire here, live and let live."

  Laissez faire. Right.

  Anyway, we fled to Europe and lived in luxury for some time. And our business? Well, let’s just say this: thank goodness for the Internet. Our cosmetics line has always done well. As for me? The oldest profession never failed me when our profits dipped.

  Claude and I moved back to Louisiana after our stint in Europe. We were tired and wanted to settle for a while. The house we found in New Orleans was one giant antique. French doors with glass knobs, iron balconies, floor-to-ceiling windows, beautiful architecture. I miss those nights sitting on my iron balcony outside my bedroom, inspecting the curly tendrils of Spanish moss hanging from the trees, the smell of magnolia and the muddiness of the Mississippi River. I was sitting out there one night when I first saw him. He was strolling along with some other sophisticated looking guy, but he stuck out to me the most. I think it was the way he carried himself--he seemed a step behind the others so he could take in his world, he looked at everything with wonder and amazement. His name was Thomas. He was sensitive and beautiful and quiet. Sort of an outcast like yours truly, and he carried around a fluffy white cat he referred to as Josephine. Thomas fascinated me, in much the same way Paul fascinates me now, and in fact they resemble each other quite a bit. Enchanted, I began to follow Thomas everywhere he went.

  I think that’s when I started to really learn how to stalk. Eventually, he did begin to notice me. I remember it so clearly: his look of surprise at my interest, his smile when I asked questions, and the warm, genuine kiss he planted on my cheek.

  I did care about him. I suppose as much as someone like me could care about another human being. I wanted him to be my companion, but I also wanted every possible emotion that billowed from his soul as my very own. I wanted to devour his soul, to become everything he'd ever wanted.

  Claude was not impressed by Thomas. Not at all. He believed I should stop toying around with him and just ge
t back to work. Claude frequently irritated me with this kind of thing. Always. I'd find the perfect boy, but Claude was always there, lurking. Like he always does.

  I want a new partner in crime, a new person in my life that doesn’t crack the whip on me like Claude does. I thought that person was Thomas, but I was wrong. I wish it could be Paul.

  It’s often too easy to look at the world and only see all repulsive, vile people and the things they do. In every city, there are pockets of violence, murder, crime and sealed secrets, all of which fester and burn like an infected cut. Once people start to drown in this cesspool, they panic, and their hope for humanity begins to die.

  I don’t panic. I turn the cesspool into something clean.

  Why do we do the things we do? I suppose, in a way, it’s like being the director of a great show called Life—we get to play God. Claude especially. Killing provides a portal to sights unseen by no more than a handful of humans, things people only get to experience vicariously through films and books. It defies the parameters of sensation, where one could be released from that dull, daily disappointment that begins to set in beyond the margins of childhood experiences.

  Killers are different. They take it all, pleasure and pain, all encompassing. Their lives are dreams, bursting beyond the boundaries of what is known to man in the present world: eat, sleep, work, fuck. They take what is wrong and make it into something beautiful. They are masters of their own realms, and they take what they want.

  They are what stories are made of, like the sand that makes up miles of beaches, like stardust...

  Gods.

  Say goodnight to everything, for when you close your eyes, you'll be in another world, far away from here. I can do that for you…I can take you away from the pain, the worry, the stress.

  And I’ll make you into something better.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Benjamin and the Bone

  Saturday’s bright and sunny weather beckoned people out of their homes, and tourists were heavily sprinkled in all the popular spots. Little Benjamin, eight-and-a-half years old, was having the time of his life. His mouth was bright indigo from blue raspberry flavored bubble gum, and he jumped over the wells at the Sutro Baths with enthusiasm and curiosity. He balanced his weight as best he could. His tennis shoes didn’t provide the best traction. He looked up, waved at Daddy, and Daddy waved back and turned back around to talk to Mommy.