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killed the artist but what about the dreamer?"
"I told you. I killed no one!"
"You're a predator," said Victor. "And I say that without malice."
"If that's true then I'm no worse than you. Where does your next meal come
from?
What innocent person?"
"I'm a novice; I pose no threat to anyone. Even Aurora, with the knowledge
and
strength of centuries, posed no threat to anyone in this day and age. We feed
off each other and those who are willing to cross over. But you? You're the
product of this age, the true horror of the night--the monster."
I waited for Joe to attack; for him to tear out Victor's tongue with his bare
hands, but he was strangely silent. He kept moving away from us, fading back
into the shadows of the room. I wanted desperately to call him, to hold him
and
keep him with me but the words never came.
"We do share something else in common," said Victor, gently placing his hand
on
my shoulder. "We share our dreams."
"My friend could kill you," I snapped, twisting from the chill hand.
"Yes. And I could kill you. Very easily. But why kill? I want to show you
something."
I was led to another section of the room where a long wooden table stood. The
table was covered with jars of paint and brushes-- Aurora's workshop. I felt
a
burning urge to pick up the brushes and follow the old movements again.
Opposite
the table was a gigantic canvas held together in three sections by
scaffolding.
Two stepladders were placed at either end for access to the top. It was quite
obviously a work in progress. The finished section around
84
the top of the canvas depicted a gray horizon infused with dark storm clouds.
From this fragmentary beginning I detected a desolate air, a sense of dread
unusual in her work.
"This is what she was working on," said Victor softly. "She was uncertain
about
the centerpiece."
"This looks so dismal."
"I failed her," replied Victor, frowning. "I ran out of dreams. She waited
for
weeks, but there was nothing for me but bits and pieces. Whatever it was she
was
looking for, I couldn't provide. So she went out one night among the people,
to
give her powers free rein. Oh, she hated going out. Imagine, if you will, a
crowd of images battling for space inside your head. Imagine that for a
single
week, then multiply it by two hundred years. It's why she boarded herself in
seclusion throughout her life. Living in warehouses, cabins, obscure towns.
Supporting herself by selling a few paintings to local galleries, moving on.
But
that night she needed inspiration." He paused and pointed back to the sofa
where
the sketchbook was propped against the pillows. "She went out and found your
train. Unfortunately, she also found you."
I have no recollection of movement or conscious thought, only that suddenly I
found myself with my hands around his throat. I wrestled him to the ground,
my
face hovering above his. I felt rage, terror, monumental confusion. "I didn't
kill her!"
"Of course you did," he said calmly and with little effort, he twisted away.
The
strength in my arms evaporated. He stood above me, looking down.
"Joe killed her."
"No, it was you. How many others have you killed?"
"It was Joe!" Wildly, I looked around the room. "Joe! He'll tell you himself.
He
loves killing."
"There's no one here but us."
"He was here. He's gone now, but he was here. He fed you, don't you remember?
You drank his blood."
"Look at your arm."
My eyes focused on a narrow line of congealed blood running down my forearm.
But
the arm wasn't mine, couldn't be mine--it was Joe's. I had seen him cut
himself
just there; had seen the blood.
85
From my kneeling position, I looked up at Aurora's massive canvas. The
unfinished portion seemed impossible to fill, a black hole swallowing all
that
approached it. It had swallowed Aurora, driving her outside her artist's
tower
to meet her fate. Would it also swallow me?
"You owe it to her," said Victor, as if he could read my thoughts. "Aurora
said
that the difference between the artist and the monster was the difference
between life and death."
Abruptly he walked away. He seemed tired again, his energy spent. I heard the
quiet rustle of cushions as he settled back on the sofa. I looked back at the
painting. A sound came from beyond the walls of the building--a distant train
blaring its lonely, mournful tune through the night corridors. Fading slowly,
echoing, vanishing forever.
I was alone with the canvas, the brushes, and the odor of the paints.
86
THE POUNDING ROOM
Bentley Little
When I read the following story by Bentley Little, I knew it was a
Borderlands
story before I even finished it. Although I'd read (forgive me) little by
Bentley, 1 had always liked the way his stuff tends to always be a little
skewed
from the reality most of us know so well.
Little has published his short fiction in the small press and also genre
magazines such as Night Cry and The Horror Show. His first novel, The
Revelation, appeared in 1990. He says he is a faceless bureaucrat who wears a
beard working in a large southern California city. I'll have to see if I can
spot him next time I'm out there.
Thumpthump ... thumpthump ... thumpthump ... thumpthump ...
I hear it even now, the pounding, like the amplified beating of my heart. But
it
is not my heart. And it is not the pulse of blood rushing through my veins,
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