A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) (6 page)

“Nobody knows exactly but that’s the story. Blood-drained corpses and men walking through walls means ‘shroud eater.’”

“Aw, bullshit, there’s no such thing.”

Mauro turned his mirrored eyes toward Brigham. “Sure there is.” 

“Even if there were such a thing, why do I care?”

“They’re killing people.”

Brigham shrugged. “So is the Mafia. The police are on it.”

Mauro shook his head. “But the police are looking for a regular guy, not a shroud eater.”

“I think that’s a good idea. I still don’t believe in shit like vampires and shroud eaters.”

“But you saw the man go through the wall.”

Brigham drained his glass. “So what? And I’m starting to doubt that I even saw it. Maybe it was the gin.”

“No, I think you saw it.”

“I repeat: So what? They’re not bothering me.”

“They will.”

A massive cruise ship blew its tuba-sounding whistle as it headed back to sea. The sun neared the horizon in Mauro’s glasses.

“All right,” Brigham said. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that shroud eaters are causing these deaths. What can we do that the police can’t?”

Mauro didn’t answer.

VI

The bells of the Carmini Church played their tune and struck 9:00 p.m. as Brigham entered Campo Santa Margherita. The square was again a riot of revelers, many in costume, drinking, yelling, and throwing firecrackers. Music blared and the police walked through the mess ignoring most of the goings-on, apparently hoping to not get anything on themselves.

He made his way through the crowd and out of the square, toward the Church of San Raffaele, located in a part of town that even during Carnevale remained quiet—where one could have a little solitude.

A heavy mist curled through the air in the dim street, appearing as rain under the streetlights. Droplets formed in his hair. Brigham was fascinated by this whole dead body thing, but not worried. He had no intention of getting involved. He didn’t know why Mauro had taken an interest in it or why he tried to get him to do something, particularly in light of Mauro’s being unable to offer a reason. The only part that still troubled him was the man going through the wall. Probably nothing. Probably didn’t see anything anyway. All he knew to be true was the appearance of dead bodies. The police were on it, and it was really none of his business.

He didn’t hear the men coming up behind him, but he felt them as they shoved him into the pavement. He rolled over. One of them, a big dopey fuck, held him down with an over-sized shoe on his chest. The one not holding him down bent over and began talking inches from his face, spewing putrid cigarette and fishy sardine steam in a gravelly voice and an unpleasant tone, the meaning of which was masked by the gibberish-laden tongue of the Venetians. He didn’t understand a word. Sardine Breath stood erect and motioned to Bigfoot to get going. Bigfoot pushed down hard on Brigham’s ribs with his large hind leg as a last ‘fuck you,’ then the two of them disappeared into the mist.

Shaken, Brigham got up and brushed himself off. No apparent injuries. Why would anyone want to push him around? He walked toward his studio. Mistaken identity? Maybe Mafia thugs got wind of his conversation with Alberto about trying to get into a gallery? No way to know. He didn’t understand what they had said to him.

Instead of going to the studio, he changed course and headed home.

IN SPITE OF BEING QUITE RATTLED, Brigham prepared himself to look as though nothing had happened; he wanted to deal with this in his own way, whatever that was. He didn’t want to worry Rose or get her involved. But the woman was too perceptive.

Rose sat on the sofa reading. Without looking up she asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said, trying to look and sound nonchalant. But there was a waver in his voice, his mouth tight and straight, and he didn’t meet her eyes but stared ahead, unfocused. “Why?”

She removed her glasses. “You look upset.”

“No, I’m good.” He continued to avoid eye contact.

“Come here, let me look at you.” She put her book down and pulled back the hair on his forehead. “You’ve banged your head. What happened? How much have you had to drink?”

It occurred to him to object to being asked two questions at once, but he wasn’t sure the situation called for humor, so he simply said, “Nothing.”

She placed her glasses on top of her book on the coffee table. “You went out at night and had nothing to drink?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t get around to it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You had better tell me what happened.”

“You won’t believe me.”

“Give it a shot.”

Rose was smarter than he was, and strong, though he reckoned he could take her in a fair fight. She knew bullshit when she heard it. There was no way out for him now. But why was he worried? He hadn’t done anything wrong and hadn’t had anything to drink. He didn’t want her to worry, that’s all. He had no choice but to tell her.

“You were attacked? Oh my God! Who was it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Here, sit down,” Rose said, escorting Brigham to the sofa. “Maybe you should go to the hospital.”

“No, I’m all right. I’ll sit down in a minute. I want a martini.”

She followed him into the kitchen. “Did you call the police?”

“Where’s my shaker?”

“Right there on the counter in front of you.”

“Ah.” He opened the freezer. “We’re almost out of ice.”

“I don’t use ice.”

“I don’t have enough to chill the glass.”

“Rough it.”

He shook the martini.

She put the kettle on. “I think you should file a police report.”

“Police report? You know I don’t like the police.”

“You were assaulted. You’ve got to report it.”

“I think it was a mistake. Why would anyone want to push me around?” He poured the drink into a martini glass.

She put a teabag into a cup. “Let’s think about it. For one thing, you’re an outsider trying to get into a gallery.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t warrant getting beat up.”

“Maybe not where you come from, but here they may take exception to it. It’s called ‘protectionism.’”

He skewered three olives and put them into the drink. “Seems like a rather radical response to talking to a gallery owner and taking him to lunch.”

“Just brainstorming,” she said.

It occurred to Brigham that it might have something to do with the man going through the wall, but it was better to continue to keep that quiet, for now, at least. “I’m going to ask around.”

“You? Please, call the police.”

“No reason to trouble them with this. They have enough to do making sure café tables don’t go too far into the campo.”

VII

Mauro called Brigham and told him to meet him at the herbalist in Campo Santa Margherita. The old woman who ran the shop would know whether there was a connection between the dead bodies and the man going through the wall.

Wide shelves filled with ancient ceramic jars lined the walls of the shop, unchanged for two hundred years. Bottles containing dried herbs and strange liquids covered tables and sat in bunches here and there on the floor. Stacks of books and papers as tall as a man held up the corners. Afternoon light sliced through the hazy air.

The proprietor could have been a witch at any Halloween party, lacking only a hat and a broom. She walked stooped over with a cane, her spindly legs struggling to hold her up and move her forward. She closed the shop so they would be alone. Brigham let Mauro do the talking.

She gazed at them with small, red eyes. “ What can I do for you?”

“The bodies in the canals,” Mauro said. “Have you heard about them?”

“
Sì. Horrible
. I’ve never seen anything like it in Venice. Must be foreigners.
Calabrese
or
Siciliani
.”

Brigham smiled. She referred to other Italians as foreigners, which to her they were.

“There’s something else,” Mauro said. “My friend here saw a man walk through a wall.”

The woman crossed herself while looking at Brigham. “Oh Dio. They’re back. This has been foretold. God help us.”

“They?” Mauro asked.

“In Venice they’re known as Nachzehrer, or ‘shroud eaters.’”

“Right, that’s what I was telling you,” Mauro said to Brigham. “The skeleton with a brick in its mouth.”

Brigham nodded. He was now in the world of superstition and wives’ tales, and this old woman wasn’t likely to be a font of enlightenment and reason.

“You know about the shroud eaters?” the woman asked.

“Yes,” Mauro said.

“You said they have returned,” Brigham said. “Returned from where?”

The woman narrowed her eyes and spoke in a mysterious whisper. “Nobody knows. They have not been here since the plague of 1630.”

“So,” Brigham said, “because of the bodies and the man going through a wall, you think these creatures have returned?”

The woman raised a crooked finger. “That’s not all. The condition of the bodies. The fact that they had been crucified. The shroud eater would often store victims by nailing them to wooden beams, take their blood for a period of time, and then consume their flesh.”

Brigham didn’t believe any of it, but Mauro was nodding, saying, “Oh, I knew it! I knew it!”

“Good Lord,” Brigham said.

“We must do something. What can we do? Can they be killed? Where are they hiding?”

The old lady squinted as though to tell a great secret. “
Yes
,” she said in an excited whisper, “I think they can be destroyed. Give me a day or so.”

“WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOU?”  Brigham asked.

“What do you mean?” Mauro said.

They passed a little girl of about three, dressed as a bear in a pink tutu, throwing confetti while a little dog ran around her barking.

“You know, after you told me about the shroud eaters, I did some research. It all can be explained. They dug up bodies in the early stages of decomposition with blood at the mouth, their hair and nails had grown, and the shroud at the mouth appeared to have been eaten away.”

“How do you explain them eating the shroud?”

“It was bacteria. For the love of Christ, it’s all superstition and can be scientifically explained.”

A firecracker banged behind them.

“No, Brig. They’re real,” Mauro said in a tone of near desperation.

“You can’t be serious. What if she gives us some kind of magic potion, such as rat poison, and we end up killing the wrong guy, or worse, ourselves? You don’t really believe all that shit, do you?”

“Of course, and you should too.”

“I think the hair gel has soaked into your brain. The woman is as wacky as they come, and so are you for believing it.”

“No, she’s right. And we have to try to stop them.”

“Why we? The only thing worse than there being a homicidal nut on the loose in Venice is if this nut were supernatural. Either way, we’re out of our league. Guys like this are why God invented cops and the military. As with all killers amok, we keep our heads down and let the cops do their job.”

Mauro stopped and looked at Brigham. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“My family has been in Venice for nearly a thousand years. Many of them died in the plagues. One of my ancestors was actually killed by a shroud eater that had turned into a vampire.”

Brigham sighed. “Fine. Maybe I can see why you’d take a personal interest in the subject, but you still can’t believe in such things, can you?”

“Yes, I do. And so will you. You’ll come around. Let me buy you a beer. You’ll change your mind.”

The brass taps at the beer tent gleamed like golden fountains of knowledge.

“There you go arguing with reason and logic. Beer might work.”

“Two,” Mauro said to the girl pouring beer.

VIII

Brigham stood near the stove, wearing a chef’s hat, holding a baton in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other, conducting Pavarotti singing
La donna è mobile
from
Rigoletto
, which blasted forth from the stereo.

Rose laughed. “You’ve made quite the little mess. And you should see yourself.”

“You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs,” he said, using the same stupid phrase he always used when she said what she always said when he cooked. “And you don’t see any mirrors in here, do you?”

“Why can’t you clean as you go?” she asked, surveying the damage.

“I do. You’d have to come in here with a bulldozer if I didn’t.”

Rose peered into a huge sauté pan sizzling on the stove. “What’s cooking?”

“Penne with tomato sauce and Italian sausage.”

“Sounds good.”

“You know, you can’t buy Italian sausage in this town. They have sausage and they have fennel seed, but they don’t mix the two. I gotta do it.”

She put her arms around his waist from behind. “And you do a fine job.”

“Don’t fool with the chef. I still have to make the salad.”

He shuffled toward the sink with her clinging to him.

“What kind of salad?” 

“Greek. Cucumber, red onion, cherry tomatoes, black olives, and feta cheese, all drizzled with a good olive oil, a pinch of salt, and freshly ground pepper.”

“Yum.”

“Now, stand back, I gotta cook. And you’re interfering with my conducting. You can set the table.”

“LOOKS DELICIOUS,” ROSE SAID, unfolding her napkin. “What’s the wine?”

“A Syrah from Sicily.”

“Ooh, my favorite.”