Lucy Hayward placed her mug down on her kitchen table, furrowed her brow, and said, ‘You’re actually gonna do it?’
Chris O’Halloran, a good-natured Canadian from the flat across the hallway, shrugged and said, ‘Yeah, why not? He’s paying.’ He was sitting on the other end of her sofa, sipping water, doing the neighbourly thing and giving her the lay of the land.
Lucy shuddered. ‘Albert’s creepy as fuck,’ she said.
She’d only moved in a few weeks previous and still held visceral memories of his unsettling demeanour. It was an odd set-up, an acre of land on the outskirts of Ferenbrooke with two houses upon it. One of the buildings, post-war and generally bleak, became the block in which Lucy and Chris, among others, lived. Albert occupied the older, grander, red-brick Victorian house.
‘He’s a sculptor, an artist, they have to be a little off. It’s the law.’
Lucy smiled at this. ‘How long does it take, modelling for a bust?’
‘I said I’d give him two hours, and come back again if that wasn’t enough,’ Chris said. He drained the last of his water and stood, stretching. ‘Thanks for the hospitality. Like I said, any questions you give me a call.’
Lucy stood and walked him to the door. ‘I will. And if you’re not back in two hours I’ll send a search party.’
#
Lucy sat alone in her top-floor flat and worried. Chris had been at Albert’s house for four hours at least. She occupied her usual perch, the ledge under the window, opened a crack, with a hefty glass of Tempranillo and a family pack of digestive biscuits. Her gaze flitted back and forth between the front door and the rearmost window on the ground floor of the landlord’s house, clearly visible from her high vantage point. She’d quickly figured out that said window belonged to Albert’s sculpting workshop; though the glass was frosted as one would expect in a bathroom, he occasionally opened it an inch or two. A keen eye could glimpse a table occupied by myriad tools and a stout wooden chair flecked with grey clay. A keen eye with the aid of binoculars, that is.
She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was untoward. Was it normal for landlords with creative hobbies to ask their tenants to participate? To model for them? It made her uncomfortable in the extreme.
Lucy pictured Albert’s gnarled rat-paw hands forming and shaping and reshaping Chris’ head without tools, driving his yellow talon-like fingernails into the eye sockets to form pupils. She shuddered, shook her head involuntarily.
The wind was picking up. Faint howls of impatient air forced their way through pine branches and past red brick walls, carrying earthy, herbal chrysanthemum to Lucy’s nose. She closed the window, conscious of the chill in the air. The sky had darkened to the deep blue of her own wine-stained lips, the glorious half-moon hovering above her landlord’s house, eagerly awaiting the arrival of its companion stars.
She spotted Chris, staggering up the pathway between Albert’s front door and their own. She squinted and rested her forehead on the glass, trying to identify what was wrong with him. He looked pallid, grey almost, and moved in a stiff manner. Lucy’s jaw tightened; he seemed hurt, or unwell in some way. She stood, left her wine glass and biscuits on the window ledge and headed for the door.
Their paths met in the hallway, one floor below. Lucy’s breath abandoned her when she saw Chris. He was vacant-eyed. One hand supported him against the wall while the other held a black scarf tight around his neck.
‘Hey, what’s wrong?’ she asked, trying to prevent any trace of the panic she felt from entering her voice.
His eyes swivelled in his head and rested on her. He smiled sheepishly. ‘Bed,’ he said.
Lucy put an arm around him, took some of his weight. She helped him climb the stairs and got him to his front door, where he fumbled with his keys, dropping them. She retrieved them from the floor and unlocked his door.
Chris stamped through his doorway and turned back to face her, stared unblinking for a long moment, a stiff grin on his face. She met his gaze, intended to speak, but couldn’t summon any words to fill the torturous silence.
With tears in her eyes, Lucy backed out of Chris’ flat and shut the door.
#
The next morning, Lucy knocked on Chris’ door.
No answer.
She walked the path to her landlord’s door. The clay heads – treated, according to Albert, with a chemical process of his own design which allowed them to survive outside – lining the path were very impressive up close; one could almost think the eyes were fixed on a person as they passed, following each visitor for a moment before the grey faces settled back into the repose of the never-living.
She cast a glance over her shoulder, regarded the serpentine route she'd just travelled. One of the watchful grey faces caught her eye. It was different from the others, the clavicles of the bust faced forwards as with the others but it turned at the neck to face the doorway of the house where she now stood. It had a forlorn expression and its eyes seemed fixed on her. She hadn't noticed it being that way when she'd passed it mere moments before. She kept her left hand in the deep pocket of her long cardigan, which also contained an illicitly procured miniature spray can of mace, and hammered Albert’s door with her right.
Albert opened the door eventually. ‘Good morning, Miss Hayward. What can I do for you?’ He spoke with a clarity and focus not typical of men-of-leisure on crisp autumn mornings. He was a shortish, slight man, pale and dark haired. He had an odd waxen quality to his face, could have been anywhere from forty-five to sixty-five years old. He absent-mindedly brushed fictional dust from a cashmere-clad shoulder and quirked an eyebrow at Lucy.
‘I was wondering, could I speak to you about Chris? Chris O’Halloran, from the apartment next to mine? I’m worried about him.’
Alberts raised an eyebrow slightly. ‘Please, come in.’
Lucy followed him into his home. They proceeded past two doors on the right: the one to the study in which she’d signed her tenancy agreement, and another which had a brass nameplate inscribed with ‘Office & Workshop’. Through that door would be the other side of the rearmost window. After these, Albert stopped by a door on the left. He held it open and waved Lucy through. She smiled faintly and nodded her thanks, right hand on her mace within her voluminous right pocket.
It was a sitting room – well, it’d more properly be referred to as a drawing room in this sort of house, Lucy mused to herself – decorated in a lavish style reminiscent of the 1920s. The wood panelling on the walls was painted a sombre greyish blue, three sofas formed a ‘U’ around a broad oak coffee table in front of a fireplace, and the carpet was thick and lush; so much so that Lucy felt a pang of guilt for wearing her shoes inside.
Albert sat on the sofa opposite the fireplace, motioned for Lucy to sit upon the one to the right. That would leave her back to the door. While not keen on the idea, she didn’t see much value in arguing, and so followed his direction.
‘So,’ the landlord said, tapping his knees, ‘How can I help?’
‘I’m worried about Chris. He seemed so out of it when I saw him last night, after leaving here. Like he was, I dunno, sick or something.’
Albert nodded. ‘We had a couple of drinks after our session. You’re aware that I’m using him as a subject for my work?’
Lucy nodded. Smiled, insincerely. There had been no smell of alcohol on Chris. And even if there had been, his demeanour wasn’t that of a drunk.
Albert cleared his throat and continued, ‘I’m sure he won’t mind me telling you this, he’s also been using me to unload, so to speak. He has a lot of anxiety. I won’t go into specifics, but like many rudderless young men he appreciates a…more seasoned ear. I like to think my true purpose in life is not merely to recreate human heads through sculpture, but to help mould the contents of them through wise guidance.’
‘You’re like Chris’ counsellor?’
‘Like a mentor, or a friend perhaps. I could be that for you too, you know.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Your references from your last landlord suggest not,’ he said, a hint of toxic glee in his voice.
Lucy’s eyes widened. She stuttered, wanting to say something but unable to produce anything worth saying.
Albert smiled warmly, leant forwards in his chair, and steepled his fingers while resting elbows on knees. ‘Yes, that’s right. You were caught picking the lock on your housemate’s door. You told her you suspected her of some sordid crime or another, yes?’
Lucy swallowed. She said, ‘Look, I was going through a bad time. My thoughts…got away from me for a minute.’
‘What thoughts were these, that got away from you?’ Albert’s cold eyes bored into Lucy, rooted her in place.
‘There had been a couple of home invasions. Witnesses said it was a couple, a man and a woman. Killing whole families. Jenny and her boyfriend fitted the descriptions. And you never know, you know?’ she paused, took a breath. She couldn’t pull her eyes from his, couldn’t keep her mouth shut. She continued, ‘I was obsessed, paranoid. I admit it. But I’m fine now.’
‘Paranoia isn’t fine, and it doesn’t go away on its own. I might be able to help. It can be quite soothing, talking through your troubles while I make you a head,’ Albert said, breaking eye contact and nodding in the direction of a woman’s bust mounted above the fireplace.
Spell broken, Lucy glanced at the bust. Young, pretty, she thought. She fancied she saw terror in those blank clay eyes.
Bile rose in her throat. ‘Like you’re helping Chris? He didn’t seem to be benefitting much last night.’
‘Change is hard. Letting go of wild impulses, settling into a simpler mindset of service and selflessness, it takes work. I’m sure he’d say it’s worth it, though. He’s here now, actually. I think he might stay a little while, considering the circumstances. Would you like to see him?’
As if on cue, the door behind Lucy’s seat began to creak. She shot to her feet and turned to face it, meeting Chris’ vacant gaze as he entered.
‘Hi Lucy,’ Chris said. He waved enthusiastically, a dumb grin on his face, like a huge medicated toddler.
Lucy smiled at him then shot a look at Albert, who’d leant back into his chosen sofa, arms splayed out across the back. She said, ‘Well, since we’re all good here, I’ll be off.’
‘Of course, don’t let us keep you,’ said the Landlord, ‘and do think on my offer, won’t you?’
‘I will,’ she said. She passed Chris, briefly giving him a one-armed half-hug on the way and whispering, ‘See you soon.’ Within moments she was back outside and halfway up the path. She paused a moment, turned back and looked up at the landlord’s house. Even in daylight it seemed bathed in darkness. She knew she’d have to come back, figure out what was going on.
#
Every Saturday afternoon, around four PM, Albert left his house and went out to dinner with his social club at Beaumont House, the two Michelin star restaurant on the river. Lucy had seen him leave every week at the same time and Chris had mentioned Albert’s predilection for scallops and sweet wines. A couple of casual walk-pasts of the restaurant had confirmed her suspicions. Knowing this, Lucy gathered a few useful objects (mace, gloves, jacket, the lockpicking kit she’d bought a few years back) while glancing out the window from time to time.
He left right on schedule. Lucy considered it a safe bet that he’d not return any time soon; it was usually close to midnight when he got home. She hadn’t seen Chris return, considered it likely that he was still in Albert’s house.
Her first stop was Chris’ door. She knocked sharply, listened for any movement. After five seconds of perfect silence, she crouched down and spied through the keyhole. It afforded her no new information. So, was Chris in his flat, asleep? Was he mindlessly staring at the wall? Was he at Albert’s? No way to tell.
Nothing for it. Now or never.
Did she want to go down this road again? Was this the same mental bullshit that had chased her down the rabbit hole before? Chris could just be processing trauma, Albert could just be a great talker who actually cared. That was possible, right?
After a moment’s deliberation, she exited her building. She walked out through the garden gate to the road, not wanting any neighbour to spot her walking between her home and Albert’s. She walked around the perimeter of the estate and advanced back up that same path she’d trod the first time she saw her new home. She’d avoided that path as much as possible since, didn’t want to see those clay heads with their too-real expressions and wanton disregard for good taste.
The gate shuddered open, seemingly hesitant to allow her passage. She strode through hoping to look more determined than she felt. Gravel and stone crunched and clicked as she made her way towards the house, furtively glancing left and right.
Lucy stopped when she reached the part of the path where the heads started.
They’d all been turned, all faced towards her. Fifty forlorn faces, grey and motionless, gazing at her hopelessly.
Impossible ideas tugged at the neglected corners of her consciousness. Had they turned of their own volition, knowing nobody was supposed to be approaching? They do say that gargoyles and grotesques are supposed to serve as guardians, no? Were these baked earth faces somehow aware of her? Did they mean her harm?
Lunacy, of course. She knew that. Nonetheless she was tense as she made her way past the heads, benefactors of Albert’s proprietary weather-proofing process.
She followed the wall around to a rear door, peeked in the window. The kitchen. Quick look about, no company, no direct line of sight to any windows. Perfect. She crouched down, pulled her roll of picks from the inside pocket of her oversized leather jacket. She was a little rusty but managed to pry open the door within a couple of minutes.
Inside, she closed the door behind her gently and immediately registered a low, vibrating hum. She held her breath for a moment, ears pricked up in search of the sound’s source, and of any indication of Chris within the landlord’s house. After several long seconds, she was satisfied that the hum was a product of some old machinery somewhere. It was an old house, it could be some monstrous boiler far past its proper lifespan. Perhaps something to do with Howard’s sculpting. A furnace idling in the workshop. She filled her lungs, nose wrinkling with the scent of far too much air freshener.
Quick, light footsteps towards the front of the house. She passed the doors which led to the living room and Albert’s workshop – she noted the humming was louder there – before stopping outside the study. If there were answers to be found, that seemed like a good place to start.
She placed an ear against the door, counted to three. Nothing. At least, nothing she could hear over whatever baroque machinery had been left running. It was uncomfortably warm in the hallway; fine rivulets of sweat formed on her brow. Her hand went to the door knob, eased it counter-clockwise, and pushed it open. The slightest creak raised her heart rate.
She slid into the study.
And was immediately grabbed and pushed sideways into a bookcase.
Chris had his hands around her throat, looking at nothing with vacant eyes and an idiot grin.
Lucy’s vision distorted almost immediately, the pressure on her carotid artery sending sparks to her eyes and a thrumming whistle to her ears. She moved her hands to his, tried to get her fingers between him and her neck. No chance. He was not a large man, barely average in height, but had the bear-like mitts of a seasoned labourer.
Mace.
Her hand went to her pocket, retrieved the small spray can. She mouthed, ‘Sorry,’ and unloaded the noxious pepper spray into her neighbours eyes.
He did not appear to notice. Didn’t even blink.
Enough splashed back on Lucy to affect her, though.
Bile rose in her throat as liquid pain scraped and crawled through her corneas, beat against the lenses of her eyes. The world grew dim and she felt as though she were suddenly aware of the rotation of the Earth.
She dropped the mace can, clawed at Chris’ face. Her right hand reached to the bookshelf beside her, grabbed an ornament. She introduced it to the side of Chris’ head.
His grip slackened before falling away.
He crumpled to the ground, unmoving.
Lucy slid down the wall, gulping down mouthfuls of air that tasted like blood and blinking away tears. She gingerly touched her neck, felt the tenderness of her punished flesh.
When the room had righted itself and learned to stay still, Lucy rose and cautiously stepped over to Chris’ unmoving form.
Her eyes grew wide, her throat expelled a timid squeak.
She realised she was still holding the ornament used to dent Chris’ skull. She examined it momentarily. A little figurine in the style of a grotesque, a bat-winged little distorted figure with animalistic features and a weatherproof scowl.
Slowly her eyes drifted back to Chris.
To his dented, but not bleeding, head.
Where the skin had broken, it revealed greyish solid matter beneath. Entirely unlike bone, it was more akin to the heads that lined Albert’s garden path.
She crouched, felt his neck for a pulse, felt nothing. Her cheeks grew moist, but she stayed silent.
Chris’ scarf had fallen loose when he hit the floor. Lucy’s eyes were drawn to a faint red line on his neck. She crouched down, removed the scarf entirely. Her brow furrowed in confusion, jaw tightened with barely suppressed horror. The red line was some sort of recent scar, no doubt. She moved around her fallen friend, examined him from every angle. The scar unquestionably circumnavigated his neck.
She stood, leant on the nearest wall and took several deep breaths. Nothing made sense. Her eyes darted about the room, caught on the spine of a particular book resting on Albert’s desk. Something about it was off, irregular. It had a sort of magnetism, or gravity. A compelling force that drew her to it. Lucy stepped over Chris and approached the desk, examined the book. The finish looked less professional than most of the volumes in the library, possibly even hand-bound. The cover was a sort of soft leather, no text on the spine to indicate what it contained. Only a small spiral design. Her hand, almost of its own accord, began to drift towards it.
The odd little book felt so strange in her hands, the coolness of the thing penetrated through her gloves in barely a moment. She flicked through a few pages. Obscure diagrams, anatomical studies of the human head, what could be chemical formulae, every item of notation and every word in a strange alphabet she’d never seen before. Utterly undecipherable.
She grunted and snapped the book closed. She couldn’t read it, but she’d take it with her. She had to. It slid easily into one of her jacket’s voluminous side pockets.
She raised her left hand to her temple and rubbed in small circles. Her heart threatened to burst out of her chest. Things had gone so damn sideways, what was she supposed to do?
The only thing that seemed viable, sensible, was to continue searching, to find out what Albert was doing to people. Chris couldn’t be the only one. But where next?
She paced in tiny circles, still rubbing her temple. Scattered thoughts bounced off the walls of her skull and defied her attempts to rally them. Her breath grew shallow and rapid. Sparks darted across her field of vision. And she couldn’t, not even for a moment, get the damn thrumming out of her head. Mechanical noise picking at the frayed edges of her composure. She hated it, Wanted to break whatever made it. Where? Where?!
Her hands fell to her sides. She stopped, turned to face the door.
The workshop.
Once more she stepped over Chris. She left the study, closed the door behind her, paced over to the workshop entrance. She had abandoned caution by this point; anyone that hadn’t heard her altercation with Chris wasn’t going to hear her stomping around and opening doors.
She let herself into the room. The hum became a cacophony and the workshop stank of earth and turpentine. In the centre, two plastic looking sofas faced each other with a small, cheap coffee table between. The outside edges of the room were dominated by work surfaces containing all manner of wicked looking tools; chisels and knives, hammers and scalpels. Nothing out of the ordinary for a sculptor.
At the far end of the room was a small set of steps leading to a door, a basement of some sort. The worst of the smell seemed to come from there. That would likely be where the clay was kept and prepared.
The steps were slick, thin and treacherous. The door at the bottom was locked, but only with a cheap padlock. Lucy quickly removed it with her picks. More steps on the other side took her much deeper than she’d expected the basement to go; the ceiling was high and there could easily have been four feet of solid matter between that and the floor above.
The chamber was full of bulk bags of clay, shelves full of myriad vials and flasks, stained books, obscure machinery. One huge and active machine in particular noisily dominated the centre of the room, larger even than the currently operating – and blisteringly hot, even from the stairway – industrial oven at the far end. A huge brass and steel frame, a lidded wooden box at the centre of it. Several glass flasks of various fluids were suspended above a system of tubes, the whole thing a circuit driven by what seemed to be steam pistons. The pressure no doubt came from the oven, the heat from which probably produced the bubbling in the largest of the three vials, filled with a milky liquid. The two other flasks contained some thick brown substance, a consistency like honey by the look of it. Down here a range of scents were on offer, turpentine grappling with aniseed and mouldy earth for dominance.
Lucy advanced towards the lidded box at the centre of the contraption, hand outreached for the handle at the front. Her fingers wrapped around warm brass, lifted up the front of the box.
Inside, twitching, was Chris’ head. Eyes and mouth sewn shut, rough muslin around the base of the neck with tubes protruding out. The device was pumping those strange liquids through the blood vessels of his dismembered head, somehow keeping him alive, judging by the sweat and the constantly shifting facial expressions.
Lucy screamed and backed away, kept stepping until her back met the wall.
Then the door slammed.
She turned to face the stairs, her scream dying in her throat.
Albert stood at the entrance to the room, hammer and chisel in his left and right hands respectively, with the lumbering form of Chris behind him. Chris’ head – at least, the head currently residing atop his shoulders – was still dented, now shedding grey dust. One of his eyes madly swivelled in the socket, the other stared blankly ahead. He still wore that dumb grin.
‘Your head’s not right, young lady,’ Albert said, ‘But don’t worry. I can fix that.’