November 2008
Something to Do With Sebastian by Douglas Lind
A Rainy Night of Density with a Reckless Neurotic by Richey Piiparinen
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Available for order from Comet Press
DEADLINES: AN ANTHOLOGY OF HORROR AND DARK FICTION, will be released in November of 2008! Visit www.cometpress.us
The Last Key
by Bill West
Bill West lives in Shropshire, England. He is a member of the Bridgnorth Writers' Group, I*D Writers' Group and a number of on-line Writers' Communities. His work has appeared in Thirteen Magazine, FlashQuake, Mytholog, Heavy Glow, Right Hand Pointing, 21 Stars Review, Zygote in my coffee and Bewildering Stories. http://www.writewords.org.uk/bill_west/
Snow fell. Mandrake Kristel stood on the doorstep, felt the key in his pocket. The house in Delft was his now.
It was a brick built, seventeenth century house with shuttered windows. He unlocked the door and entered.
Last time he’d visited this house his grandfather had thrown him out, called him a disgrace to the family. He’d stolen one of the house keys and kept it for a week. He’d spied on his grandfather as he directed actors and actresses in period costumes creating tableaux vivants of the paintings of Vermeer. His grandmother claimed that Vermeer's paintings had been her husband’s inspiration, the secret of his considerable success.
He first saw Bernice when she was changing. She was the youngest and prettiest actress. He noticed the rose blush of light on her cheek, caught by the declining sun shining through the scullery window. He watched her pretend to knead dough, a smudge of flour on her breast. Her hair shone red. Later he entered the kitchen, opened the oven to smell the bread.
He remembered the feel of her warm skin beneath the rough cloth, their lovemaking in the bedroom. He didn’t know his grandfather filmed everything.
His father inherited the house, and now with his father dead it was all his.
There was a figure in the gloom, stood stock still. He froze; his breath misted the air of the kitchen. It was a waxwork woman stood at the window pouring something from a jug. There was the smell of dust and wax. He explored further, his footsteps echoing on bare floorboards.
In the music room the mannequin of a young girl stood at a virginal, receiving instruction from her tutor. He went on, recognising each tableau; The Procuress, The Love letter, Girl with the Pearl Earring. Each room contained a painstaking reconstruction of a Vermeer painting.
At the top of the house he came to the bedroom door where he first made love. It was locked. There was one last key. It fitted.
On the bed lay the figure of Bernice, breasts bare, her skirt hitched up about her waist. A naked man poised between her thighs. Bernice’s lips were parted, glass eyes wide. Mandrake circled the bed, leaned across, and looked into the man’s face.
A spider web trailed from his grandfather’s open mouth.
The Last Key is copyrighted 2007 by Bill West and may not be reproduced under any circumstances without the author's permission.