Pygmalion's Curse
(First time poster, long time fan of the cast. I wrote a short story for my grad class final on Weird Fiction and thought y'all might like it idk. I'm not a great writer but I had fun with it. Plus CreepCast is partly what got me into weird fiction and horror so. )
Robbing his own wife’s grave was not something Marcus had ever thought he’d come to. But then he never thought his dear Valeska would die of the blood disease and leave him behind with still so many years left to them.
The darkness already made grave robbing difficult, something he anticipated when he set out on this venture. But that was something easily fixed with a lantern. What he hadn’t anticipated, as he swiped at the muddy streak across his brow, was the rain. Oh, he surely should have thought of it. But despite the careful planning he’d done to commit this operation, gauging the chances of rain had passed him completely. Now here he was, in a graveyard, almost knee deep in the mud created by his disturbance and the rain, barely able to see through the night and the drops that flew by his vision and soaked him to the bone.
It would all be worth it in the end, Marcus decided over the next half hour of digging. At least the rain made the ground more pliable to his spade. Spade, press, scoop, toss, repeat. He kept at it for what felt like an eternity, when finally, blessedly there was a thunk! from the spade connecting with the teakwood of Valeska’s coffin.
Marcus, feeling the triumph welling inside him, wiped the rest of the rapidly melting earth with a rag he’d brought. He didn’t want to get any mud on Valeska, not while she was still so helpless.
The next step was less favorable. Marcus had been unable to find a way to acquire a casket key, so he reached out of the pit he’d dug around Valeska to find the crowbar he’d carted along with all his other tools. The metal was cold and slick in his hands and he had to wrap the edge of his coat around the handle to be able to grasp it without the worry of slipping.
One, two, three, Marcus pried the crowbar head between the lip of the cover and the base and pushed until there was a distinct snapping noise. It had lifted a few inches on the side. He peered over the top edge of the pit, scanning the rainy night for any sign of the guard who might have heard the dull sound over the rain. After a moment of assurance, he repeated the process along one side of the coffin until he reached the opposite end, pausing between each snap. He took a moment to breathe, ignoring the pain in his arms from all the digging and prying. After catching his breath, he lifted the coffin lid, gently laying it back on its hinges.
There she was. His Valeska. She lay there so primly in the black satin lining of her coffin. Her once lively face had grown sunken at the end of her life from the blood disease and now it sunk as much from 6 months of death. He could see her high cheekbones, the skin leathery and tight against the protruding bones. Her once full lips now wrinkled and dull were set into a peaceful expression. Even in death she was a sight to behold.
Marcus worked quickly, with the steady hands of an artist he pulled out Valeska’s old sewing scissors and snipped a section of what remained of her once full and luscious hair. The physician had predicted she would lose it all to the illness, but she had managed to avoid it. Valeska had always been at peace with death, something Marcus had never fully understood, especially now, as he slipped the hair clippings and scissors into his coat pocket. Death was an end that came too soon for her. Marcus took one last look at his wife in her death before closing the lid and began the slow process of re-burying her.
“See you soon, Val.” Marcus murmured as he replaced the last of the soil and began the silent walk back to his horse that waited for him in the woods outside the graveyard.
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Jars of paint, varnish, palettes and palette knives, carving tools and candles lay strewn about the dark barn Marcus called his studio. He was knelt before the life size statue that he had laid so delicately upon the clean floor. In the dim warm glow of light, this visage of Valeska stared blankly at the wooden beams of the barn ceiling while Marcus strategically placed candles around her, interspersed with other personal effects of hers: her favorite hair pin, a necklace gifted by her grandmother, her favorite book, a little seashell she had had since childhood, and at the point above the statue’s head Marcus placed her worn wedding band. At her feet he placed a small statue of a woman in robes, her hair plaited down her back, a diadem of brahma kamal graced her brow with her hands in outward supplication. The face however, was blank. Not a single feature of the face was carved, just smooth wood with no form. Marcus was not a religious man, not like Valeska had been, but in his youth he’d taken a liking to the strange and occult. They said the goddess L’m-Aar’i had no face because she had granted hers to the god K’lom-Ai as an offering upon his rise to king of the gods. An offering of a most precious nature, L’m-Aar’i offered her own visage to the king who in return granted her dominion over the soul. If anyone could give him his wife back, it was her.
Marcus opened a jar of green paint, picking up the last clean brush on his worktable. He dipped the brush made with Valeska’s own hair into the green pigment, swirling it around and kneeling beside the head of the statue. Valeska’s body was made of wood, carved by Marcus over painstaking weeks until he had every detail of her embedded. Every curve and inch of wood was painted with equal care, from her dark hair streaked with gray, to the natural flush of her cheekbones, to the plump red of her lips. The last and most crucial part left unpainted were the eyes, the last element before he could perform the ritual. He wiped the excess paint off on the lip of the jar, the green looked almost black in the dim light. With gentle, practiced motions Marcus brushed once, twice on the eyes until they glimmered like an emerald. Now whole, Valeska looked perfect. He’d made sure to carve a smile on her face, he didn’t want his wife coming back with a frown or a despondent expression.
Marcus placed the jar and brush back on the table, swiping a stray drop of paint off on his work pants. He lifted an old leather book next, flipping to a page with text in a language he could only understand in small pieces. A sketch of L’m-Aar’i stood over a body, her void-like face angled down at the person, little spikes like beams of light coming from her hands with the same design placed around the head of the body like a crown. Marcus breathed, trying to steady himself for the next part.
“L’m-Aar’i l’an.” He began to recite. “A’reyng kab-ki'v ya-f'nor. L’m-Aar’i l’an, sov’no ale-t'nso.” He spoke the words carefully, knelt before the statuette of the goddess. He kept his tone steady and firm even when the creeping sensation ran along his back. It started at the base of his neck and crawled its way down his spine. At the same time a dull tone rose up, like a wind droning through a canyon, moaning a sad melody that sounded like weeping. Or laughter to the right ear. Marcus kept his eyes on the statuette of L’m-Aar’i and the book, refusing to let his focus be ruined when he was so close to the end.
A crack of lightning and the crash of a thunder strike came next, almost making him hesitate. The wind outside no longer intoned like the choir in church. It howled like a raging beast of legend, tearing at the planks and beams of the barn. Marcus’ horse grunted in agitation and shuffled, shaking his head and gnashing his teeth. The candles glowed brighter, lighting the barn as if in daylight.
“L’m-Aar’i l’an, b’oz a’n-vi. Ao l’n-so, br’s-maer!” Marcus shouted over the din, free hand raised towards the heavens; his face turned upwards. The creeping sensation evaporated; the wind once more became background noise, and the candles went out in one last gust of air. Marcus fell in the same prone position as Valeska; the breath knocked out of him. He lay there in the dark, waiting. After a moment of silence, he sat up slowly, placing the book aside and rushing on hands and knees to the statue, feeling its arm in the darkness. His hand connected with varnished wood, gliding up a shoulder, to her neck. Marcus slid his fingers under the ear, feeling for a pulse. Cold, hard wood met his fingers.
“No...” Marcus murmured. He scrambled to his feet, digging in his vest pocket for the matches, wasting two before he managed to get one lit and transferred it to the lantern that had been overturned. Marcus moved to examine the ritual circle. The candles had been overturned, and the trinkets still sat in their circle; each one burnt and blackened. Valeska’s wedding ring was still hot to the touch when Marcus stuffed it back into his pocket. The shame of failure hurt almost as much as the sinking realization that he was alone, with nothing to show for the desecration of his wife’ grave but a useless brush and a statue that brought more pain than consolation.
“I’m a fool.” Marcus shook his head, turning away from his failure and trudging to the barn door. He slipped out into the now silent night and slunk the short distance back to his home, all the while cursing himself and his foolish hope. ________________________________________________________________________________
The following morning found Marcus trudging out into the lawn, head hanging low; his hands stuffed in his pocket, turning the scorched wedding band over in his fingers. He barely slept but hadn’t been able to bring himself to face the failure in his barn. He couldn’t bear to look at Valeska again and know he’d failed her. He was steps from the barn door when a figure approached that surprised him.
“Afternoon, Marcus.” Fr. Benedict, the local priest was strolling up the lane, Bible in one hand and his walking stick in the other. He had been in the town as long as Marcus and Valeska had lived there. He had been there so long that he had been Valeska’s confessor in life and had administered her last rites before her death. Despite the distinct lack of connection Marcus felt to the Catholic Church, he had always enjoyed the older man’s company.
“Fr. Benedict, what are you doing here?” Marcus stepped away from the cracked door of the barn, angling himself so that Fr. Benedict could not peer in behind him.
The older man greeted Marcus with a warm handshake. “I was making my rounds in the town, checking in on my parishioners and as you know I also try to take time out of my week to pray for the souls of the deceased, so I went by your wife’s grave.”
Marcus stuffed his hands back into his pockets and cleared his throat. “I see. I know she appreciates it.”
“May her soul rest in peace, but Marcus I thought I should tell you. Her grave appeared disturbed, as if it had been dug up. The topsoil was visible, and the gravestone streaked with dried mud. I informed the keeper of course, he said they will keep an eye out.”
“Yes, thank you.” Marcus ran a tired hand through his graying hair, dislodging some dried paint. “It must have been a bear.”
Fr. Benedict crossed himself. “One can only hope. It is a sorry person who would desecrate the dead.”
Marcus kept his expression calm but couldn’t help the stab of shame he felt.
Fr. Benedict shifted on his feet and cleared his throat. “May I bother you for a drink? I must say I had not anticipated how hot the day would be and neglected to bring any water with me on my rounds.”
“Ah well, you see my home is not in a state for visitors-”
“Fr. Benedict has come all this way, the least you can do is offer him some water.” The voice from behind the barn door said.
Marcus’ words died in his throat. He turned to look behind him at the barn whose door was cracked open wider revealing the woman that stood on the other side.
Valeska stood there, her hair pulled back into a low bun, her day dress, the one Marcus had painted, fluttered in the breeze, her feet bare. Her smile was just as Marcus had carved it, her lips curved in such a way that suggested amusement at some hidden joke. Her eyes though were covered by a pair of round spectacles. A pair Marcus kept in his workshop to protect his eyes when working with certain material, except they were now darkened and it took him a moment to realize that the darkness was a result of black paint having been smeared all over the inside of the lenses.
His heart jumped into his throat, excitement at the sight of his failure turning into a success. He couldn’t ignore the sense of dread that rose in tandem though. How was he going to explain this to Fr. Benedict?
“Vales-” Fr. Benedict looked as if he’d seen a ghost, which Marcus supposed he had. The old priest was gray, the perspiration on his brow from his walk in heat of the sun now more prominent. He looked about ready to be ill.
Valeska laughed, but it came out just a bit rough, like a tree creaking in the breeze, and her smile never shifted. “Oh, no Father. I’m Svetlana, Valeska’s cousin.” She offered a hand to Fr. Benedict who shook it for barely a second before pulling back. “I came to town to pay my respects to her and to check on Marcus.”
Fr. Benedict leaned on his walking stick a bit more heavily, his brows pinched, “Valeska never mentioned she had a cousin.”
Valeska tilted her head. Her voice was more somber but that smile never shifted. “Our parents were estranged so I’d be surprised if she mentioned me. But I always had a fondness for my sweet cousin, regardless of our families.” She turned and began walking towards the house without another word, as if she expected them to follow.
"Shall we, Father?” Marcus gestured toward the back door of the house after regaining his senses.
Fr. Benedict cleared his throat, digging into the pocket of his black cassock and fishing out a handkerchief. He swiped at his sweaty brow a few times before answering. “Yes, Yes. Of course.”
The two made the short walk across the yard to the back door that led into the kitchen where Valeska was already pouring cups of water. Marcus looked around, confused by the dimness of the room when it had been perfectly bright when he left the house not ten minutes ago. He realized the shades were all pulled tightly shut, plunging them into a dim twilight.
He ignored the way the shadows seemed drawn out now and gestured for Fr. Benedict to take a seat. Fr. Benedict eased himself into the creaky kitchen chair with a soft huff. Marcus followed suit, watching Valeska place a cup before each of them before taking her own seat. Marcus couldn’t help but notice that the black coated spectacles remained on her smiling face, her teeth looking yellow in the dim light.
“And how long do you plan to stay for Svetlana?” Fr. Benedict asked. He took a sip of his water and wrinkled his nose at his cup for a moment before managing a small smile.
She angled her head at Marcus, the black spectacles like voids on her face. “As long as Marcus will allow me to.”
Fr. Benedict gave him a look Marcus could only interpret as disapproval.
“V-Svetlana, you’re always a welcome guest in my home.” Marcus hesitated, taking a sip of the water and wincing at the slight earthy taste. He would have to go to the pump for fresh water later.
“Then I shall stay until I’m no longer needed.” Valeska’s smiling face turned to Fr. Benedict. “Does that satisfy your curiosity?”
Fr. Benedict pushed away his half empty cup. “I suppose it does.” He glanced at Valeska’s face. His brows were pinched together. “My child, are your eyes unwell?”
Valeska pushed the frames further up her nose. “My eyes are sensitive to the sun. I can see perfectly fine though, thank you. I’m used to the dark.” Her smile got wider, if that was possible.
Fr. Benedict got to his feet then, picking up his Bible and walking stick. “I believe I should be returning to the rectory now. Thank you for the water Marcus, Svetlana.” He started to make his way towards the back door, not waiting for either a response nor an offer of accompaniment outside. Marcus got to his feet and followed.
At the stoop Fr. Benedict paused and looked back at Valeska who remained just outside the beam of sunlight that filtered in from the open doorway. “You and your cousin have the same birthmark, you know. Same shape, size and location.”
Marcus glanced back at Valeska. Her smile still did not lose any of its wideness, but he could almost make out the corners of her mouth twitching like someone who wants to frown but can’t. With the glasses covering her eyes, it made the uncanny nature of her expression more unsettling.
“Everyone did say that we looked like twins.” Valeska laughed dryly.
“I’ll walk you down the lane, Father.” Marcus followed him down the stairs, relieved for a moment to have the warmth hitting his face. The door clicked shut as soon as Marcus’ feet hit the grass.
The two men walked to the end of the lane. Marcus wanted to glance back at the house very few seconds but refrained from doing so, lest his eagerness become suspicious.
“Thank you for the visit Fr. Benedict” Marcus said as they reached the edge of his property. Fr. Benedict looked less ill now that they were a good distance away from the house. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more accommodating.”
Fr. Benedict nodded absently. He avoided Marcus’ gaze, clearly weighing something on his mind. “I hope you know what you are doing, Marcus. May God keep you.” He turned and began the slow trek back to the town and the solitude of the rectory. Marcus watched him go until he was certain the old priest would not be doubling back. He rushed back to the house and up the back steps, through the door and into the kitchen.
Valeska wasn’t there.
“Val?” He called out. The kitchen was still dim and when he peered deeper into the home, he noticed the shades and curtains in all the rooms had been drawn. The house had been plunged into a dim twilight, long shadows cast from the slivers of light that managed to escape through the cracks. He made his way into the living room, almost tripping over a loose floorboard in the process.
“Yes?” Her voice came from behind him. He spun around and found his wife standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen. Where he had just come from.
“It worked!” He rushed to Valeska and embraced her, breathing in the scent of a summer wind, the woods on a hot day, and the earthy smell of soil from a freshly planted tree.
“Of course it worked.” She pulled back and patted his arm, like a mother placating a child. “You doubted?”
His heart thudded in his broad chest. “I just thought, when you didn’t wake up last night...”
Valeska clucked her tongue and it sounded like someone clacking two wooden blocks together. “Oh, ye of little faith.” She brushed past him and made herself comfortable on the couch, picking up a book, she flipped it open as if to read, yet the spectacles remained on her face and she made no move to light a fire.
Marcus stepped around the couch and reached for the shade to pull it back and let the sunlight in again. “Darling, why don’t we open the shades? You don’t need to pretend to be someone else now-”
“Don’t!” The shriek that came from Valeska was incomprehensible. Her voice cracked, like a million twigs snapping in unison and echoing across the forest. Marcus dropped the edge of the curtain, extinguishing the sunlight that had hit Valeska’s shoulder and face, his heart dropping into his stomach. He stood behind the couch so that Valeska had her back to him. He’d faced away from her as he reached for the curtain and he wished he hadn’t turned around.
Valeska’s head had swiveled an almost full 180 degrees; her spectacle covered eyes were a black void on her face. Her mouth still pulled back in a smile, somehow wider than before, was incongruous with the angry shriek. Marcus took an involuntary step back when he realized why her smile appeared to have grown wider. The corners of her mouth had cracked; tiny hairline fractures that made her beautiful face something unholy. The hairline fractures were spreading and flaking off in a shower of woodchips. The paint he’d so painstakingly crafted was bubbling in spots, almost peeling away where the fractures connected. Underneath he could see the wood, but where he expected to see the solid material, he saw a squishy, black mass oozing from the spot. It was like seeing the flesh wear away to reveal a human skull beneath, but the human skull was black, rotting wood.
It was over as soon as it began. Marcus blinked and Valeska was facing forward; her head no longer twisted at an unnatural angle, no rotting wood peeking through cracked and peeling paint. He wondered for a moment if he had imagined the whole thing.^(18) He must have, he reassured himself. It was the lack of sleep and the strain of performing the ritual, nothing more.
Knock, knock, knock!
Someone was at the back door.
“Tell the old priest to never come back.” Valeska did not look up. Her voice was dry and rough when she spoke. There was no way she could possibly know who was at the back door of the kitchen.
Marcus walked back through the hall and into the kitchen, pausing to peek through the window. Fr. Benedict stood outside, Bible tucked under his arm and his walking stick in his hand. His right arm was held close to his stomach, hand in a tight fist.
Marcus cracked the door open. “I’m sorry Father but you’ll have to lea-”
The priest didn’t let him finish, pushing past him and into the house. Marcus sputtered and tried to stop him but the smaller man was surprisingly agile for his age, managing to avoid Marcus’ attempts to stop him. In the blink of an eye, Fr. Benedict was in the living room and raising his right arm above his head as if to throw something. The dim light made it hard to see, but Marcus heard when the liquid made contact with Valeska’s skin. It hissed and crackled, a pot of boiling water over an open flame. Valeska’s howl of pain shook the house. It shuddered and wailed in tune with her. Unearthly, unholy, it resonated in Marcus’ bones. He could just make out his wife clawing at her skin, could barely see the way her flesh bubbled and peeled, revealing cracked, rotting wood.
Fr. Benedict was chanting now. Marcus couldn’t understand the words but he knew they were in Latin. He heard Valeska pray often enough before. The old man lifted his hand again and threw more of the liquid that Marcus now realized was holy water onto Valeska.
She howled again, the water making contact with her face. She reached up and dragged her fingers down her cheek, her darkened spectacles dislodging in the process.
“My God...” Marcus gasped. With the spectacles now gone, he realized why Valeska had placed them on her face to begin with. Where once had been perfectly carved and painted green eyes were two empty, black holes. Sockets like voids that stared in hatred despite their vast nothingness. Her smile cracked; the teeth black and rotting in the twilight of the living room. She was hunched over, more of her body giving way. There was a wet, mushy snap as one of her arms cracked down the middle, black soil bursting forth.
Valeska’ head cracked and popped as it whipped to look at Marcus. “You called on me!” A thousand trees snapped in her throat; the howling shriek of a storm was her melody.^(20) “How could you watch your wife die again?!” She reached out to him, but Marcus took a step back. What had he done? What was this thing that wore his wife’s skin?
Fr. Benedict did not lose focus. “Exsúrgat Deus et dissipéntur inimíci ejus: et fúgiant qui odérunt eum a fácie ejus. Sicut déficit fumus defíciant; sicut fluit cera a fácie ígnis, sic péreant peccatóres a fácie Dei.” He fished into his cassock pocket and pulled out a box of matches, lighting one and throwing it at “Valeska.” She burst into flames that smelled of rotting wood and sulphur, her wails dying away with the rest of her body until there was nothing left but a pile of ash and the blacked-out spectacles.
Marcus fell to his knees, his body unable to hold himself up anymore from the sheer strain. The house had settled as soon as the last of “Valeska” burnt away. He stared at the pile that had been whatever it was he had called upon. While he knelt there, Fr. Benedict went to the window and pulled back the curtain letting the afternoon light back into the home.
“Are you alright, Marcus?” Fr. Benedict’s voice was an anchor. He came back around and sat on the edge of the couch, his expression grim.
Marcus could just shake his head, too ashamed to look at the priest.
“I had suspected something was wrong, but I had hoped my instincts to be false for once.” Fr. Benedict sighed and picked the spectacles up from the pile of ash. “I’m glad I came back when I did. The Lord knew I should trust my instincts.”
“Father I-” Marcus broke off and rubbed a tired hand across his face. “I cannot begin to explain-”
“No, I suppose you can’t.” Fr. Benedict reached into his cassock pocket and pulled out an extra handkerchief and handed it to Marcus. “But you may want to try.”
“I just wanted my wife back.” Marcus knew now that this was a falsely innocent excuse.
Fr. Benedict regarded him for a moment, the silence of the rapidly dwindling afternoon hanging between them, the ashes of what had sought to deceive Marcus a physical stain upon his house.
“I suppose it was you who disturbed Valeska’s grave?” Fr. Benedict’s voice was soft and Marcus knew the old man was looking on him with pity in his steel eyes.
“The ritual called for a piece of the person to be used.” Marcus got to his feet slowly. “I used a clipping of her hair to make the brush.”
“And this brush, where is it now?”
“The barn. I didn’t get a chance to put anything away.”
Fr. Benedict also rose to his feet. “Take me there.”
Marcus led Fr. Benedict through the back door and into the silent barn. The dim light that still filtered through the window at the top of the building showed the remnants of the ritual, now absent of the statue. The candles appeared to have been scorched, something Marcus hadn’t noticed the previous night. The items he’d placed around the circle all looked largely unchanged from their previously charred state. The difference was in the statuette. What once had been the blank, void-like face of L’m-Aar’i, now held to black holes like eye sockets burned into the wood.
The two men looked at it, Fr. Benedict’s expression grim and Marcus’ weary.
“I don’t know what you called upon Marcus.” Fr. Benedict bent over to pick the statuette up with his handkerchief as if afraid to touch it with his skin. He examined the carving in his hand. “But I think we should burn everything involved in your ‘ritual’. There is no telling if it can find a way back now that it has made an anchor in our world.”
Marcus nodded and grabbed a crate from nearby, stuffing the scorched candles, the paintbrush with Valeska’s hair, the leather book and took the statuette from Fr. Benedict inside. “What about Valeska’s things? Those are some of the only parts of her I have left.”
“The demon has touched all of it. I’m sorry but at least the book will need to be destroyed. The other items may survive the purification.” Fr. Benedict gave Marcus a sympathetic look but he turned away, hauling the box out into the yard and setting it on the ground. Fr. Benedict watched a few feet behind him, mumbling another prayer in Latin while Marcus reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the matches. Valeska’s scorched wedding ring came with it, tumbling to the grass with a dull plunk. Marcus picked it back up, running his thumb over the now uneven metal. He pressed a kiss to it before placing it neatly beside the seashell. He opened the box and pulled out a match, lighting it with a tssssss!
The crate caught fire immediately, flames eating away at wood, paper and leather. The metal bits seemed to glow in the fire as they burned hotter. Fr. Benedict stepped forward and pulled the bottle of holy water he’d used on the creature. It was empty save for a few drops he managed to drop over the flames, intoning the last notes of a prayer that Marcus couldn’t understand.
They stood there as the shadows lengthened and afternoon turned to dusk until the last of the crate had burned to ash, and all that remained were a hairpin, a seashell, a necklace, and the wedding band. They fished the items out after cooling down and brought them inside the house where Marcus laid them to rest inside the little box he kept on the mantle. Inside was the rosary he had carved for Valeska as a wedding present. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to use it for the ritual. There seemed something so unholy about that. He should have listened to that gut instinct from the beginning. He lifted the rosary from the box and took it to his room where he placed it on the little desk beside his bed. He still didn’t know if he believed in the divine, but he believed in his wife, and for now that seemed like enough.