The Scartist of Wolfstone

The Scartist of Wolfstone

Trevor Prescott

And then the brush was given, and then the tint was placed; and, for one moment, the painter stood entranced before the work which he had wrought; but in the next, while he yet gazed, he grew tremulous and very pallid, and aghast, and crying with a loud voice, 'This is indeed Life itself!' turned suddenly to regard his beloved--She was dead!

-Edagar Allen Poe, The Oval Portrait

***



Leonard Gafferty—AKA the Scartist of Wolfstone, a nickname coined by a local journalist—adjusted the IV and prepared to sign his work. The young woman before him lay still, her back a bloody mess of razor-inflicted gashes. But the piece was beautiful: Leonard had depicted a beautiful sunny day, recalling one of his trips to Vermont as a child. The farm was there, with the silo and the rolling green hills in the background.

He signed his name. Not his real name; that would be foolish. The authorities would have tracked him down months ago. Instead he used the name Sellian Runquist, a character name he’d used in a short story years earlier. Taking a deep breath, Leonard set the razor in his petri dish to soak in bleach.

This particular nameless redhead had been trotting down a back alley when he found her. Her skin tone was superb and she clearly used lotion, so he bopped her on the head with a lead pipe and brought her back to his studio. He had no qualms about injuring his subjects while getting them to his studio, but he didn’t want to cause any infections (which would mess up the flesh, and ruin his hard work). Leonard slathered Neosporin all across the girl’s back and then unhooked her from the morphine drip.

The police would find this one in Greyberry Park.



***



Leonard was skulking around in a dark alley in downtown Wolfstone on Tuesday night when he heard the hammer of a gun fall back. The man he’d been following (chosen because he was a swimmer, and thus went to great lengths to keep himself hairless) strolled around the corner and out of view, blissfully unaware of the honor he’d just been denied.

“Don’t think I don’t know who you are.”

Leonard turned to the voice. A pale woman (Good God, look at that skin!) held him at gunpoint. Her long, black hair was tied in a tight ponytail and her face, while pretty, bore only trace amounts of makeup. A copper badge glittered on her left breast.

“Sellian Runquist. The Scartist of Wolfstone.” A sly smile crept across her face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Leonard could probably play innocent. He’d have trouble explaining the lead pipe, but he was otherwise an ordinary man—about five-nine, dark blue eyes, dirty blond hair and dressed in jeans and a black sweatshirt. Nothing could connect him to the Scartist kidnappings.

“I think you do. I can see it in your eyes. You’re looking at my skin right now. You want me as a canvas.”

A thick wad crept down Leonard’s throat. “You’re attractive, officer—”

“Lieutenant. Lieutenant Angline.”

“—Lieutenant. I am thinking about how nice it would be to have sex with you.”

The Lieutenant’s smile widened. “Normal people aren’t usually this awkward around women, Sellian. You’re just digging your hole deeper. But: you’re in luck. I want you.”

Leonard cocked his eyebrow.

“I want to be one of your works of art. I want to be your masterpiece.”

Leonard bit his lower lip. “How do I know I can trust you?”

The Lieutenant pulled the trigger. The hammer slammed forward. Nothing happened.

“If I were here to arrest you, my gun would be loaded.”



***



Leonard spent the first day just getting the rough ideas onto Lieutenant Angeline’s back.

Her dedication was extraordinary. She’d spent two months refining her skin to perfection. The razor slit her flesh with uncanny ease. She was a police officer—twelve years on the force—and knew how to take pain. ‘Modesty’ was not in her vocabulary; she unbuttoned her pants and pulled them partway down her bum to give Leonard clear access to her tailbone.

He used it. He used all of her skin. This would be his masterpiece.

Hours turned into days. They didn’t eat or sleep the first night, nor the second night. Lieutenant Angeline lay perfectly still as Leonard carved his magnum opus across the nape of her neck, down the sides of her ribs and along the crescent ridge of her buttocks. He only blinked when his eyes hurt. He never flinched, and neither did the Lieutenant.

The third night passed, and then the fourth. The white sheet covering the gurney, which had only been spotted with blood at the beginning, had turned the color of rust. The few spots of skin untouched by Leonard’s razor had turned a dark, cherry color.

By the fifth night, Leonard became distantly aware of the need to sleep. His passion outweighed this need, however. He’d found his muse; she lay silent on the gurney before him, providing her divine bare back as the ultimate canvas for his great work. He was going by memory and instinct now; he could no longer see the work he’d already done through the sheen of dried blood that had formed. He had two images in his mind: one of the finished work, and one of what remained. Minute by minute, these two images became one.

On Monday morning, Leonard pressed the tip of the razor against Lieutenant Angeline’s right buttock. ‘Sellian Runquist’ would not take credit for this. He signed his name: Leonard Gafferty.

“It’s finished…” Leonard sat back in his chair and set the blade in the petri dish. “Lieutenant…it’s done.”

She didn’t move. Furrowing his brow, Leonard pressed his middle- and forefinger to Lieutenant Angeline’s neck.

She was dead.