A Beast in Venice: (Literary Horror set in Venice) by Michael E. Henderson

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