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

they have fennel seed, but they don’t mix the two. I gotta do it.”
    She put her arms around his waist from behind. “And you do a fine job.”
    “Don’t fool with the chef. I still have to make the salad.”
    He shuffled toward the sink with her clinging to him.
    “What kind of salad?” 
    “Greek. Cucumber, red onion, cherry tomatoes, black olives, and feta cheese, all drizzled with a good olive oil, a pinch of salt, and freshly ground pepper.”
    “Yum.”
    “Now, stand back, I gotta cook. And you’re interfering with my conducting. You can set the table.”
     
     
     
    “LOOKS DELICIOUS,” ROSE SAID, unfolding her napkin. “What’s the wine?”
    “A Syrah from Sicily.”
    “Ooh, my favorite.”
    He poured them each a glass.
    “What’d you do today?” she asked. “You were out for a while.”
    “Mauro’s serious about this shroud eater thing. We went to the herbalist in Campo Santa Margherita to talk to her about it.”
    “This salad is delicious,” Rose said as she chased an olive around the plate with her fork. “Did the woman think you were nuts?”
    “To the contrary. She believes the shroud eaters have come back.”
    “Back from where?”
    “She didn’t say.”
    Brigham served the pasta.
    Rose took a forkful of pasta and sauce, with a bit of the sausage. “So what did she say?” 
    “She knows what to do.”
    “This pasta is great. Where did you get the recipe?”
    “I made it up.” 
    “You should be a chef.”
    Brigham shook his head and through a mouthful of sausage and penne said, “Too much work. I’m lazy.”
    The candles threw dim and cozy light around the room and lit Rose’s face in a warm glow, like an angel from a painting by Caravaggio. How did he deserve her? 
    “You know,” she said, “you and your gondolier friend are going to get yourselves into a lot of trouble.”
    He swallowed a mouthful of wine. “Nah, don’t worry. It’s all a bunch of crap. I’m only going along with it because it’s a form of entertainment. And to keep him out of trouble, I suppose. He’s so funny when he’s serious.”
    “Well, watch yourself. You’ve already got people pushing you around.”
    “Not related.”
    “You don’t know that.”
    No, he didn’t.
     
     
     
    AFTER CLEANUP, which was her job whenever Brigham cooked, Rose turned on the television to watch the Italian version of some reality TV show.
    “How can you watch that bullshit?” he asked. “It’s just a lot of horrible young people sitting around fighting with each other. You’re above that. Write a treatise. Read some Schopenhauer.”
    “Watching TV helps me learn Italian,” she said, curling her legs up under her on the couch.
    “But they’re not speaking proper Italian. They have to bleep every other word, and you’ll end up talking like that. Ciao , bleeeep, come bleeeep, va ?”
    She laughed. “I know, but I learn a lot from it. Now be quiet.”
    “You know I can’t stand it. I think I’ll go to a café and have a glass of brandy.”
    “Good.” Rose said, motioning for him to get out of the way. “Are you taking the mutts?”
    He kissed her forehead. “Not yet. I’ll do that later.” He put on his coat and walked toward the front door.
    “Don’t fall into a canal.” 
     
     
     
    BRIGHAM STROLLED THROUGH THE DARK STREETS, not far from where he had been attacked. As he approached the Church of the Mendicoli he came into a small square, along which ran a garden wall with a beautiful doorway flanked by marble plaques with relief carvings; one of a Greek or Roman soldier, the other a vase. The doorway had been filled in with brick. The beauty of the wall, its rustic and crumbling bricks and the ancient plaques, had always fascinated him.
    A man labored to drag a large burlap bag containing an irregularly shaped mass across the stones, leaving a trail of red that glistened wet under the streetlights. The man dragged it to the old garden wall, whereupon he and his cargo disappeared