Donald Clyde scrutinized my portfolio like a college professor. Eyes darting from left to right, up and down as he took in my drawings. His mouth moved rapidly as he whispered reserved thoughts for only himself. I sat at his dinner table; hands folded tightly between my violently shaking knees. I felt like I'd vibrate off the chair, fall to the tiles with a thud and start vomiting due to anxiety. Clyde turned the last page, the sound of the thick paper cutting through the silent kitchen like a splitting tree, his eyes scanned my drawing and I saw a faint smile cut at the corner of his mouth. He looked at me over the wire frames of his glasses, his cold yet inviting blue eyes sending a shiver down my spine.

"Arthur. These are exquisite," Clyde said.

A euphoric rush of ease rippled through my veins; my brain fired on all cylinders as it processed the most prestigious compliment I'd ever received.

"Thank you," I said with a shaky and flustered tone.

Clyde gave a hearty chuckle. "Relax Arthur, I wouldn't have contacted you if I didn't already appreciate and respect your work. Drink your wine, relax."

I nodded my head and reached a shaky hand towards the glass on the table. I commanded myself to calm down as I raised it to my mouth and took a sip. I didn't know what to think, I wasn't sure how to act. Donald Clyde, one of the most popular up-and-coming authors of my generation liked my artwork. I never got compliments for my work, not from friends or my parents. Hearing his words of praise was the greatest thing I'd ever heard.

"Tell me. What got you into drawing?" Clyde asked.

"Umm. When I was seven, my cousin had a birthday party. My aunt gave out little goodie bags at the end of the party and in it was a small notebook with a Stegosaurus on it."

We exchanged a smile, Clyde's thick eyebrows arching for me to continue. "I remember asking my Mom for a pen, or a pencil. She asked what for, and I said I wanted to draw the Stegosaurus on the cover."

A warm smile spread across Clyde's mouth, and wrinkles formed at the corners of his eyes, as genuine amusement radiated off him. He reminded me of Bryan Cranston, he had bushy gray hair and a beard that populated everything south of his nose, but it was his facial features that really drove the point home.

"Was there an artistic talent within your family?" Clyde questioned.

I reached for my glass of wine with a nod, "My Dad...and my Mom to a lesser extent. My Dad liked to draw dinosaurs."

Clyde smiled and leaned back in his chair, he crossed his legs and placed his hands on his elevated knee. "There was no one of artistic value in my family, not for drawing and certainly not for the literary arts. If there was, they kept it a secret which I believe is a crime."

He let out a light chuckle and placed his right hand on the bottom of his wine glass. He spun the liquids around, his eyes locked on the red wine as if mesmerized. Clyde let out a low sigh and returned his attention to me.

"Those are some beautiful tattoos on your arms," he said, eyes locked onto the ink throughout my arms.

"Oh yeah. I um...I drew these myself too."

Clyde's eyes shot up from my tattoos, ripples of fascination glistening in his pupils. "You did these yourself?"

I nodded my head, trying my best to hide my excitement.

"A story behind them?" Clyde asked.

"Well. I've always been a huge fan of Norse mythology; I think it's beyond fascinating. So, my right arm is dedicated to that."

Clyde gestured for me to show him my right arm and I did. I placed it on the table, rolling my sleeve up to reveal the mountain and river landscape on my forearm as well as the Viking wielding an ax on my bicep.

"Dear Lord, that's gorgeous. Absolutely ravishing, Arthur,” Clyde gently grasped my arm as he analyzed my tattoos. "And what about your left?"

"I’m also a space nut...I'm obsessed with it to be direct. My Mom said that when I was a kid my dream was to be an astronaut," the tattoo on my left arm was of a sprawling galaxy, full of planets, stars, and a few spaceships.

Clyde laughed and examined my left arm, "And you did both of these yourselves?"

“I did. I mean, I drew it out and brought it to a tattoo artist. Neither are complete and I’m aiming to add more.”

"That is just fascinating. I'm mind blown by the range of your work,” he paused. He placed his hands in his lap and looked at me with narrowed eyes. "How about I show you what I called you here for?"

"Absolutely Mr. Clyde," I responded as I took another sip of wine.

Clyde got up from his seat. "I've had this idea for a few months, maybe close to a year."

He exited the kitchen and made his way across the living room to his study. He came back holding a manilla folder.

"I just need the right artist to capture what I'm looking for, to embrace and show the heart. I think you're the right man for the job," Continued Clyde, as he returned to his seat.

"What kind of story is it? If you don't mind my asking."

Clyde shook his head, "Oh not at all."

He placed his hands on the manilla folder and thought about his next words, his eyes looking upwards in an almost flamboyant manner. "It's my take on Frankenstein...Bride of Frankenstein to be precise. A scientist has composed his work of art, one that he's brought back to life and he's doing his best to compose a suitable mate for her."

There was a sting to his stare, it was there and gone within a blink of an eye. The warmth I'd seen throughout the entire evening had vanished for that split second. I wasn't sure if I'd seen it, but something in the pit of my stomach told me that I did.

"It's a Love Story." He concluded.

Clyde pushed the folder in my direction, his eyes staring directly into mine as his eyebrows arched once more as if commanding me to open the folder. I managed a smile, picked the folder up with trembling hands, and opened it.

It was a picture of a naked woman, one who was artificially put together and chained to a wall. Her right arm was darker than her left arm, I could see the sloppy stitching along her shoulder blade. Her left ankle was a different shade than the rest of her body, I could see dried blood along the seams. Stitches lined her forehead from where a hair transplant had been performed. Her breasts were fake, I could see the crude markings below each of them. At first glance, she appeared to be dead, but I knew that wasn't true. Her cold and dead stare was the most honest thing about her.

"I can see the alarm in your face Arthur, and I assure you that it's fake. It's merely something I'd found while doing a deep dive on Reddit," Clyde remarked.

But that didn't feel right, this picture didn't look fake at all. The lighting was too raw, the environment was too grimy. It was a photo printed in a dark room, and it looked like a forensic photo. The girl in the picture was as real as the dinner table in front of me, and the empty wine glass that sat on top of it.

I felt a knot form at the center of my throat, as a chill surged through my veins, I could feel the hairs stand on the nape of my neck. I became very aware that I'd been spending the better part of an evening with a man I knew very little about. I knew of his work, I knew of the image that he had created through his writings but that was it. I was alone with him in his cabin, in the middle of the Shadowbrook Forest. I came to the realization that I'd been the only one to drink the wine, it dawned on me that Donald Clyde hadn't taken a single sip from his glass. I stared at the manilla folder in front of me, then gave a nervous glance at Mr. Clyde. His features were cold, his eyes were lifeless.

"Is there a problem Arthur?"

The air in the room became very thin. I blinked my eyes as Mr. Clyde's kitchen blurred around me. I tried to speak but I couldn't, it was as though my mouth had been coated with foam. I blinked my eyes rapidly, and through the blur, I could see Mr. Clyde get to his feet. He spoke, but I couldn't hear him. I fell from my chair and then my world cut to black.

--------------------

It's the sound of a saw that brings me back to reality. The air around me feels cold and it reeks of sterile products. My eyes peel open slowly and my vision is like that of an underdeveloped photo. I blink my eyes a few times to clear my vision and that's when I see her. The woman from the picture. She stands but a few feet away from me, and she's much taller than she appeared in the picture, her head is about a foot away from the ceiling. There's a smile on her face. I try to scream, but I can't because my tongue isn't where it's supposed to be. I try to move my arms and legs, but they're also gone. I know this because I can see them hanging on the wall behind the woman.

The last thing I see is the Viking and the Stars.