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

cheeks.
    She ordered a hot tea. “Thanks for coming out, Mauro.”
    “No problem. Is there something wrong? You seemed worried on the phone.”
    The waiter delivered a pot of hot water, a teabag, and a cup. She put the bag in the pot.
    “I’m worried about Brigham,” she said. “Something’s not right.”
    “How do you mean?”
    She poured tea into her cup. The waiter had not brought milk. As she turned to say something, he appeared with a small pitcher and placed it in front of her.
    “I’ve noticed a change in his behavior lately,” she said, pouring milk into her tea.
    “Like what? Is he depressed?”
    “No, nothing like that. It’s subtle, and maybe only I would notice it. But he’s also drinking a lot more than he used to.”
    Mauro motioned to the waiter for another glass of prosecco and a bowl of potato chips. “I did notice that he drinks a lot.”
    “Did you know that he sees things when he wakes up?”
    “Sees things? You mean like hallucinations?”
    “Yes. For example, he sees spiders and snakes. When he wakes up from a nap, he flies off the bed or sofa screaming because he sees a big spider falling from the ceiling toward him.”
    Mauro frowned. “No, Rose, I didn’t know about that.”
    She put her cup down and leaned forward. “Do you know he fell into a canal the other day?”
    “I didn’t know that either. Mamma mia , that’s bad. How did he fall in?”
    “He says that people were chasing him, and he jumped in to escape them. But I think he was drunk.”
    “Oh man. He could have drowned.”
    “I know he could drown—someone drowned last year because they fell into the canal when they were drunk—and that’s what scares me. And now he is seeing people walk through walls.”
    “Yes, he did tell me about that.”
    Mauro’s drink came, and they waited for the barista to leave before continuing.
    “I know he told you,” she said. “I think that is part of the problem.”
    “What?”
    “That you are going along with it. I know you took him to the herbalist.”
    “I believe him, and there are stories in Venice. Going to the herbalist was my idea.” He crunched a chip.
    “You actually believe that he saw someone walk through a wall?”
    Mauro leaned back in his chair, glass in hand. “Yes, I do.”
    “That’s nonsense—superstitious nonsense,” she said. “The herbalist is just an old superstitious woman.”
    “You sound like Brigham.”
    “Well, he’s not always wrong.” 
    “I think he really saw something, and so does the herbalist.”
    She frowned. “This is part of the problem. You are encouraging him and helping him.”
    “If he’s right, Venice could be in danger.”
    “Look,” she said, “he’s not right. There’s no way he saw anyone go through a wall.”
    “How do you know?” 
    “Give me a break, Mauro. It’s simply not possible for a person to go through a wall. I was hoping to get you to help me.”
    “Well, we’re not dealing with humans.”
    “So you believe him?”
    Mauro nodded. “Absolutely.”
    “Then you’re not going to help me?”
    “I didn’t say that. What do you want me to do?”
    “These things are caused by excessive drinking. He may be an alcoholic. That could explain some of his behavior.”
    “He does like to drink.” 
    “I need you to do a couple of things.”
    “Of course. Tell me.”
    “For one, stop taking him to the herbalist.”
    Mauro hesitated, knitting his brow. “I don’t know. I made a big deal out of it, and I think he only goes because he thinks he’s humoring me—keeping me out of trouble. If I quit now, he’ll think something is up.”
    She looked at her cup. “Hmm.”
    “We only need to go once or twice more.”
    “Just try not to make such a production out of it.”
    “I’ll see what I can do.”
    “And two: discourage him from drinking.”
    “How am I going to do that?”
    “Don’t drink with him—have coffee, instead.”
    “What good will that do?”
    “He has great respect