Vanity Kills, page 1
Vanity Kills
Erica Summers
Rusty Ogre Publishing
Copyright
VANITY KILLS
Copyright 2023 by Erica Summers
Rusty Ogre Publishing
www.rustyogrepublishing.com
All Rights Reserved.
Edited by Amanda Jean Ruzsa
Proofread by Mark Anthony
Published by Rust Ogre Publishing
Cover Art by Erica Summers
www.ericasummers.com
Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead or actual events is purely coincidental.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Praise for Vanity Kills
"Erica Summers writes with an eloquence in horror that I've not seen in years. She gracefully slides dread across the page, tenderly strokes your heart, and then stomps on it. Vanity Kills is a stunning work of horror fiction, and demands to be read, absorbed, and definitely, loved." - Ash Ericmore, author of Red Room.
*
"With Vanity Kills, Summers cements herself as a powerful voice to be reckoned with in horror. From the beautiful, dense prose of her passages to the believable, earnest way her characters talk to one another. Her hard-hitting depictions of visceral violence are attacked with the same tenacity as her stellar storytelling skills. Vanity Kills is one of the best books I’ve read this year! Highly recommended!" - Otis Bateman, author of The Maggot Girl series.
*
"...An amazing blend of medical and body horror, with cinematic prose, skillfully realistic dialogue, lots of character development, and a slow-burn narrative full of dread, regret, and trauma. Summers manages to hit the nail on the head when it comes to people who struggle to exist, to be themselves, to realize their true potential. She portrays their plight with empathy and a shocking awareness of conflict. Summers knows extreme horror and knows how to make the reader care for the characters and the plot, before unleashing hell on virtually EVERYBODY!" - Milt Theodossiou, Reviewer
*
"Summers drops you right into the story and refuses to let you look away from what is happening. If you’re looking for a story that does not hold back on gore, body horror, and fantastic character development, you need to read VANITY KILLS." - Mia Coppola Faller, author of Buried Women Speak
*
"The writing style was excellent, each character well-developed, all with their own flaws that kept me gripped. It's marketed as extreme horror but it's good for everyone. Definitely one of my favorite reads this year!" - Justin Boote, author of They Are All Monsters."Trust me when I tell you, the conclusion is SO worth it. Erica excels with her storytelling abilities in this book, showcasing pain and horrors so relatable but some incredibly believable. This story is creative, terrifying and beautifully written." - Nat Whiston, author of Feel Her Pain.
*
Contents
More by Erica Summers
Trigger Warnings
Dedications
Quotes
1. 1
2. 2
3. 3
4. 4
5. 5
6. 6
7. 7
8. 8
9. 9
10. 10
11. 11
12. 12
13. 13
14. 14
15. 15
16. 16
17. 17
18. 18
19. 19
20. 20
21. 21
22. 22
23. 23
24. 24
25. 25
26. 26
27. 27
28. 28
29. 29
30. 30
31. 31
32. 32
33. 33
34. 34
35. 35
36. 36
37. 37
38. 38
39. 39
40. 40
41. 41
42. 42
43. 43
44. 44
45. 45
46. 46
47. 47
48. 48
49. 49
50. 50
51. 51
52. 52
53. 53
54. 54
55. 55
56. 56
57. 57
58. 58
59. 59
60. 60
61. 61
62. 62
63. 63
64. 64
65. 65
66. 66
67. 67
68. 68
69. 69
70. 70
71. 71
72. 72
73. 73
74. 74
75. 75
76. 76
77. 77
78. 78
79. 79
80. 80
81. 81
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
More From Erica Summers
More by Erica Summers
Books:
Writhe
Bad God’s Tower
Vanity Kills
Mantis
Yakshar's Lost Treasure
Short Stories:
“DERAILED”
“In the Blood of the Martyr”
“Tines” (It Calls From Below)
“Take a Breath” (Anthology of Splatterpunk)
"The Mother" (Their Ghoulish Reputationg)
“Painted in Vermilion” (Air: Elemental Series)
“Sated” (Books of Horror Community Vol. 4)
“All the Same Color on the Inside” (Year Five Anthology)
Trigger Warnings
Vanity Kills Trigger Warnings:
(This list contains spoilers)
Profanity
Homophobia
Consensual & Non-consensual sex
Blood & Gore
Harm to an animal (brief)
Self-harm & Suicidal thoughts
Dedications
For the late Nic Wilder who inspired this story and Eddie Sampson who kept us all laughing until the day he died. I miss you both every day.
For Heather and Dave, I love you both so much.
For G, the red-headed beauty, who allowed a voyeuristic peek into severe body dysmorphia. I still think about your all-consuming relationship with Anna and Mia to this day.
This is for those who don’t understand how perfect you already are, scars and all. For those who sacrifice their health or life for outer beauty. For those that look in the mirror and see something other than what is there. And for those who stare into it, and see a hideous monster staring back… this book is for all of you too.
Quotes
“This is vanity: living to pretend, living to seem,
living to appear. And this makes the soul restless.”
-POPE FRANCIS
“Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
1
The menacing smell of death hangs thick in the air, hovering like a dense cloud of relentless mosquitoes in the hot July humidity. The hazy Louisiana sky looms vibrant and ominous overhead, as though tinged by the blessed smoke of a voodoo shaman.
There is fire. Licking its forked, heathen tongue up the side of an oak tree. Glittering in the squares of shattered glass, scattered among crunchy detritus and powdered dirt. The fractals reflect a million copies of the harrowing scene around them, like millions of microscopic television sets. There’s a spray of pieces on the seat, dispersed unevenly in coagulating blood like clustered diamond flecks around leaky garnet stones.
Dark smoke billows from the sputtering engine of the silver SUV, belching thick plumes of blackened poison into the air, blooming out from beneath the crumpled hood.
The mechanical hisses and whirs of the once-growling engine are deafening amid the symphony of sounds in the southern wilderness. Birds and locusts gawk at the tragedy, watching the stillness of it all as reverent onlookers.
A horrific scream rips the air, reverberating like a megaphone off the miles of bone-straight pavement ahead. It’s guttural, like something almost inhuman, but decidedly male.
The river of glass tinkles as his lacerated hands tremble their way across the seat. His eyes strain to focus. Fear sits thick in his gasping throat. A blood-smeared airbag is deployed over him like a burst bubble of gleaming white chewing gum, claustrophobically suffocating him with draped fabric. It’s deflated over the bulge in his lap, like a cloth doorway to the fresh hell and years of nightmares that lie beneath. He weakly touches it, hands tremoring in utter shock.
His trembling fingers tangle in the lock of wet, dark hair beneath the folds of the spattered material. It’s all become partly detached from the crushed human skull pinned between the bent steering column and his lap.
Her skull.
There’s no one else’s it could be, though he prayed to God that he was somehow wrong.
Please God let it be wrong.
The fleeting moments before the crash rush back like a boulder rolling downhill.
Picking up speed.
Smacking him in the face like a Mack truck.
He screams again, leaving every trace of his soul in the cry as it dissipates into the ether above the burgeoning eddy of gray smoke.
Pink spit dribbles down his gashed face and neck, scored with straight cuts from the
The miserable nightmare he’d do anything to wake from.
But he didn’t understand misery yet.
No, that he would learn in the cruel years to come because in this moment, he cannot even begin to fathom the fallout and repercussions of one single moment of time.
Lives altered forever from one careless over-correction.
He screams so loud that he chokes on a lungful of smoke, hacking up pink drool, sucking in snot and tears. He coughs again until he gags out the window, where he locks eyes with a panting dog.
He swears the mutt has a judgemental look in his eyes. And why shouldn’t it? It’s seen everything.
It scrutinizes him, the catahoula pup. Raising its young, curious face at the wreckage with its paws crossed, lounging calmly on its belly in the grass.
As if he had no part in this.
As if, for him, everything will be just fine.
As if, for him, the world is not on fire.
2
Jack LeBlanc sits upright, springing from his nightmare, gasping air in thick gulps and breaking down into a single heavy sob. He wipes the wetness trailing beneath his normal, hazel eye. The duct of the scarred one, sunken slightly deeper in his face by skin grafts that hug the curvature of his bones, hasn’t been able to shed a tear in years.
Though the nightmarish recollection has recurred for years, it feels just as potent as the first time. A thick sheen of sweat forms on the unburned half of his face, which peeks out of the cowl of his sweat-drenched blue hoodie like some ethereal shade. The jacket is old and frayed near the cuffs and corners of the kangaroo pouch, but it's offered him seclusion and security for years. Despite his aversion to mirrors, he wouldn’t even dream about walking around his own apartment with it on.
God forbid, he might catch a glimpse of himself in something reflective without it.
An audio file drones on through the tinny speakers of his laptop. A boring doctor prattles on, regurgitating medical information of a patient that Jack is supposed to be transcribing. He wipes the drool off his chin and eyes the open document on his laptop, barely even started.
He checks his phone, blood pressure still pounding in his scarred temples. “Son of a bitch.”
It’s not original.
It’s just all he can think to drum up through the grogginess.
He frantically slams his laptop closed with a hand that is gnarled by healed burns, seamed by lines of pink between patches of skin whose tones don’t match. The hand of Frankenstein’s monster, he thinks.
He crams the device in his laptop bag, wrenches the handle on his rolling suitcase, locks the door and scurries out.
Once outside, he sighs, realizing that he’s once again locked both his apartment and car keys inside.
3
“This little black pill has the potential to completely revolutionize healthcare and change lives.” A single, glistening capsule is held in the air. Behind it is the smiling face of Nurse Eileen Tate. A rag-tag group of potential guinea pigs sit in rows of bland conference tables in front of her. Eager and hopeful. Hungry for a chance to earn some easy cash.
“By participating in this phase one clinical pharmaceutical trial, you could be instrumental in changing hundreds, if not thousands of lives, for the better.” Her bright, feminine face is framed by cascading waves of brunette hair. Her tired eyes crinkle in the corners when she smiles. She seems enamored by the oval pinched between her fingertips.
Jack slinks into orientation, sweat still drying to the sides of his hood, with the thin outline of white from the salt on the edges.
He’s paralyzed by the realization of his worst fear as he walks in: he has everyone’s full attention.
He tells himself it's because he’s late, but that baleful whisper in his head chants: They can’t stop staring. They’d pay good money to see a freak like you at the circus. You’d be the star attraction. They’d gladly shell out hard-earned dough to see the barbecued mess beneath your hood. It would satiate their sick appetites for entertainment to view, in broad daylight, the hideous demon you truly are.
He’s jostled from his abusive train of cruel thought by the fingerless-gloved hand fluttering through the air, vying for his attention.
It's a familiar face. One that quells his momentary anxieties enough for him to take another step inside. It’s Mick. He recognizes the sly smile draped across his tan face, covered by a chest-length thatch of chestnut beard hair. His bright green tie-dyed shirt that says ‘FUCK NAZIS’ is enough to make him stand out all on its own.
“Yo, bruh!” Mick’s Cajun accent is so thick, he’s hard to comprehend. It comes through in nearly every word.
On Jack’s way over to the empty spot beside Mick, a stunning blonde catches his eye. Her shining shoulder-length locks glint under the fluorescent ceiling panels of the hotel meeting room. She’s seemingly perfect. One thousand percent out of his league in his mind, from her slender frame to the soft dimples seated in two supple cheeks. Her eyes are like two azure orbs beneath manicured brows the color of honey. He feels like they’re staring straight through him, arresting him on the spot. He flashes a smile in her direction without thinking, positive she’s not actually looking at him. But she is. Her eyes have locked with his and her sweet smile warms him like a campfire.
Mick yanks the hem of Jack’s hoodie and he sits obediently. Like a dog.
Like a fucking dog.
“Where ‘da hell you been?” The brash Cajun whispers.
“Passed out while I was transcribing. Locked my damned keys inside. Had to wait for an Uber.” Mick laughs at his misfortune. Classic Jack, he thinks. “I thought you was gon’ ditch me. Wouldn’t that be somethin’. You ropin’ me into ‘dis an’ ‘den neva’ show.”
Jack flashes a look that says: you know me better than that and slinks down. He absentmindedly tugs the braided strings so the opening in his hood closes a bit, obscuring more of his burned face.
The surly twenty-something on the other side of Jack raises his hand. Eileen points to him. “Yes, sir?”
“Hi. Alan.” He gives a half-assed wave after introducing himself and then re-crosses his arms over his chest. A mop of black hair is draped dramatically across his pale, angular face in an emo-style swoop. Long in the front and short on one side. He’s in black from head-to-toe. “Where are the rest of the volunteers?”
“You’ lookin’ at ‘em.” Mick interjects, carefree as always. “‘Da few, ‘da proud, ‘da guinea pigs.”
A few people snicker.
“Yes, it seems this is it.” She does a quick, silent headcount of the fifteen or so people peppered through the room. “My name is Eileen Tate. I’ll be your nurse for the course of this trial. I’ll be aiding your Principal Investigator in the coming weeks. He’s a recipient of the ACCP Distinguished Investigator Award. He started out in biochemistry twenty-five years ago and then moved into oncology around twelve years ago. Then, roughly seven years ago, he started developing the pharmaceutical you are here to test now. Over the course of his career, he’s been a pivotal developmental part of three, large over-the-counter medications on the market today. The candidates who agree to the terms of the trial will meet him tomorrow for the surgical prep. Afterward, I will administer the first round of the medication.”
She beams out over the audience of hopeful volunteers. “Right now, I’m going to hand out something called an Informed Consent Form. This packet lays out all of the pertinent information of the trial. Take a look. Read it thoroughly. Ask any questions you’d like, because by signing this, you agree to participate in the remainder of this three week trial.”
As she passes forms around the room, Mick’s gaze settles on a busty woman seated across from him. The colorful square plastic tag on her gaudy key ring reads: Angie. She’s drop-dead gorgeous with mid-back length natural red hair, shiny and thick like rust-colored ocean waves. She grins back at him with a look that says she is trouble incarnate.
