It was late and he had to pull himself away from his painting for a moment to reflect.
The attorneys Oculus had met at Sullivan Papain had done an excellent job copywriting his work and, Andy’s connections, Edward Bernays and William Casey (the two he’d met at the Windows of The World two months ago) weren’t kidding - - his work was already getting out there, one of his best was commissioned for feature as album cover art for some rock band of regional but substantial and growing fame (he even heard they might be signing to do a tour with Shanna Daly next year).
People were beginning to see, maybe only tens of thousands were buying the album (so far) - - but how many more would see it in shop windows and on t-shirts?
He even had representation now. Edward and William had introduced him to some high-end agent . . . someone with deep connections in both the art and entertainment industry; an Ari Emanuel.
One thing was troubling him, however. Strange as it may sound, he was feeling a bit guilty about exposing the public to his paintings . . . after all, his work was, at bottom, depictions of those terrible visions he’d been having of those horrific beings - - as if he was channeling them.
Maybe it was all just paranoia. Bad dreams. Suppressions of his subconscious. But what then of the things he had seen two months ago? The dead rising from the grave in Greenwood Cemetery, the blue-faced devil that chain-sawed that girl at Limelight, the behemoth creature smashing into Dr. Madison’s apartment at the Arcadia, to say nothing of the supernatural swarm of hornets from hell at Brooklyn’s 92nd Precinct.
No, it wasn’t possible, he couldn’t have imagined all of it. He thought about the suicide epidemic sweeping the city all around him as he looked out the window of his SOHO loft apartment at the flickering bright lights of the city below. He remembered the radio news broadcast he heard playing the night he was in Sarah’s apartment . . . he heard the anchor broadcasting a message telling people to kill themselves . . . he was certain he heard it, but that private investigator, Rosenbaum, insisted he heard only a news broadcast . . why? Why couldn’t Rosenbaum hear it?
He thought of poor Jacks . . . how they found her. Nearly overdosed. Benadryl of all things. She was still in the hospital too. Physically she survived . . . but no one was sure if they’d ever discharge her from Bellville. It seems every time it looks like she’s making progress, she slips back, raving about someone watching her, ‘The Hatman.’
He also couldn’t shake the feeling that Andy was somehow involved in all that.
And God, what the hell did happen to Sarah . . . she still hasn’t been found.
He thought again about the implications of his own work.
He couldn’t get comfortable with it. A feeling like he was unwittingly complicit in some horrific crime.
He needed to talk with someone about it. Someone who may at least understand the context. Someone with experience with the weird and the occult, someone who had seen at least some of what he had.
He still had Dr. Madison’s number. Apparently, he’d gotten some prestigious position since they’d last spoke. Hopefully he wouldn’t be too busy to see him, he’d try tomorrow, if ever he’d be available it would be a holiday, and tomorrow will be New Year’s Day.
