[center] [img] http://www.ashraya-ny.org/GiftMetMuseumPlazaGeneral%20ViewNight.jpg [/img] [/center] 
“And here we have Saint Somabra herself, for whom this city is named” Sullivan announced in his sing-song voice, flicking to the next slide with the remote. 

An archaic painting of a pale woman in a blood red shawl shone onto the projector screen, evoking a quiet murmur from the seated audience. Her plain smile had the ghostly hint of a grin twisting at its smooth edges, and her piercing blue eyes seemed to be almost mocking the painter, as though she were privy of some dark truth that the rest of the world was oblivious to. 

“A controversial figure,” Sullivan continued “the archives tell us that Chaerina Somabra was the daughter of a wealthy nobleman, who had her married to a pagan suitor.”

Sullivan paused for a moment, gazing up into those piercing blue eyes. He could have sworn they were staring back at him. 

“When she would not lie with him, her wicked husband had her whipped and beaten, tearing off her clothes and shaming her in front of his household.


Filled with rage, Chaerina feigned submission, before murdering her husband in his sleep, and burning his estate to the ground, denouncing it as unholy ground, and an aberration to the Lord God.” 


Sullivan pressed the remote again and the same pale woman, now in a crimson toga, was shown soaring above a field of fire, huge golden feathered wings protruding from her back, and a sun-like halo running in a glorious arch above her lithe head. 


“Accounts vary on what transpired next,” the lecturer explained, addressing the audience in an open manner “Anglican’s would have us believe that Chaerina livid out the rest of her days helping the needy as atonement for her murderous misdeeds, the Vatican that she used her family’s ancestral residence as a home for lost souls.” 


Sullivan hit the remote once more, and a crumpled scroll, worn around the edges, flashed onto the projector screen. Intricate yet hard to make out text covered the old parchment, written in what seemed to be fine black ink. 


“But the most interesting account comes from this cryptic document uncovered by scholars some years back, which began the movement to have Chaerina Somabra’s sainthood recalled.”


Pausing for what was verging on an uncomfortable amount of time, Sullivan slowly turned to face the projector screen, and began reading from the scroll. 


[center] [i] “The haze that covered our eyes has been lifted, and false idol of the Lord has been exposed, yet I fear this dark revelation has dawned too late upon her hapless prey. She is no matron of virtue, no disciple of the maker, no herald of the almighty. A mask of benevolence hides a terror most foul, and the bloody queen’s sins will stain the house of our holy father for as long as this she-demon walks his sacred earth. 


There is no haven to be found within the harpy’s lair, only machinations of the darkest nature, and the unholy tendrils of Satan himself. You will find no sanctuary within the house of Somabra, no more than the twisted bodies who came before you. Her blasphemous atrocities have awoken ungodly terrors, and her unsuitable appetite for the souls of the righteous can never be satisfied. 


Do not enter the house of Somabra, lest you never again emerge. Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate.” [/i] [/center] 

Sullivan turned back to face his audience, lightly tugging at his crispy white collar. “A dire warning, I think we’d all agree, and one that leaves the reader itching to know the dark details of what allegedly transpired within the home of Chaerina Somabra. Unfortunately, this fragile document is the only thing that indicates that Saint Somabra was ever anything other than saintly, so it seems that, for now at least, what the author of the document refers to shall remain a mystery.” 


The lights turned on seemingly all at once, flooding the crowded lecture hall with a wave of bright white light, and illuminating the audience members who sat in simple plastic chairs at the back of the room. 


“Thank you ever so much for coming down here,” Sullivan said pleasantly “I hope you found the experience to be worthwhile, and I wish you all a safe journey home.”  


A steady stream of applause drifted over from the far side of the room, which began to dwindle down to a quiet murmuring as the spectators got up to leave. They drifted out in a gentle line, stopping to shake Sullivan’s hand as he stood patiently by the exit, giving his individual thanks to those who’d attended his lecture. 


Soon the room was all but empty, leaving only Sullivan and a talk gentleman in a blue pinstripe suit. The figure slowly rose from his tacky plastic chair, walking with the predatory grace of tiger in long grass as he made his way over to the lecturer, delicately moving his dark fringe away from his eyes. 


“That was a fascinating lecture, Professor.” The figure remarked in a slick voice, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. 


“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Sullivan said nonchalantly, focused on collecting his notes back into his leather satchel. 


“I hope I’m not keeping you,” the figure continued “but I was hopeful I could get your opinion on something.” 


Sullivan paused, placing his satchel on the floor “I can’t see why not.” He said cheerfully. The professor lived alone, and was in no hurry to rush back to the confines of his apartment.  


“Excellent.” 


The figure pulled a sleek black smartphone out of his trouser pocket, handing it over to the professor. 


There was a video playing on loop on the screen. The sound was muted, but Sullivan didn’t need to hear what was going on. 


A slender woman was sprawled out across a plain mattress in high definition, her arms and legs bound to the bedposts. Her face was scrunched up, and the tears that streamed down her cheeks glistened under the camera light. She was dressed in skimpy bondage fetish gear, covering only the bare essentials, and the ropes that constrained her shock violently as she struggled and thrashed about. 


A hand appeared onscreen, clutching a piece of broken glass, and the woman began to struggle more frantically, a look of sheer terror plastered across her features. The next few moments were a blur, there was a flash of colour, and then the glass was in her exposed stomach, bubbling out great red rivers. 


Sullivan stepped backwards, unable to form words. 


“You see, the part that really interested me…” the figure said, taking the phone back from Sullivan’s loose fingers with ease. “Is this –particular- frame.” 


The figure wound the video back with one slender finger, pausing on a specific image.  


The screen showed the frame where the unseen figure first pulled out the shard of glass. There was a man’s reflection in the glass. Sullivan’s reflection. 


“You fucking monster…” wheezed Sullivan, wide eyed. 


“You’ll forgive me for not buckling under the judgment of a man who gets his jollies from cutting up college students.” The figure laughed heartily, as though he were watching stand-up. 


 “What d’you want from me?” Sullivan managed, clenching and unclenching his fists. 


“I’m sorry?” said the figure, grinning slyly. 


“What is it that you want? I’m assuming you seek to gain something out this.”  The lecturer said through gritted teeth. 


“Very astute,” the figure said with a light smirk “I legitimately couldn’t care less about your little vice, heck; we’ve all got one. I like gardening. Unfortunately for you, my employer sees things very differently.” 


“And what does your employer want?” Sullivan asked with poorly concealed malice thick in his voice. 


“Pack up your little workshop, and get the fuck out of Santa Somabra.” The figure said with sudden sternness “You have until tomorrow morning; if you’re still within city limits by then then you’ll get to find out first-hand how easy it is to make a body go missing.” 


Sullivan considered this “I’ll need to swing by my apartment first and-“ 


The figure waved his hand dismissively “Don’t bother. Your current place of residence has already been repurposed, and your belongings redistributed to the needy.” 


“THE FUCK?!” Sullivan let out a primal roar, tossing his leather satchel at the figure, who gracefully ducked beneath it. The satchel soared across the room before crashing into the wall, sending pieces of paper flying across the room. 


“Are you quite finished?” The figure asked with a pompous smirk. 


Sullivan said nothing. 


“You’ve got you instructions,” the figure said with a shrug “do what you will, I still get paid.” 


And with that he turned and walked out of the lecture hall, his fiercely polished shoes clacking on the tiled floor.