This is a little project I came up with about a month ago. Call it boredom, but I somehow got it in my head that I would like to produce one Vampirella image a week for a year. Below are the images with a brief description of what made me choose this particular image, medium, etc. The rules are, I must complete one image a week, however, I am allowed to return to the piece and rework parts if I see fit. Please enjoy and feel free to contact me if you have any questions.
“Abandonment at 16 Degrees South Longitude, 170 Degrees East Latitude”
by, Tim Gerstmar
The Captain was not in his cabin when I came to update him about the current mental health of Seaman Tillingham, whose incessant mutterings about demons that kept appearing to him had been keeping the crew awake since pulling out of the Hebrides a week before. The sickness had befallen him shortly after a night of carousing in one of the riskier areas frequented by the natives. He coaxed me into accompanying him, insisting we’d have a hell of a time, but other than watchful tattooed faces and Tillingham’s nonstop insistence that it was here he met the love of his life, my memory of the night is foggy. I sometimes wonder if he wasn’t bitten by some exotic insect, or if one of the local witch doctors didn’t place a hex on him, but he wasn’t the same again; he became more outspoken, as it were, and the world of his unconscious was laid bare to all.
Tillingham joined the Navy in his late forties after a married life that he never had the belly for. An average and slightly unmotivated sailor, he was rarely promoted, which seemed in keeping with his often morose, introspective nature. His wild imaginings came out in the dreamworld of demon rum. For this I loved Tillingham like a long lost family member, and what many saw as a sad, failed life, I saw as the fragile beauty of an enlightened soul. My charming, diplomatic ways quickly put me in the position of first mate, and despite the wealth and prestige, I detested the additional responsibilities. Tillingham went completely unnoticed by the Captain, whose unrelenting demands I could never avoid. It was his carefree wisdom and the way he saw through superficialities that comforted me, and though I served the Captain publicly, it was Tillingham who I sought out during the small hours of the night to share a flagon of grog as he spoke of adventure on the high seas, or reminisced of his beloved, estranged wife who he had left behind. He had a distinctive, kindly grin and a faded tattoo of an island on his chest, the bare skin serving as the vast ocean and sky around it like in one of those old, Chinese brush paintings. The tattoo spoke of his hidden creativity, which sadly never blossomed. Sailors, when they remembered, always had stories behind tattoos, but Tilligham became silent and moody when asked about his, which added to his mystery, and sadness.
I have digressed a bit from where I began. I was looking to speak with the Captain, when Tillingham appeared in the gangway, swaying from side to side like a marionette under the hands of a mad puppeteer. I reached out and steadied him, less he should fall overboard.
“Tillingham, where are you going? You were ordered to stay in your rack,” I said.
His wide, vacant eyes, bordered by fans of deep lines, gazed into vistas far beyond the horizon.
“There’s things I see,” he said, his voice trailing off into a growl. “There are things that I see now. I cannot stay here.”
He wobbled like an exquisite jelly on a banquet table. Then, teeth clenched, his body seizing as though struck by lightning, he screamed: “Over the side with me!” Breaking free of my grasp, he lunged towards the railing. He would have flung himself into the inky waves like a crippled albatross had I not tackled him fast enough. I pulled him to me, restraining him as best I could.
“Tillingham, relax.”
“Don’t try to stop me, Ben. If you could feel those things licking your nose and the bottoms of your feet you’d understand. Nothin but the drink left for me!”
“What things?” I asked.
“The wicked little fairies. They leap and bounce with their leathery wings, and they bleed out of their pores and laugh. Oh God, let me go! God damn it!”
He fought like one of the captured animals we kept in cages below decks, and I forced him belly-down on the planks.
“Get off me I say! Just let me get it over with!”
“What the hell is going on here?”
It was the Captain, looking down at us from the quarterdeck like a weathered post on the beach, his long wispy hair tossed by the night breeze.
“Sir, it’s Tillingham,” I said.
“What’s all this rubbish I hear about demons licking up drops of blood?”
“He’s delirious, sir. Perhaps a case of scurvy.”
The Captain’s stare was calculating.
“Would you like to clean the entire deck with a tiny brush. On second thought, how about cleaning it with your tongue?”
My allegiance was divided. I was legally bound to the Captain, but my heart went out to Tillingham. The Captain was infamous for his harsh punishments. There was Seaman Penworth, who was late relieving the watch one time too many; the captain had him beaten with the end of a mop till he was crippled. Then there was Seaman Lieberman, who stole some extra grog out of storage. He was held down, a funnel forced into his mouth, and the Captain ordered one of the hands to pour an entire keg of grog down his throat. Lieberman never returned to the ship. I could see in the Captain’s sleep deprived eyes the germination of a punishment even more horrible for Tillingham. However, given the late hour and the need to assemble the crew and go through the proper ceremony as he liked, I managed to convince him to allow me to handle matters. I promised to give Tillingham a few lashes, but when the Captain went back to his cabin, I gave Tillingham some of my own precious grog, which made him less resistant, allowing me to assist him back below decks and into his rack as he mumbled incoherently about feverish imps playing with his nether regions. Inebriated, he quickly fell asleep, and I too, after a long while of lying awake starring at the ceiling, fell into a deep slumber.
#
A loud crash woke me from a sleep plagued by nightmares. I fell out of my bunk and thumped to the floor. There came a terrible whine. It was Tillingham.
“Oh God, it’s them! They have come at last!”
“Shut the hell up,” screamed one of the hands.
“It’s them, I tell you! They are here!”
I raced above decks and found a gaggle of angry, sleepy seaman surrounding the port-side railing, upon which stood Tillingham, holding one of the shroud lines to steady himself, his bare feet slipping on the wet wood of the railing.
“Over the side with im!” bellowed one of the sailors, followed by grumbles of agreement.
I pushed through the throng to talk some sense into him.
“Tillingham,” I said, “Where are they?”
His mad eyes bored through me.
“Where are they?” I repeated.
He shushed me and waved his free arm about, as if indicating that these apparitions were part of the ether all around us.
The Captain came down from the quarterdeck with Jaques, the second mate. He had been speaking with Jaques a lot as of late, and I didn’t like it. The crew went silent and cleared a path for him. All hands were ordered back to their racks, as the Captain, Jaques, and myself would handle the situation. The Captain stood with his hands on the railing, looking out towards the horizon, dreaming up the most convincing of punishments he could imagine. Jaques whispered in his ear.
“We’ll drag him by his neck behind the ship,” said the Captain with a satisfied leer.
“Yes, Captain, yes yes,” said Jaques.
“I won’t allow it,” I said.
“You’ll do as I say, Ben,” said the Captain.
I climbed up on the railing, steadying myself with the same line that Tillingham held.
“Get down from there!” the Captain yelled.
“I’ll jump. If you lose me, you lose all of them,” looking directly at Jaques.
“Let him die,” said Jaques, his black tooth staring at me like the dead eye of a shark.
“Go back to your rack,” I said to Jaques. “This is between me and the Captain. I order you.”
The Captain nodded to Jaques, and he skulked away. The Captain was hated by all, though no one freely admitted it. He appointed me first mate because the crew had always responded to my easygoing demeanor. I had a way of softening harsh orders.
“Get off there. I will delay punishment, but something must be done,” said the Captain.
“I want your word.”
“You have my word. Now get down!”
Stepping down from the railing, I noticed a white shape in the waves that I could not immediately discern. It appeared then disappeared out of the corner of my eye. I nearly slipped, but the Captain caught me and helped me down.
“Almost lost you,” he said. “I will consider the punishment more, but it must be done.”
I did not completely disagree.
“You think I am cruel, Ben. It may be true that in the accounting house or the ballroom my methods would be considered overly harsh. But the sea is a harsh mistress, and she does not know the meaning of the word forgive. I cannot allow some,” he considered his words. “Some delusional sailor to threaten the crew’s safety, or the safety of our mission. But I cannot forget honorable service. It’s a difficult choice.”
Tillingham could easily be held in the brig till we returned, but that would not be good enough for the Captain. When he had returned to his cabin, I looked back over the side. It occurred to me that what I had witnessed momentarily in the waves, was a pale white arm, like that of a swimmer out for a dip in the inky black sea. Then there came a sound, something at once so lovely in its alien tenor, that I stayed at the railing to listen. It seemed to come from beneath the crashing and lapping of the waves, a gentle, high-pitched crooning.
#
“Get im offa me!” came the gurgling scream.
The crew grumbled and rolled out of their racks, apprehensively making their way up on deck. Seaman James, a boy of not more than 17, lay on the wet planks, his face turning purple, as Tillingham hunkered over him, great strands of drool dangling like stalactites from his lips, his long fingers wrapped around James’ throat. With the strength of the crew behind me, we fell upon him. It took four of us to break his iron grip and pull him back. Seaman James clutched at his soft neck and looked warily at Tillingham, who gnashed his teeth and salivated like a cornered weasel.
That was the final straw for the captain, who decided to drop him off on the next atoll we sighted. Abandonment on an island. I pleaded with the Captain, insisted I would be Tillingham’s ward, but he wasn’t hearing it. Jaques came to the Captain’s side.
“Ye may be the first mate, but ye let yer emotions control ye too much. The Captain has the final say,” said Jaques.
“We abandon him on the next atoll we spot,” said the Captain. “And you’re to be placed in the brig for insubordination, Ben.”
The crew roared in agreement, “Aye aye, Captain sir!” Then they seized me.
#
I was brought out of the brig, hands bound behind my back, to be present for the ceremonial punishment. The island couldn’t have been more than five or six miles across. Palms like green hairs reaching out to the sun stretched along the beach, swaying in their savage, tropical dance. There was something so singularly familiar about the place, and it came to me that it was almost identical to Tillingham’s tattoo.
One of the boatswain’s mates prepared to lower a skiff.
“Captain, we should at least have the chaplain say a prayer for him,” I said.
“Prayer?”
“It’s the least we can do.”
“No prayer for im,” piped in Jacques, his craggy face leering with newfound power.
“You can say your own prayers, Ben,” said the Captain.
“If you won’t think about Tillingham, at least consider your soul,” I said.
“And what do you know of the nature of the soul?” The captain shot me a vapid look, “What do you know? You just stand fast.”
“But it’s murder, Captain.”
“Murder is what’ll be happenin if he stays,” said Jacques to the Captain, laughing.
“You will both burn in hell for this,” I said, “I’m the first mate. I should have some say in this.”
“Not anymore, Ben,” said the Captain.
Jaques grinned at me. A sudden uncontrollable rage gripped me. The complete senselessness of it all. Being large, six foot two and two hundred and ten pounds soaking wet, I easily shook out of the grip of my charges and sent myself headlong into Jaques’ middle, dropping us both onto the deck. His head hit the boards with a satisfying thunk.
Work-hardened hands gripped me, and I was forced facedown on the deck. Jaques rose to his feet, rubbing his head, slightly stunned. Rage aided his recovery, and he screamed:
“Abandon him! On the boat with him and be gone!”
I was lifted and dragged to the skiff, where Tillingham sat looking vacantly out into space. Rodrigo, the disbursing officer, came forward to try and be an intermediary, but the Captain dismissed him.
“Rodrigo, stand fast. I am sorry Ben, you’ve gone too far.”
“We will try and come back for you,” Rodrigo yelled, and the Captain waved him off.
I had no faith in this promise, though it felt good to have at least one member of the crew so firmly on my side. The skiff was lowered and oared to the island. Once ashore, the boatswain’s mate cut our bonds, and then with pistol raised to keep us at bay, he and his mates shoved off and rowed back to the ship. We stood on the beach and watched the ship become a speck on the horizon and then vanish. The sun was going down, and the breeze was picking up. I looked over at the mad eyes of my beloved companion, the man for whom I gave my life, and realized my error.
#
The good Lord was watching over me, and miraculously I was rescued by a passing ship several months later and returned to civilization. You may wonder why I am skipping ahead to my rescue. There are several reasons. In told I spent three months marooned with Tillingham without any means to record what happened. Furthermore, I was too busy trying to stay alive. Once rescued, I found myself unable to put the events down, preferring instead to forget them. I must also confess that I had difficulty remembering precisely what occurred, which I believe must be the result of a complete mental shutdown caused by the overwhelming stress of the situation. Years later, once I returned to normal life, a certain event triggered an emotional memory and brought everything back to me.
I gave up the sea, as events such as these often cause an aversion to anything that brings them to mind. Having had a penchant for drawing and painting in my youth, I decided to resurrect this forgotten leisure activity and began working as a portrait artist. I set up a studio down by the harbor and soon, as if fated, found myself with no shortage of work. The social contact it provided was a balm to my soul, and it put me in the presence of cheerful, and often affluent, company. I immediately put my past life behind me and set off on this new venture, but always with the sound of the sea outside my window.
I was commissioned to do a painting of a Mrs. Evan Richards, a widow whose husband was lost at sea during a whaling expedition, a point which she drew special attention to at our first meeting. Indeed there was a sadness to her that bespoke of loss, as well as a singular kind of strangeness in her appearance. She was a compelling subject for a portrait artist, and I knew I would accept the commission no matter what monetary figure we were to agree upon. The strangeness, though elusive at first, seemed to arise in part from the quality of her skin, which was somehow rough, and in certain parts, such as under the ears around the jaw, had the texture of shark skin. Though handsome, she always wore a coat with a high collar to conceal this abnormality as best she could, and on one occasion I caught sight of what appeared to be some kind of extra skin around the base of her neck; obviously a birth defect of some sort that she wished to keep covered. None of this in any way detracted from her striking presence, and whenever she sat for me, I would find myself entranced by her eyes, which were watery and of the deepest black. On one or two occasions I was so mesmerized that no actual painting got done. The two of us sat there, unable to do anything else but stare into each other’s eyes. There was nothing of sexual arousal in these staring sessions, only a kind of infatuation. Yet despite being unable to paint, something was taking place. A week after Mrs. Richards started sitting for me, I began to have very vivid dreams, which I documented. I awoke and worked very fast, and so the words lack polish, but I will transcribe my entries exactly as I recorded them in those fervent sessions:
#
_March 13th
I am on a beach building a shelter, though my efforts are somewhat frustrated due to lack of skill. I am with another sailor, and he keeps telling me to beware, and that “they” are coming. I attempt to ignore him and continue to fashion a door for my rock shelter out of small branches and reeds. I do not like the look of my companion, who I know is Tillingham even though he looks nothing like him. There is something darker and more malevolent in his eyes, something so penetrating and invasive, that I cannot look into them for long. I try not to face him and am only aware of his presence beside me, though he continually stares at me, beckoning me to look. I almost do, and then the dream ends._
#
_March 14th
Back on the island again. I attempt to catch a fish with a spear that I fashioned from a length of wood. Despite my patience and the sheer number of fish swimming about my ankles, I am unable to spear any of them. There is a splashing sound as someone approaches. I am overcome with a debilitating sense of dread the closer they get to me, but I cannot bring myself to look. I wake up at this point._
#
_March 15th
In the water once again, armed with the spear. Clearly I cannot give up. I feel my body weakening from lack of proper nourishment. My companion is hunched over nearby. My dream self is walking slowly towards him, but I do not want to do this. I reach out and tap him on his bare shoulder, and he turns and mutters the same line he did two nights before: “They are coming. Beware. Beware. They are coming.” Long, gooey fish guts drip from his mouth into the water like candle wax. He notices my disgust, and seems to become annoyed, but I don’t want him to feel this way. When I wake there is blood on my pillow and I find that I have bitten through part of my tongue._
#
At this point I asked Mrs. Richards to discontinue our sessions. She appeared nonplussed by my concern and inquired as to why this was. I simply told her that the painting was too complicated for me to finish, that I was not feeling well, and that I would refund her downpayment immediately. She asked to see the painting, and I told her I was ashamed of it and was keeping it covered. When she asked for me to describe what the issue was, whether it was my inability to get a proper likeness or some other such annoyance, I found myself unable to give an answer. In fact, though I had been working on the painting now for some time, for some reason I could not envision it in my mind’s eye. Her expression told me she had some sympathy for my plight, but she mentioned that more than likely I was working on a masterpiece, which was precisely why I harbored so much doubt. She immediately doubled the payment and insisted I complete the painting. Seeing as I had certain debts, I reluctantly accepted, and the sessions continued, just as the dreams became more vivid.
#
_March 17th
Last night I was back on the island, somewhere in the forested interior. I don’t know why I am there, but I am afraid. My companion is nowhere to be seen, but I know innately that he is the source of my fears. The pungent smell of soil fills my nostrils, and over the chirping of insects I swear I hear movement in the foliage, and then singing of such an unearthly quality that my dream self feels compelled to investigate. I am unable to awaken. The bright sheen of the tiny lagoon appears, and there is a woman bathing in it. Her hair is dark black and textured like grass or weed. Though she does not see me, she knows I am there. There is heavy breathing and snuffling nearby. I smell or taste something rancid and realize it is fear. I awake, the odor of fish pungent in the air._
#
The painting is progressing, though it is like none other that I have ever completed, and I can never envision it during my lucid hours. When I am working on it, it is as though I am in a trance and Mrs. Richards is dictating the composition to me. When I am finished for the day, I cover it with a cloth. The sessions leave me exhausted beyond belief. Though I am tempted to lift the cloth, Mrs. Richards insists that I do not look until it is finished. I left my career as a seaman behind in order to forget that awful past, and now as a painter I enter into a new nightmare.
#
_March 18th
I have begun to construct a raft, but I have to keep this very secret from my companion. I work on it in my shelter, and I cannot work fast enough. However, as was the case with the construction of the shelter, my poor manual dexterity is more of a hindrance than a help. The dream ends with sounds outside of the shelter. I am trying to hide the raft._
#
_March 19th
I must take care with this entry, for what I witnessed in my dream is difficult to catalogue. I awake to strange sounds, like the hooting calls of seals or some other whiskery creature of the world’s sea coasts. I exit the shelter and notice that the sounds are coming from the area of the lagoon. It is a haunting, silvery melody. I pick up the spear I fashioned and make my way along the beach towards the lagoon, moving as though through quicksand. The spear feels like rubber in my weak grip. When I arrive, I see the woman and Tillingham, joined by a host of other monstrosities from out of the forest and the dark, spectral sea, writhing in a kind of dance among the large stones, hips gyrating in slow, possessed revolutions. The woman extends her arms above her head, swaying atop one of the rocks. Tillingham stands knee-deep in the water in front of a slab of dark obsidian, shaped so perfectly square that it could not have been naturally hewn. A figure emerges from the water and lays on the stone. The upper portion of the body is that of a woman, but where there should be a waist and legs, the torso tapers off into something like a giant clam shell. She moves herself on her back up on the stone, and I watch in horror as the lower clam half opens to reveal a gelatinous orifice, her upper body covered by a membrane of skin, a gloating, eyeless face smiling underneath. Tillingham moves closer to her, fully naked, and the horrible assembly begins to dance around them so that I thankfully cannot see what ensues. The throng of monstrosities waltz into the moonlight, their awful features illuminated by the cold, lunar glow. They groan in a deep, croaking chant, arms beckoning to the sea. The fear that I will be spotted is overwhelming, and I wake from this dream quivering and covered in sweat._
#
The last entry was written after waking in my studio from the dream, the portrait complete. I thanked God for that, for I could stand no more intense gazing sessions with Mrs. Richards, and I never wanted to dream again. I had painted all night, the brush dangling from my hand when I awoke, the windows open, the curtains dancing like white wraiths in the bay breeze. The smell of salt air reached my nostrils, and something else, a scent that I recognized from somewhere but was unsure of. Mrs. Richards was nowhere to be found, and the painting stood before me under its shroud, which rippled slightly in the breeze.
I dispatched a courier to deliver a message to Mrs. Richards, asking where I should send the painting, but she did not respond. When I queried at her door, I found the house abandoned. There was nothing more I could do. I hurried back to my studio immediately and pulled the phantom-like cloth off of my work. I recoiled in horror at the rendering my unconscious mind had engineered. It was not a portrait of Mrs. Richards but a multi-figure composition, the central focus of which was a man whose likeness I immediately recognized as my own, thin from starvation, wearing the filthy striped pants of a sailor, eyes wild with madness. He clutched a spear carved from a length of wood, astride one of his mates, the point thrust through his neck. The dying eyes of Tillingham looked back at me upside down, dark and pleading. The background was a beach, and around us was a gory landscape of butchered monstrosities like those in my dream, half aquatic creatures from some ancient kingdom many fathoms under the sea. Some could be seen in the background, fleeing back to the sea. I was at once revolted and saddened. Had it been me all along? What had I destroyed in my blind carelessness?
I was pulled from my state of shock by a splashing outside the window. I rose from my delirium and thrust my head out into the salty air. Just off the shore a dark head poked out of the water. The sun was behind it, so I could not see the details very well, but I swore I saw the grin of that awful old woman whose body was covered in a seamless membrane of white skin. She smiled, and I recognized Mrs. Richards bone structure under the awful caul. Then there came that haunting crooning that I had heard long ago, beckoning me towards the water. Her head slipped beneath the surface and disappeared.
A friend of mine started a greeting card company and asked me to contribute. I set out to illustrate messages that I would want to receive.
Quarterly academic journal Ethics Review had a cover story about the term “trigger warning” and its effect on universities nationwide. Primarily used by millennial media outlets and blogs, the cautionary phrase made its way into undergrad and even grad level syllabi.