The Skin Collector
“Yes; come in,” Professor Black said. “I had forgotten that today was the day.”
Lum followed his host down into the sunken living room, which was decorated sumptuously and with refined taste. It was apparent that the man who dwelt in this house was, if not out and out rich, certainly well to do. The art that hung from the walls was a blend of the romantic and contemporary; the furniture comfortably European; the rugs stylishly Asiatic. The plants, lined up against the large windows, were lush and tropical. The whole place had an air of uninviting comfort, as a stage set might.
“So, you are interested in tattoos?” the Professor asked, after the two men had sat down.
“Yes,” Lum replied, self consciously, as he looked into the small, hard eyes directed at him. “I explained it all over the phone… I wanted to interview you; for the book I am writing. I have wanted to meet you ever since I first heard about your collection. I brought a camera so I could take photos.”
Professor Black let his eyes descend to the body of the apparatus that hung from Lum’s neck, but his features showed no inclination towards approval. They were a grim blank that did little to sooth or welcome.
“I understand about the book,” the Professor continued. “But the photos we will have to see about. I am willing to show you my collection, but you will have to keep the camera tame—Art does not always benefit the masses.”
Lum thought that Professor Black did not look like the kind of man who cared very much for the masses, but let the comment slide. If the collection were really what it was made out to be, then it would certainly be a shame to leave without a few pictures. But of course it was the Professor’s call, and he did not appear to be a man to cross.
The room into which Lum was led was very large, windowless, but well ventilated, with a humidifier set in one corner. A smell, like that of old leather, permeated the atmosphere, and the track lights, which lined the ceiling, gave the room the feeling of a studio or gallery.
“These are some pretty good examples,” Black said, gesturing vaguely toward the glass frames which lined the walls, like so many paintings.
Lum stepped up to the first and examined it, initially finding it hard to believe that this strip of parchment was human skin. It looked more like a page torn from some ancient illuminated manuscript—The colors were so brilliant! The details so fine! The depiction was sublime, of two naked and winged little boys dragging a soul from a man’s morbid carcass. The background was a pure azure, with minarets and bold domes rising up out of the clouds. On the ground kneeled the clergy, with heads turned upward and palms pressed together.
“It is four-hundred years old. Taken off the chest of an Italian priest,” Black sneered. “I suppose the fellow had a streak of pagan in him, as the rules strictly forbade any such practice amongst Christians—The picture is what it is—Though not entirely to my taste. What interests me about it, what makes the tattoo so unique, is the shade of blue. It is very rare, and was apparently derived from a blend of indigo, comfrey flowers, and a small amount of human urine.”
The next frame over contained what was obviously the scalp of a human head. The picture thereon was morbid: a scene from the pits of hell. Countless demoniac monstrosities gathered around a small fire, kindled from heaped up bones. The flames, which were of a vivid yellowish-orange, shed light on the creatures. Some were like giant flopping toads; others had the heads of rams mounted on lascivious male bodies. Women huddled off to one side, their breasts split each in two and resembling the tongues of serpents. Ghouls, plump and with wagging tails, licked their chops. The creatures were countless and varied, disappearing back into the darker shading, made up of caves and cliffs, and then more reappearing in the background, at other fires that burned off in the distance of that joyless waste.
