replied, straightening his tie.
“Why?”
“Because I have promised Lord Wotton to go with him.”
“He won’t like you the better for keeping your promises. He always breaks his own. I beg you not to go.”
Dorian laughed and shook his head.
“I entreat you.”
The boy hesitated, and looked over to Lord Wotton, who was watching them with an amused smile.
“I must go, Basil,” Dorian answered.
“Very well,” Basil said, in defeat. “It is rather late, and, as you have to dress, you had better lose no time. Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye, Dorian. Come and see me soon. Perhaps tomorrow.”
JOHN GRAVAGLIA
• 19 •
“Certainly,” Dorian replied, walking out of the studio.
“You won’t forget?”
“No, of course not.”
Basil paused for a moment. “And…Harry?”
“Yes, Basil?” Answered Lord Wotton, donning his jacket.
“Remember what I asked you when we were in the garden this morning.”
“I have forgotten it.”
“I trust you.”
“I wish I could trust myself,” said Lord Wotton, laughing. “Come, Mr. Gray, my hansom is outside, and I can drop you at your own place. Good-bye, Basil. It has been a most interesting afternoon.”
But Dorian did not heed his warning. And his life would never be the same. As the door closed behind them, the painter threw himself on the sofa, and a look of pain came into his face.
Basil licked his lips, ran his tongue along his teeth. He felt as if something had crawled into his mouth and died. And then, somewhere, far in the distance, he heard a faint cackling.
He quickly got out of the couch and looked around in confusion. Where the hell had that come from? Feeling vaguely uneasy, he wandered across the foyer.
The cackling continued as Basil drew closer to what seemed to be the source: the picture of Dorian Gray. But as he approached it, he only got within just a couple of feet, the laughter abruptly stopped. It was as if there was
DORIAN GRAY
• 20 •
an intruder who suspected he’d been discovered and was trying to avoid detection.
“Somebody there?” Basil said, looking behind the painting and then around the room. “Parker, is that you?”
He should just be calling for assistance, but something stopped him. It wasn’t just that the laughter had ceased. There was a palpable sense of emptiness.
He peered around the corner cautiously, aware that there could be some lunatic standing to the side, ready to stab him in the back.
But there was no one. The room was empty. The only thing staring back at him were the various paintings, and they obviously weren’t posing any threat.
Basil took a deep breath, walked over to the bar and poured himself a drink. He was alarmed by how much his hands were shaking.
“You really care about that boy, don’t you?”
Basil whirled, the sudden realization that he wasn’t alone. Sweat was rolling off him in buckets. The glass was wobbling in his hand, the brandy slopping over the edges.
The voice was mirthful and otherworldly, and it chilled high to the bone, especially in the informal tone it was taking, as if the intruder and Basil were old friends. He stumbled to the middle of the room, spinning in place, trying to see everywhere in the room at once.
“Who said that?!” He demanded.
JOHN GRAVAGLIA
• 21 •
“Don’t try to deny it. I see the way you look at him.” The voice spoke in a demonic monotone.
“Where are you?”
“I’m over here.”
Basil turned and faced Dorian’s portrait. He stared into it.
“I…don’t understand,” he said, his throat closing up on him. He wondered if he was going keel over right there, before this intruder even showed himself.
“Did you think it was you who painted this portrait?” The voice asked, laughing. “‘The brush just danced in my hands,’” it mocked him. “Before I came along your work was dull, uninspiring, and pedestrian.”
“What do you want?” Basil shouted, his terror mounting, and he felt horribly weak for reacting that way. Sweat was dripping into his eyes. He rubbed them furiously to clear his vision, and then he lowered his hands.
“What do I want? I should be asking you that question.”
“What do you mean?”
“The boy, Basil!” Urged the disembodied voice. “I can give you Dorian Gray. All you have to do is submit.”
Basil backed away, shaking his head, positive now that either he was dreaming or going mad, or both. “Submit to what?”
Misty tendrils were emerging from the painting. Basil’s eyes widened in horror, watching two clawed hands reaching out and pulling some foul creature into reality.
“Submit to me!” It growled, lunging at the terrified painter.
DORIAN GRAY
• 22 •
Basil fell backwards and crawled up against the wall. The monster prowled toward him, closer and closer. It gave him an awful grin.
“I can give you what you want.” It enticed him. “All you have to do is accept me into your vessel.”
Basil’s breathing was erratic. He couldn’t think straight. All he could see were images of Dorian being seduced by Harry’s hedonistic lifestyle and vices. Getting up from the floor, Basil stared at the demon head on and gathered all of his courage.
“Yes,” he said, “yes, I accept to be your vessel. I just want to be with Dorian.”
The specter smiled, towering over its host. “I hope you remembered something hard to bite down on because the first time I crawl inside you hurts like nothing you can possibly imagine.” Warned the demon, placing its claws on Basil’s shoulders. “It’s claustrophobic for a while, but once I settled in we’ll both be breathing in synch before you know it.”
Basil took a deep breath. “Then do it. Anything for Dorian.”
The demon pierced its talons into Basil’s muscle tissue, as he let out a painful scream. Taking advantage of the situation, the creature turned into smoky mist and entered Basil’s mouth, slithering down his throat so it could take over his body.
The monster was right. It was the most painful thing Basil would ever experience. The pain was so immense, he fell to his knees and looked up at the portrait of Dorian and held his hand out as if the model was going reach out to him.
JOHN GRAVAGLIA
• 23 •
The last thing Basil saw before he blacked out was Dorian’s innocent smile. But something wasn’t right. For a moment he thought he could see something lurking underneath the canvas. Something that was twisting his work and colors.
It was monstrous.
DORIAN GRAY
• 24 •
PART I
• A WILDE RIDE •
CHAPTER