I’m Thomas Zimmerman, a writer and artist living in Brooklyn, New York. If things go as planned, I won’t be updating this blog very often, because I’m too busy writing horror stories.
I’ve just released my first novella, Nine Rooms Deep, which you can check out here. It’s a bit of a Lovecraft pastiche, which is not the ideal way to introduce myself as a unique creative voice, especially since the Cthulhu mythos could well become the next horror concept to be utterly strip mined by popular culture; like what’s happening with vampires and zombies.
I could be accused of writing fan fiction . . . or, given the strong sexual themes running through the story, Nine Rooms Deep might even be labeled slash fiction, which is infinitely worse!
Too late to worry about that now. Besides; I really like my first full term story baby, even if it is kind of hateful and ugly; and clearly shows the moose jawed DNA of one of it’s progenitors: good ole HPL.
But the bones of the story came from my own subconscious. The Lovecraftian flesh was layered on during the plotting phase, but the core concepts are my own. I hope you check it out and enjoy the story.
As to the name of this blog . . . I don’t know. It just sounded creepy to me.
. . . Like, say you place an ad seeking a roommate on Craigslist. The guy who responds; he’s pleasant enough, just a bit standoffish. He always pays the rent on time and keeps the place fastidiously clean. Still he unnerves you. There’s a coldness to him. A shark like absence of gleam in his dark eyes. He rarely goes out during the day, stays in his room with the door shut, then takes long walks late at night.
It is during one of these absences that you sneak into his bedroom, just to see what it is that he does in there . . . To see what makes those rattling sounds you sometimes hear through the thin walls, like he’s rolling handfuls of dice.
The room smells of artificial vanilla. Some kind of air freshener? You’re certain you’ve smelled it before. You go to his desk, where any normal person would have a computer. Instead, he’s laid out a rectangle of purple velvet, with a glimmering set of medical implements arranged in precise order. You can tell that one tool is missing. The dent of it is clear in the rich fabric. Looks like some sort of pliers. Unnerved, you decide to make a quick check of the contents of the drawers, and then get the hell out of there.
The first drawer you open, it’s filled with teeth. They all look to be human. They’re mostly stained yellow by coffee and tobacco, and many have cavities. The pile should stink, but all you can smell is sweet vanilla.
Dizzy from the sight of all those teeth, you snatch the next drawer down. It clatters as you cause another heap of chompers to shift. They’re festooned with brilliant bits of metal. Mostly silver amalgam, but rare glimmers of gold as well. Others are affixed with the brackets and hardware of braces, A few teeth are still linked by the wires, like ghastly strands of jewelry.
Head swimming, you open the bottom drawer. These teeth are much smaller, and very, very white. Baby teeth you realize.
A metallic clack from directly behind. You spin, and he’s standing there. He’s got a surgical mask up over his mouth and nose, but you recognize those flat black sharkish eyes. You try to jolt away, but stumble instead. You finally recognize that vanilla odor:
It’s nitrous oxide.
As you fall back on the desk the WOM WOM WOM starts throbbing in your head. Your roommate, the amateur dentist, capers nimbly on top of you, raising a shiny pair of pliers. You recognize it as a dental implement, but it isn’t delicate at all. It’s a heavy insect fashioned from stainless steel, with ragged jaws and legs specially angled for leverage.
He slides it deftly between your slackening lips, and reaches for the back in your mouth, and you realize he’s going for the wisdom teeth.