A Prosthetic Artist

A Prosthetic Artist

Once upon a time, there was a dark and horrible room on the fourth floor of the chemistry lab building. The scent of chemicals was always mixed in the air of that building street. Kamesh, the city’s renowned prosthetic artist, never had a shaking hand. He had mastered the art of creating everything with his finger for films and plays to the faces of terrifying monsters.

But there were also some hidden, dark facts about Kamesh art.

For the past few months, strange incidents had been occurring in the city. Crores of rupees vanished from the bank accounts of two powerful industrialists; yet, when the CCTV footage was examined, the industrialists themselves were seen opening the safes on both occasions—even though, in reality, they were out of town at the time. Even investigating police officers were also shocked.

On a cold night of that same week, there was a heavy knock on the jammed door of Kamesh's chemical laboratory when he was lost into something deep. A woman was standing at the door. Her face was hidden behind the collar of a long coat and a hat. In the light of the laboratory's dim lamp, she removed her hat. Kamesh was completely surprised.

The face in front of him was a replication of a prosthetic mask crafted by Kamesh himself. It was the same mask he had sold to an unknown client two weeks earlier for a big amount.

You!! Kamesh uttered.

The woman smiled, but there was no friendliness in her smile. She slightly pulled the skin behind her ear with her fingers. A thin layer came out, but inside it was not real skin, but it was another mask!

"You thought you were just making faces, Kamesh?" The woman's voice was a bit soft and echoing. "You are actually stealing people's souls."

Stepping back, Kamesh picked up the surgical knife lying on his table. "Who are you? And are you using my created faces to steal stuff disappearing over the city?"

The woman began wandering around the studio. She touched an artificial hand made up of a frozen candle, upon which blue veins had been carefully sculpted.

"An artist is not responsible for how their creations are used, Kamesh," she said. "But when art becomes so precious that even nature gets surprised, its price must be paid."

"I'll have to call the police," Kamesh said in a trembling voice and tried to pick up his phone.

Suddenly, the woman grabbed Kamesh's hand with lightning speed. Her grip was not like human—it was strangely hard and cold.

"Whom will the police catch?" the woman asked in a whispering voice. She took a small mirror out of her coat pocket and kept that up in front of Kamesh.

Kamesh looked in the mirror, and he began to suffocate.

Her own face was not reflected in the mirror. Instead, the face of an elderly stranger stared back—a face he had never created. Fearfully, he touched her cheeks. He felt nothing, but it was like a layer of silicone against his skin. Slowly, that face began to seem like his own face to him.

"What... what kind of magic is this?" Kamesh tried to shout, but his voice had changed. 

"It’s not magic," the woman said, speaking of her world travels. "When you craft a prosthetic based on someone's face, you don't just change their look; you capture a part of their presence within that silicone. Until now, the pieces were merged together—they had all completely detached. Tonight, the remaining parts finally separated."

The woman slowly began to remove the mask from her face. As the silicon came away, the real face beneath was revealed.

Kamesh's breath stuck.

Beneath the mask... It was Kamesh's own real face. His own eyes, his own moustache, and that old sign on his cheek.

You... you are me? "Kamesh," he stammered.

"I am the Kamesh you lost to your greed for art," said that person, whose voice had now become exactly like Kamesh's. "You gave others new faces while dissolving your own into the chemicals of this laboratory. Now, I am the prosthetic artist named Kamesh in this city. And you..."

He placed a prosthetic mask and some tools in Kamesh's hands.

You are now only a shadow, waiting for the next night."

A strong wind came into the room, and all the lamps were off.

The next morning, when the police reached the fourth floor of the building, they found the laboratory empty. There was no one there. All that lay on the table was an unfinished silicone mask—kept with a terrifying, screaming face.

And the mask had two small holes for the eyes; if one looked closely, it seemed like a living person was trapped inside, crying out for help.

To Be Continued…

Disclaimer—This story is the complete writer's imagination. All characters, people, and places are imaginary. It has nothing to do with reality. If you find any incident shown in this story similar to any other story or individual's real story, that is just a coincidence. The writer's intention is only to entertain the audience. The writer never wants to hurt any community through this story. If any individual connects this story to himself and claims that it already held to him, then it is just a coincidence, and the writer is not responsible in that case.