Steven Paul Jensen was born in South Wales in 1965. Here’s his Snowcase.

Steven’s first novella, The Poison of a Smile, is now complete and he is currently writing his second book, Ariele – A Ghost Story.

Short fiction by Steve Jensen features in The Orpheus Tales & A Writer’s Christmas anthologies.

The Immortal Story, an overview of Orson Welles’s career, can be read in the Cinematique issue of Sein und Werden magazine.

Steve Jensen is a staff writer for The Black Glove online journal.

About The Poison of a Smile:

When Simeon Leigh’s fiancée Helena vanishes from his life, he journeys to the home of Cristian Salazar, a disgraced artist of the macabre who employed her as his model. Once in the haunted town of Carliton, Leigh is beguiled by Salvatore, a house of illusion and restless spirits, and at first Cristian’s charming manner holds sway over the young man.

But gradually he discovers the truth about Salazar and the sinister Beatriz, his cousin, from the tales of madness and murder told by the few people brave enough to speak ill of them. In time, Simeon Leigh comes to realise that Cristian and Beatriz possess not only the key to Helena’s fate, but the desire to slaughter the town’s young.

And within shadows, in the guise of night, walks Aurelia Salazar, seeking revenge for her cruel death…

The Poison of a Smile

CHAPTER III

The Ceremony of Innocence

Abigail strode across the checkered floor, dreading the moment when she would reach her sister’s open coffin.  Behind her, the mourners chattered quietly, consoling each other with recollections, the ephemera of Grace Vincent’s brief existence.   Her mother wept, and wondered aloud why her daughter had taken her own life; Grace was a poor swimmer, yet her pale and wretched body had been found far from the water’s edge, facedown in the lake.   The father of the suicide found himself cornered by Cristian Salazar, who raised a wineglass to his lips now and again, then continued talking in animated fashion.   The artist’s gestures were outlandish, his praise exaggerated, as if musing aloud about the assumed virtues of a saintly heroine rather than one of his servants.   The pride in his mastery of the spoken word was obvious, insulting even, but his showmanship passed Owen Vincent by; he simply stared at his host, as if searching Salazar’s fine phrases for the faintest sign of hope.   He failed to notice Salazar’s compassionate smile slowly fading as Mrs Vincent’s cries drowned out his song of insincerity.

The echoes of Abigail’s footsteps drew their attention to her determined progress.   She halted, and stood over the body within the casket.   The mourners’ small talk petered out into silence as she stooped to kiss Grace’s bruised forehead. Abigail’s voice rose from a whisper to a scream: 

“Who did this? Who has killed you?” Her fingers gripped the coffin’s edge until they reddened.   She turned her head to glare at Cristian and Beatriz Salazar and spat out the words: “Which of you devils killed my sister?”

Her father’s face became a scarlet mask of shame and outrage.

“You…you ungrateful little fool! If it wasn’t for Mr Salazar’s kindness, Grace wouldn’t even have a Christian burial!”

Abigail rushed past him, tears of sorrow and anger falling suddenly upon her face.   She brushed aside her mother’s despairing attempt to stop her, and left the room.   Mrs Vincent’s cries became ever louder as her husband stammered apologies to his host.   Salazar raised his hand and turned away from the man.   He smiled at Beatriz and clapped his hands once, loudly.   At his signal, the servants began to usher the mourners from the hall with indecent haste, the crystal glasses snatched from their hands, their protests left hanging in the air.   Someone pushed Owen Vincent roughly through the opened door and he fell against his wife who went sprawling onto the path leading from Salvatore, the sharp gravel tearing into her outstretched hands.

Looking back, Owen shuddered as he saw the Salazars framed in the window.   The glass spared him the sound of laughter and jeering but their delight was all too obvious.   Owen strode towards the door, intending to reclaim his daughter’s body, but two of Salazar’s men barred his entrance.   There was no way past, and finally Owen’s wife led him, dazed and bleeding, away from Salvatore House.   The charade of civility was over, the ceremony of innocence drowned.

                                             _________________

Author: Steve Jensen

Email: stevejensen@hotmail.co.uk

Website: http://stevejensen.eu