#Also I've decided the name of the story is “Imposter Syndrome; or the modern Pygmalion”

[poognus-fartchives]

Apologies for the lack of updates. I was assigned to investigate a statement, and have been busy with that.

More specifically, the statement will be pasted here as it was given to me. My further research is rather classified, but the background is not. Let it begin:

The following is a transcript from a report sent in under the name “John Tomassin” on January 3rd, 2019.

“Mike was always so ambitious, and yet so quiet. He was the only person I knew who could start a major project one day and finish it within the week. However, he was always so humble about his accomplishments- when he showed me his sculptures, all he said was “just in a day’s work”. So when I heard that the area’s art gallery was looking for a resident sculptor, I knew Mike would be a perfect fit. 

When I told him to apply for the position, he was taken aback. He said he couldn’t do it, and that there were other much more qualified people who should have the position instead. I insisted, however, and pretty soon he was driving over to the gallery with some of his best pieces in tow. He reacted strangely to getting the position. I could tell he was excited, but he clearly felt as if he had somehow cheated in the application process- as if it wasn’t really his work he submitted, but that of another. Nevertheless, he sent several of his works to be put on display in the gallery, and began working on new ones specifically for his new job. 

He had never made money from his sculptures before. Even though he got offers from people almost weekly, he always said that the joy of creation was enough for him. When he began being paid for his works, and even being properly commissioned, a part of him changed. We met up for lunch about a month after he began selling his works to the gallery and he was so eager to show off his newfound wealth that he insisted on paying the full bill. He talked about what he was working on during the entire meal and seemed much more passionate about his sculpting. Just as I was leaving, he mentioned a “special project” he was working on. His intonation was… strange. It was spoken in an excited whisper, as if he was planning a crime and very excited about it. When I asked for more information, all he said was “You’ll see me.”

We didn’t talk much after that. It was nothing out of the ordinary, and his Facebook was still updating. I just figured he was occupied with his work. A few months passed like this- both of us were busy, so we didn’t talk much. Even when he was barely a part of my life, I couldn’t get his “special project” out of my head. There had been a dissonance when he said it. While his voice was excited, his face had been much the opposite. He almost seemed to be in mourning- dreading his project even when he sounded thrilled for it to be happening. When he went silent on social media for a bit, I grew suspicious. Had it actually been something illegal or dangerous? 

Out of the blue, I received a text from Mike. Just four words, after a month of radio silence. “It’s finished- come see.” 

I knew immediately what he was talking about. 

When I arrived at his house, I was surprised to find italmost, but not entirely, normal. Despite his disappearance, every part of his (admittedly small) yard was perfectly maintained, and his house’s exterior seemed spotless. The only thing that told me something wasn’t right was his windows- they were black. Not unlit, or covered in a curtain. No, they were painted black. 

As I got closer, I saw a few other odd details: some shingles from the roof had been removed, and parts of the lawn had flattened grass, as if something had been lying there and only recently removed. An old tree to the side of the house had been cut down unusually close to the ground, and not even leaves remained. Finally, as I got up to the door, I noticed it was slightly ajar. Bracing myself, and getting my phone’s light ready, I stepped up and knocked gently. It opened, with a creak that didn’t match the spotless hinges. 

I took a tentative step inside Mike’s living room, and was met with sculptures. There must have been at least two dozen statues of people. You have to understand that while Mike was good at sculptures, he’d never made any of people. Sure, he featured anatomy in his works frequently, and several times he’d tried to make realistic hands and busts, and other things of that sort. A whole person, however, was either beyond his range of skill, or more likely beyond his range of interest. Seeing these statues then was quite unnerving. They were made of all sorts of materials- I saw where the shingles had gone, and it seemed Mike had used most of his furniture in these works as well. The statues got more realistic as they went, but they all had something off about them. One had its eyes too wide apart, while another had overly long fingers. A few were asymmetrical, while one was too symmetrical. A few were clearly of the same subject, but all had slight differences in the shape of the arms and face. Some were more obvious than others. One was lanky, as if a normal person had been stretched out. One had the chest on backwards, while another had no head. One had two noses and my haircut. Some were like Frankenstein1- all the parts cannibalized from other works. Many had pieces of fabric on them- hats and coats, simpler pieces of clothing. The room was so full of Mike’s creations that I barely had anywhere to walk. 

There was no furniture in the room, and the lights seemed to have been disconnected. Even without any light to show dirt, the room was obviously perfectly clean. Every sculpture was entirely free of dust, and the carpet was nearly undisturbed. I say nearly, because there was one line of disturbed carpet. The line went through the room, as if something had been dragged, and following it I found a doorway which I hadn’t noticed before. 

This new room was dark. Extremely dark. No windows, nor connections to other better lit rooms. It looked like there wasn’t even a light to be turned on. 

You know how you can sometimes tell when something is in a room with you? How the hair on your arms stands on end and you get twitchy? This was one of those times. Even though the whole house was perfectly silent, I could tell that I was not alone. Fumbling with my phone flashlight, I nearly dropped it, but got it to turn on. 

The room was full of them.

Imperfect, just like in the living room, but more than that. These sculptures were unfinished- all of them missing pieces, or having blocks of material yet to be carved into hands or heads or hearts. The statues were all facing toward the center of the room, like worshippers around their god. In the center was Mike, and also Mike. He had created a self-portrait, perfect in every detail. The clothes were nearly the same, and the hair was perfect. The eyes on both shone in just the same way under my flashlight. It might have been the light, but I couldn’t tell which one was real, until Mike moved. He turned to look at me, shifting his gaze from his creation. He said three words. Nothing more.

“You have seen.”

But the words didn’t come from his mouth- they came from lips inches away from his own.

Then, Mike moved.

The one which had actually spoken. 

What I thought had been a sculpture was Mike. In unison, the unfinished works started moving- shifting their gaze from their creator to me. It was then that I noticed a crimson stain on the shirt of the Mike who had looked at me, and a wooden arm placed through the chest that shirt covered. 

As Mike’s corpse fell- the real Mike, waxy with death, tools still in hand- I backed up, followed by the unblinking gaze of Mike’s unfinished works. As I backed into the living room, I bumped into a sculpture, and I felt its hand- cold and soft as satin- grip my arm. I turned around and managed to wrench my arm out of its grip. 

As you can tell by my presence here, I got out. The last thing I saw before closing the door was a sculpture taking a step toward me. It was dressed just like my mailman, and had his mustache. In fact, the only thing off was its fingers- there were 6 on each hand. 

In the days since, I’ve seen Mike’s creations walking about. My coffee is mixed by someone with an eyeless face. At the library, someone with arms too long for its body stamps my books. My mail is delivered by a six-fingered hand. And I knew every single one of them, before they were replaced. Mike’s creations are getting closer and closer. Yesterday I saw my neighbor, and noticed that his body was perfectly symmetrical- even the scar he got last year was mirrored. I don’t know how much longer it will be until I am replaced as well. “

A week after the statement was given, we sought a follow-up. When we arrived at the address of John Tomassin, we were greeted by him. When asked about his experience, he wrinkled his nose and said he didn’t remember giving such a statement. We thanked him for his time, and went on our way. Just before he closed the door, he blew both his noses.

As I said before, my added research is not shareable at the current moment. However, if I am able to, I will share it eventually.