William's works include the psychological horror novel "The Man Behind the Door" and the supernatural horror novel "The Devil Within Us All," William takes inspiration from his own experiences to craft novels that tackle the horrors and demons of real life.
His debut, The Man Behind the Door, tackles grief, trauma, and addiction through the lens of a ghost story and explores generational trauma. It was acclaimed for its compassionate tone, handling of the difficult subject matter, and multiple storylines that come together in the end.
He currently works full-time as a pharmacy technician at an independent pharmacy while raising his first son with his future wife. In his free time, he enjoys outings with his family, reading, and playing music.
You can read more from William right HERE.
VANITY
by
William Gray
The house was a representation of Jackson’s own body: a temple.
He’d chosen this house not only because it was beautiful on the outside, but inside as well. Its bones were as extravagant as its trimmings—even the two-by-fours were made from artisan wood. True beauty started beneath the exterior.
Jackson had built his entire modeling career on this principle. He took care of his health, and his looks remained timeless. The money kept rolling in, and it would as long as he stayed beautiful and perfect.
It was with this money that he bought the vanity that he now looked into, watching the features of his face crack like dried mud in the summer sun.
Downstairs, loud music played as his friends and family gathered to celebrate his twenty-third birthday. The room had been decorated beautifully by a team of people his agent had hired, but he could care less about that now.
Twenty-three. I’m twenty-fucking-three.
Jackson felt like he was about to have a heart attack as he carefully touched a growing fissure with his perfectly manicured nails. The skin separated further, a piece of it breaking off and falling into the sink below.
“No no no no no,” he whispered, the words running together into one continuous stream of panic. He grasped for the piece of skin as it slid along the perfect porcelain of the vanity before disappearing down the drain. His fingers clawed at the metal circle surrounding the dark abyss as if he could summon that single, dry flake through sheer force of will.
He collapsed onto his knees and threw open the old wooden doors of the cabinet beneath. Leaning under, he grasped the pipe below there and began to tug.
As unbridled terror tore through him, Jackson began to weep. Had he caught some disease from a stranger at a set? Was there something in the food that he so carefully selected? Could it be in the drinking water or, God forbid, the air?
The u-shaped pipe—p-trap, his father’s disappointed voice reminded him—creaked as he exerted more pressure, trying to pull it free.
“Come on, you son of a—”
The p-trap came loose with a sickening crack, sending him flying backward. His arms flew up, releasing the pipe and sending it flying into the air. Thick, disgusting muck flew into the air, splattering his face, hair, and the wall above him. The stench alone was enough to make him gag.
Instinct took over, and he realized what he was doing a second too late.
He wiped his face with his forearm, trying to clear the gunk from around his eyes, nose, and mouth.
Wide, thick flakes of skin came off with the black substance from the p-trap.
Jackson began to shake uncontrollably. In all his life, he’d never felt as scared as he did right now. My face… my face…
He didn’t dare lift himself up to look in the mirror. That would be too much. If he were to see his face falling to pieces like a Pablo Picasso painting, he knew he wouldn’t come back from it.
Instead, he carefully picked a piece of skin from his forearm. The action was slow and deliberate, like a child playing Operation.
Downstairs, his birthday party continued.
They say you peak at twenty-three. Then your career is all downhill from there.
They had no fucking idea how right they were.
Jackson lifted the dry, cracked piece to his face with a trembling hand. There was no way of telling where it went without looking in the mirror, but he had to try. He had to get some semblance of himself back before he dared look at his reflection.
He felt his hand press against the raw muscle fibers cheek, but there was no pain. It was as if all the nerves and pain receptors in his face had been shut off temporarily. He pressed hard, hoping it would stick in place.
The skin in his fingers began to crumble, disintegrating and falling onto his black shirt. It looked like dandruff. Dandruff, of all things.
It didn’t stop him. He picked up the next piece, and then the next, and then the next.
With each passing minute, he ground flake after flake of skin to dust against his features, knocking off more pieces in the process. The tears fell freely now, but he couldn’t feel them. He imagined them as little rivers, running along the deep crevices created in his once-perfect face.
Finally, there was nothing left to pick up and try to put back. The tips of his fingers were covered in blood and white dust like he’d been eating a cherry-filled, powdered donut.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a donut.
A laugh escaped him then, choked and filled with cruelty.
All of that suffering for nothing.
Jackson leaned forward and gripped the vanity, leaving bloody streaks behind. Lifting himself, he looked into the mirror and inspected the damage.
Oh, the damage.
His beauty was only skin-deep, after all.
Happy birthday, he thought as he broke the mirror with a single punch. Reflective glass cascaded down, leaving behind only the backing. Happy fucking birthday.