Excerpt from Grotesque by Elliott Dunstan

Ten years was far too long a time to be confined to a single room, a prisoner of my own mind just as much as the walls around. Understand this: Walls are fragile. I could have taken them apart stone by stone if I had chosen to. 

But I had been ordered to remain. To earn back his favour, his trust, his love . . . No cost, it felt, was too high. Even now, I struggle to call it cruelty – at least not the deliberate kind. Arderne is a scientist at heart, and a philosopher. He may have locked me in that room as punishment, but quickly it became another experiment, a route to understanding or discovering something. My own state occurred to him likely so little that I doubt it behooved him to even mention to his temporary assistants the circumstances of my cage, beyond the murmured order that I did overhear – to not believe anything I said. They wouldn’t have anyway. Before long I spoke in riddles, which became curiosities in and of themselves, more puzzles for him to unwind as he unintentionally – and I want to believe it was so – drove the knife deeper between my ribs. 

Whether or not that is a comfort, ultimately, is up to others to decide. I rest calmly in the space between, and refuse to think much on it at all. 

#

Perhaps that is a coward’s reckoning. It is probably closer to the truth to say that the memory itself is fragmented into pieces too painful to touch. A creature who does not sleep, eat or suffer from fatigue has no way of measuring time, and as such, I could not tell you how many hallucinations I experienced, or for how long I lost my mind. What coherent memory I have is suffused with pain and confusion that makes my escape into fantasy . . . understandable. I think that is the word I prefer. I will leave you instead with this image. I did not keep count of the time, if even I had any mechanism with which to do so. I moved around, but only to make games of the cracks in the ceiling. I composed narratives that were pale and derivative reimaginings of old wives’ tales and folklore. Somewhere between lie and silk-spun lie I saw a face emerge from the dim and dusty air. It was as thin and without substance as the spiderwebs in the corner, mouthing words mute as a mummer.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” I said, or thought I said. Even now, I cannot say with any certainty whether or not I spoke out loud. “I’m sorry. I can’t understand you.”

She – for the impression she left was that of a woman, or even a girl – came closer, passing through the single sunbeam that shone through the high and unpolished window. But then a shadow passed overhead, a cloud or bird, and she was gone. Perhaps it was simply the setting and rising of the sun, given unearthly speed in my fevered state. 

Only one phrase remained with me, of all the tales spun over half a score of years – mountain shades, and sheering stone. Sounds. Just sounds, with no true meaning.

#

When the door unlocked, finally, I did not know how to react. My master’s hair had begun to go white, after years of his face betraying nothing of his age, save his haughty expression. It was a shock to see that the methods with which he’d held death at bay were beginning to fail. Otherwise, he looked much the same. Behind him cowered a girl; a new assistant, I realized, with robes of her own. I’d been replaced. It wasn’t a surprise – I’d seen others, but this was the closest I’d gotten to any of them.

“Well, I think that concludes this matter” is all he said as he approached me. The girl hesitated, staying back. I wondered how long she had been here, observing me. She was perhaps twenty, full-grown by some standards, but so diminutive of stature and presence that she seemed far younger. “Ten years and you’ve remained sane.”

I simply stared at him, uncomprehending. How did one define sane by his standards? I did not feel particularly sane; then again, I doubted I ever had. “What do you want?” I asked finally. My mouth felt strange. “What was this for?” My own voice, this time. I could feel my own nature in it – however one described it – but my nature tasted different than it had. It tasted strange and alien. 

“An attempt at refining some clarity of purpose, and an antidote against the humanity that was clinging to you like a poison. It seems to have worked remarkably well.”

Purpose. The word rung in my ears. Strangely familiar, it evoked the ghost of a conversation from long ago, perhaps in a daydream. I had scribbled a few passing thoughts on the floorboards with the edge of a fingernail, but none were legible.

“Stand up,” my master ordered. I obeyed. “Are you glad, then, to be back in my favour?”

“Yes, sir.” It was the expected answer. He wanted no more than that. But my chest hurt with the admission – that I was cautiously happy, but slowly coming around to the idea that he had forgiven me. The details of my transgression had faded. I only knew that I would not do it again.

“Hm. Rebecca, come here.”

She stumbled slightly, obviously not wanting to get too close to me. I wondered how I appeared to her. Some mythical creature, born from shadows and magic? Or simply the lunatic locked up in the master’s attic? Perhaps there was some pity in her eyes – they were difficult to read. 

My master looked at her appraisingly, frowning slightly. Then he gave me a brisk nod. “Kill her.”

—Excerpt from Grotesque by Elliott Dunstan, published by Wolsak & Wynn, 2026. Shared with permission. Copyright Elliott Dunstan.

About Grotesque:

A darkly erotic fairy tale of death and redemption.

Bedhyndann is a small seaside town in Cornwall. A town that travellers feel uncomfortable in and where sailors often choose to stay on their ships rather than coming into port. A town where the golem Denvyth has lived for nearly two hundred years and where he has been waiting for his master, the sorcerer Arderne, to return for one hundred and fifty of those. To pass the time he amuses himself at the siren Victoire’s private club, helping the humans around him fulfill their most dangerous desires. Until he crosses paths with Summers, a client who wants more from Denvyth than he should and who has the clues to unlock the secret of Arderne’s disappearance. But Arderne sought to release an old god and if Denvyth follows his master’s last instructions, what he unleashes could make him the monster he’s always feared being.

Elliott Dunstan is a trans novelist, poet and historian based out of the Ottawa Valley. Author of several chapbooks and zines, including the long-form poem GULA, he also moonlights as a drag performer and visual artist. Grotesque is his first full-length novel.