Muse in the Machine

Author’s Note: I wrote this story back in December, submitted it for Chuck Palanhiuk’s upcoming horror anthology, Silent Nightmares. Made is to the final round group of 45 out of 2,138 submissions, but did not make it to the final 6 who will be published. It’s mind blowing that Chuck Palahniuk read a short story of mine, one of the first I’ve written since starting in October and the first I sent out for submission. Palahniuk and Kafka are my goats - the absurd souls who get it and push through despite it all. Would be cooler if it got published of course, but onwards with the writing journey.

—

People are frayed from yearning, fractured from striving. Everyone's hungry with ambition, but most have no way of feeding that deadly motherfucker. Instead, they adjust to the pangs and allow the daily death by a thousand self-rejections.

Not Oli. 31 years ago, age 18, Oli vowed, committed, and sacrificed (goddamn everything) that wasn't his ambition. Estranged family. Scorned lovers. Societal expectations - eschewed for greatness.

The rest of us adjusted to ambition's attrition, letting it necrotize our souls. Oli? I came to realize he will not be fucked with.

Life is a duality of love and brutality. Oli understood this. The powerless chase love like a drug. They just want to be sedated. The powerful chase ambition - they choose to be disturbed.

Oli said things like, "Matthew 5:5 was written to keep people in place. The ambitious inherit the earth; an inheritance earned by sacrifice with the opportunity cost being a total breakdown of everything you."

To Oli, being an artist, the best artist, is the only thing that makes sense in this nihilistic hellscape. Shatter yourself and paste the fragments onto the page. Shatter others and paste them up too.

"Creation is our nature. It’s our liberation.," he'd say. "They tell you the worst path you can choose is an artist; wanna guess why?"

Everything is out to break you, take pieces of you, absorb your energy. You can give until you're erased, or you can immortalize yourself with the legendary.

"You know the saying about how good artists copy, but great artists steal?" Oli's wild eyes locked onto me, "It's time we steal."

When I understood it all - his decisions, the devotion - I saw him not-human. I saw him as divine.

I didn't see it back then, of course. Not during our drunken Cambridge nights, dreaming out loud about futures we used to believe were within reach. Not during the Christmas parties and not after they stopped. Not during any shared moments as roommates.

I never saw him properly until tonight.

.

.

.

It didn’t feel real at first—seeing the four of them behind the cabin door, cracking on like we’re twenty again. I gave my umbrella a good shake outside, letting the last of the snow drift off before stepping in. Nerves were high, been on edge all day, unsure how it'd feel to do this again after ten years.

"Get a good fucking look at this place mate - mad, innit?" Nate said, sporting the cheeky grin only bastards with good looks like him can get away with. He was already handing me a beer before I got two feet in. "Cheers," I took the beer, hoping it'd settle me.

I saw the outline of Kira, undeniably gorgeous even as a peripheral blur, but I couldn't bring myself to look into those eyes yet. After the 11th year, I realized decades will pass but her hold on me won't. I felt my palms collect sweat, and the one not holding beer was shaking. I stuffed it in my pocket.

"Tristian, come over here—I'll take your coat," Oli said, stretching out his hand for my jacket. "Then I'll give the official house tour," he continued, already framing the evening with agenda. Gold cufflinks glint on Oli's elegant dark navy suit.

Behind us, I saw ten Christmas trees circle either side of the floor-to-ceiling brick fireplace. Garlands cascaded from every surface, dripping with lights, big red bows, and enough ornaments to fill a department store. It was aggressively festive, a Thomas Kinkade fever dream.

Overabundance has its own eeriness, its unique tormented quality.

Glancing at them chatting, scenes of alcohol-fueled study nights play in the back of my mind as their present expressions melt with mental tapes of the past.

In obnoxiously ambitious Oli fashion, he'd put together the lavish experience, paid the travel fare, and resuscitated our long-abandoned tradition.

"I love the way it snows here in Peak District. Perfect Christmas spot, Oli," Heather said with a familiar smile, the one that came out during hushed giggles in the library or loud chanting to 'drink, drink, drink' down at Eagle Pub. Positive to a fault that one, but when she smiles, you can't help but smile along with her.

"I’ve always been fond of Peak District. I'm glad you guys actually came. It's been so long.” Oli led us up the all-marble staircase saying, “Dinner will be ready after the tour. Keep humoring me if possible and please make yourselves comfortable, whatever you need.”

In the sleeping quarters, each room was sophisticated yet intimate, with cozy lighting cast over its centerpiece artwork framed above the bed. That art work being our own best pieces from our Cambridge days.

"Tristian, this will be your room." Oli squeezed my shoulder and I flinched. He told us, "Each room is a reminder of who we were and still could be.” The sense hit me that this Oli had a new aura - an even more intimidating one. I admired him back then. Still do when I’m honest. Nothing seemed to break him; he only grew stronger. Richer.

After six years of Christmas parties together, we all found excuses to skip the final one. It became too painful. Each of us getting swallowed by our circumstances and working in fields we hated. We moved on; no more Christmas parties and no more naive dreams.

It took me years to get over the shame of going gentle into that goodnight. I was under threat of questioning it all again. I mentally cycled through what pills, drinks, etcetera, were available to distract myself.

.

.

.

Dinner was fancy as hell. Private chef meal, expensive wine. Oli’s staff served seven courses and then they left for the night.

We moved into the library to carry on with our three most important Christmas party traditions - Pass the Parcel, Mafia, and Christmas Karaoke Battle. By the time of the Karaoke Battle, everyone was three sheets to the wind and beginning to actually enjoy the night.

"Remember Eric Johnson? Can't believe that people fell for that moron's shite. Self-help Bollocks. Nonsense writing." Nate said.

"That's what sells. Bollocks is opioid for the masses. They don't want good writing. Goes over their sheep heads." I sighed in agreement.

Nate laughed and cracked open a beer. After a long sip, he cocked his head curiously at Oli. Bold from drinking he blurted, "Oi, Oli, are you gonna enlighten us as to how you got so rich all the sudden? Write a shite book we don't know about?"

"I got into trading and bitcoin a few years ago - it paid off. Earned a couple million from it. But the real money came from biohacking."

"Bio-hacking? Like supplements?" Nate laughed, "I'm sorry, Oli, hard to imagine you as some wellness snake oil tycoon."

"Right, well, it’s not nutrition or fitness. No anti-aging protocols, nootropics, nothing like that. Has anyone heard of Grinder Bio-Hacking?" Oli asked.

Nate raiseed an eyebrow, presumably at the word "Grinder". Proper idiot sometimes.

Kira answered, “I’ve heard of it. Was reading about it the other day - people implanting tech in their bodies. Putting in chips and sensors. Grinder bio-hacking seems radical…and dangerous."

"Nothing is more dangerous than passivity or clinging to the status quo. Humanity survives because of those willing to explore, evolve, and even steal from the universe to avoid extinction.," Oli shrugged and said, "I don't really want to become half-robot myself, but I understand why it's happening."

Kira gripped her wrist tight, like she does when she’s anxious or trying to calm her anger. Tight wrist grip, lip biting, concentrated look. "So, what are you involved in Oli? What do you actually do to make money?"

"Don't worry. My bio-hacking has nothing to do with robots or tech implantation. I've created a new form of bio-hacking, using myself as the only test subject, so naturally, well perhaps more accurately, supernaturally, I enhance my skills to the point of genius, opening many doors to elite-level work and compensation. My safe but unconventional methods are a secret, but tonight I’ll share them with those I trust—you.”

No one said anything. Motionless, we sat deciphering.

"It's easier to demonstrate my work. I need to finish the house tour anyway so let's head to my office so I can show you how it works. It’s ace, trust me."

.

.

.

His office was not an office. It was a curiously eccentric room. The walls and floor were fully paneled with oak, with the furthest back wall hosting hundreds of quartz crystal points on floating shelves from floor to ceiling.

Bookshelves and art projects lined the room. In the center of the sprawling space was a platform with chrome railings around it. Large copper rings hung above the platform.

The platform looked like a grander version of those whole-body vibration machines at the gym where people stand, their bodies shaking violently, to supposedly relax their sore muscles while simultaneously tightening up excess fat and cellulite. A giant vibrator.

"Mate, what in the mad scientist is going on here?” I asked.

"This room is my place of…experimentation and transcendence. As I said, I'm not selling biohacking, but I use bio hacking on myself to achieve certain skills which enable me to create and sell highly prestigious, very expensive art."

"Bio-hacking improved your art skills? How? You make those pieces over there?" Nate asked, pointing to the objects of various sizes gathered to the right. The room is so large and softly lit we can only notice their silhouettes.

Grinning, Oli said, "I did. I made all of those this past week."

Oli couldn’t sculpt and wasn’t fantastic at drawing; he had no artistic skills outside his particular style of painting. He's bloody brilliant in his niche, but can’t do realism or sculpt. And no one could produce so much art, good art, in one week. He was messing with us but wouldn't stop the bit. He continued, "This one’s not for sale; it was for fun. A replica of The Birth of Venus by Sandro Botticelli."

Heather and Kira studied the painting closely, and the looks on their faces showed that this painting was the real deal. It was perfect.

"Really, Oli, where'd you get this one from? Who actually painted this?" Heather asked him with a playful push.

"I painted it. I know you'd be able to surpass this, and I can help you do that. I want to help all of you obtain your full potential."

A feral intensity seemed to animate Oli. He told us about what started his obsession with experimentation and bio-hacking.

“It was that nagging thought that wouldn’t go away - what if I could unlock genius in me? That became all I could think about. Couldn’t be arsed about anything else.”

He studied the greats trying to find their common denominator. Everything pointed to Flow. That mythical, elusive state where one goes into trance to connect to source, god, divine, whatever. You enter flow and come out with a piece of that brilliance that lies hidden in the ethers. That’s how Oli saw it.

“Five years ago, I started experimenting with bio-hacking with the goal of accessing true flow state - the genius zone. It's easy to enter alternative states of consciousness with drugs and tamer methods, but those alternative states are a waste of time. A distraction.

I started experimenting with the basics at first, as anyone would mistakenly do - meditation, mushrooms, reiki. Then I got into the underground shit, things like Transcranial Direct Current Stimulation, Exosome Therapy, Subdermal Magnets, and Youth Elixir Blood Transfusions.

What I needed to tap into was a state that would transform everything about me. To make me pour every drop of my soul into those brush strokes.

Four years in, my work stagnated. Flow state and genius remained out of reach. I gained petty local fame for my progress within fitness and finance circles. The social admiration for my knowledge of bio-hacking bullshit and financial investments meant nothing to me. I wanted to be the best in my craft, but I was proving that I was anything but.

People toss out flow state as if it's the same as meditation or losing track of time. No. It's not so easily accessed. I'm not sure how Leonardo Da Vinci did it, and I'm quite convinced that for him and all the others, it was a happy accident that felt no different than meditating, praying, or zoning out while their hands automatically turned blank pages into masterpieces. But the definition of genius is 'an attendant spirit.' It’s not us who are born with genius, we steal genius from the gods. Humans are limited creatures of limited intelligence - by design. We're not the highest on the food chain, like we thought. We can access higher intelligence through flow state. Peer behind the curtain of the divine. Once I realized this, my mission was to access flow, the real fucking deal, not the hippie sedative state.”

Oli had created this room as a dedication to his mission, for ongoing experimentation.

“One night, I gave up. Like, really gave up. I hoped taking a slew of drugs would kill me or kill my desire so I could stop searching. Stop fighting. I had taken mushrooms, Adderall, ketamine, grabbed a wine bottle, and came in here angry as hell. Threw crystals into a pile on the floor, breaking some, and flicked on every machine and light, including my transcranial magnetic stimulation device, which I wheeled over to the platform. I was mental, high as fuck, caught in a loop of a few moments of reality followed by dissociation, hallucination, and basically being in 'the void.'

I didn't realize that in my fist, I had one of my favorite paintings, The Traveller V by Michel Henricot while I sat on the platform. I let it unroll from my first and stared at it in my lap, crying. I shut my eyes, raised my head toward the sky, then reached for the transcranial device, flipping it to max power.

With my eyes still shut, everything dark, I felt all my cells glow fantastic multicolor. I opened my eyes and could swear I saw them vibrantly somehow beneath my clothes and skin. I could also see rings of white light descending over me, emanating from the copper rings above. The light rings reminded me of pictures from textbooks depicting echolocation, the way the rings were spaced so precisely, tunneling around me.

I still had that painting in my lap, and suddenly, all this information about it - I just knew. I knew the moment in time the idea first came to Michel, I knew the exact oils he used, every stroke and mixing technique, the entire sequence of steps he took, on and on. The mystery of his work evaporated.

And then I was hit with a brilliant idea of my own - a genius idea popped into my head, just like that.” Oli snapped his fingers. “The excitement of this fully formed idea sobered me to get to work. Ten hours later, I completed an oil painting that would rival Michel Henricot- a painting all would believe to be his very own work."

Oli walked to a canvas leaning against the wall, its back facing us hiding its content. He flipped the canvas over to show us his incredible work. Oli theorized that he’d been able to tap into flow state and could download an artist’s essence by holding something to represent them. Like download their skills, talents… memories. Whatever energy existed and went into that art, he could obtain it. Unsure if it's replication or possession or what, but he could access what they know, feel what they feel, and copy their style to perfection - instantly.

"You've definitely unlocked genius here. Can I look at what else you've made?" Kira asked. Oli nodded and she started rummaging through the projects.

"You're saying you painted these after getting high, vibrating on this thing wearing a mental patient helmet? If you really did paint this... Like Christ, these are so good mate. Hell of bender you put yourself through." Nate laughed.

"Makes me worried for your health, Oli. It can't be safe continuing this routine.," Heather told him.

"It works with a small nudge - smoke a little weed, get a little high. Maybe I don't even need to get high; I'm not sure. But I repeat what I did that first night- and it works every time. I get the download, feel energized, and get to work. Maybe it's this room or a portal, but I haven’t deviated from my process because it works. I'm safe, no need to worry."

Oli, knowing I'm the skeptic, turned to me and asked, "What do you think of all this, Tristian?"

"Not sure. It's a lot to take in. If it's true, why tell us? We don't even speak to each other anymore." What will the other shoe look like when it drops is what I was thinking. Was I the only one who felt uneasy?

"Fair. I'm telling you all because you’re family to me. Life took us in different directions, but my best memories were creating with you. Money, worry, society - it all gets in the way, but I found a way to game the system. We could go back to doing what we love. As for the matter of it being true, let me prove it. I'll go through the process in front of you. Did anyone bring some art or —“

"I've got a manga, the art is pretty good. Have you drawn manga style yet?" Nate chimed in. He tried to look neutral, but I saw excitement in his eyes.

"Perfect. That’d be new for me. Go off and get the manga lad."

.

.

.

Oli took some puffs of a joint and prepared everything. The whole ordeal was ordinary but comical to watch. There were no rings of lights or glowing cells that we could see, but he did appear to be somewhere else mentally - his body bouncing a bit lifeless with glazed over eyes. Heather started to look concerned just as Oli snapped the cranial device off. It was all over in 7 minutes. The gleam in his eyes returned, and he smirked as he dismounted from the platform grabbing a sketchbook and pen. Oli drew every detail from every panel copying page one of Nate’s manga. We watched in amazement because Oli can’t draw well, but now he was hatching perfect lines with impeccable shading in all of ten minutes.

"Bruv, I've been drawing manga for years, and it's complete shite compared to this. I can't believe you just drew this. Bloody hell…" Nate's eyes widened, and he said, "I'm next. Hook me up."

Oli was agreeable and helped Nate set up. Before he switched on the platform and transcranial device, he warned, "It's not scary or painful, but it's a bit overwhelming when you get the 'download.' Basically, you experience a bunch of information all at once; it's like your head is bombarded with thoughts, visions, voices, and memories that you know aren't yours but get coded alongside your own. You'll download all the skill information, but a few other memories from that artist get downloaded too. Some of the memories come and go, like when you wake up from a dream and remember it only for a few minutes or hours but then forget it entirely, but some of their memories… they'll stay."

"What kind of memories have stayed with you? Anything interesting from Sandro Botticelli?" Kira asked Oli.

"Thankfully, the art skills of the piece are downloaded clearly and completely, but the rest of what comes in is a bit fuzzy, just bits and pieces of memories from their past. It's pretty cool sometimes to see into the past, like I could see flashes of Sandro's home, where he painted, and where he ate with his father and brothers. But I could also feel how insecure and lonely he was during that time. There are some flashes of his final years, too, and it was pretty depressing. Dark even. He burned some of his paintings. He had so much self-hate when he burned them, all because of some religious fanatic he started following." Oil's eyes glistened watery, "It’s rough what happened to him." He cleared his throat. "Overall, it's a unique look into the past. We can stand on the shoulders of those giants, grateful. I've amassed crazy wealth over the last twelve months through my art, and it fired me up to think about what impact we could make. Have some say and power against the AI billionaire bellends."

Oli had a way of persuasion. I was wondering about the implications of reliving these people's traumas but then he was painting us the picture of how we could end world hunger. It blew our minds what he was saying. There were so many questions and possibilities hanging over us, but Nate, as always, was ready to fly without a parachute. He was ready to show us what's possible right now.

Nate was sat like a good student. He inhaled a big puff from his joint and said, "Hell yeah! Why not? Let's turn this sucker on."

So Oli turned it on.

Nate was giddy as hell, drawing out his favorite fight scene from the manga. He marveled his work. We marveled it too. Now, it all truly sunk in.

Oli had something else to show us. He made a forty million dollar investment 'for the group.' Safeguarded, he explained. He tapped something into his phone and the back wall of crystals buzzed into motion, revealing a small secret space - at its center was a painting encased behind glass. Under the painting, a place card read:

L'Allée des Alyscamps - Vincent Van Gogh

"Now that you've all seen, and Nate, you've experienced how it works, how about we all download some Van Gogh-level skills tonight?"

The bitterness I'd carried around for years consumed my attention. Oli held a key to wipe the slate. Even the score. Defeat the bitterness. My body was wound up in nerves, but relief washed over my thoughts. I vowed to produce only original work and this process felt like a cheat. Real theft - not in the "take ideas and remix them into your own" sense.

The argument could be made that everyone gets divinely inspired, everyone experiences moments of 'download,' and this is a more concentrated version of that. All kinds of arguments could be made if we wanna tear it apart all day.

But we all had a sense of urgency as we saw that Van Gogh.

We'd be flying out, back to our lives tomorrow, so it was now or never. My mind weakly started up a few counterpoints, but thoughts of living like Oli, making art like him, well those thoughts quickly shut down the other ones.

Oli asked that question, and we were all joy and laughter.

We all said yes.

.

.

.

Oli was prepared. He fetched more cranial headpieces, and we all sat on the platform. He had carefully taken the Van Gogh out of its glass casing, and sat it in the middle of us all. When everything got turned on, we were to all place a hand somewhere on the painting.

Before we turned it all on, we passed around joints, our guards fully down. Everyone was genuine with their words and smiles, and that frenetic energy we had in Cambridge was back. God, it felt so good. Kira's fingers were lingering on mine as she passed the joint. Leaning into me and holding onto my arm to steady herself whenever someone made her laugh too hard. Nate and Oli always made us laugh like this, laugh until someone would pee their pants or hurl their beer from all of the goddamn belly-aching laughter. We had to wait for Heather, who shrieked all the way to the bathroom, trying hard not to piss her pants. When she was back, we cheered her, and she gave us two fingers and a gnarly eye roll.

"How will we know if it worked for us? Will we be able to test it out by painting?" Heather asked Oli.

"I've got painting easels, canvases, oils - all set up for us next door. You have no idea how much I've been looking forward to painting with you knobheads."

Heather smiled and squeezed Oli’s hand, a tear falling onto his. Oli squeezed her back and asked if we were ready for him to turn on the machines.

We had our hands on the painting and when I started to feel the platform under me shake, I felt a small panic crawl through me. I closed my eyes and took some deep breaths to settle my anxiety, but with my eyes closed, I became inundated with flashes of visions- indecipherably rapid and overwhelming in their onslaught.

I worried I was reacting poorly to the pot, that I was in a bad hallucinatory state feeding me disjointed, at times nightmarish scenes. Some of the same unfamiliar faces continued to pop up over and over. The strange faces belonging to what looked like a family in their intimate moments, aging as the visions continued.

My eyelids were so heavy, but I opened them and saw the spirals of light descending from the copper rings like tubes around each of us. Oddly, the room had become pitch black… was it… how so? But it was. Everything around was dark except the spirals of light over us, and the multicolor cells inside of us. Seeing this with my eyes open, the information continued to download - splices of vision, voices, and thoughts crowded my head, making it throb. Didn't Oli say this shouldn't hurt? The throb grew into a splitting migraine, and I clutched at the sides of my temples in agony.

Holding my head in my hands, I had the sensation suddenly of being outside. I wasn't, but inside that room, the temperature dropped, and a haze formed. The scent of wet soil, moss, and faint smoke filled the room with a chilling, earthy freshness.

The haze curling around the platform thickened, and out of it, something stirred to life. Feet, bare and translucent appeared from the mist. Legs in colorless trousers followed.

"What is—"Kira's voice broke into a strangled whisper before her hand flew up to her mouth. The apparition continued to materialize, piece by piece like it was being hand-drawn out of spirit and mist. The torso, thin and hunched under a loose frock, followed by gaunt yet muscular arms with calloused palms.

"Holy shit…" Oli muttered, his voice trembling as he backed up into Nate. The platform beneath us seemed to vibrate in sync with the apparition, and the light spirals around us flickered chaotically.

Then the head appeared. The face, unmistakable, with eyes hollow and searching and his lips pulled tight in a grimace. Vincent van Gogh stood before us—not a man, not even fully a ghost, but a haunting manifestation of fragmented downloads.

It wasn't just his apparition that frightened us; it was the torrent of memories that crashed through our minds. All at once—his final days, vivid and raw, wrought in regret and despair replayed as if they were our own memories and our own excruciating feelings about it.

"Get it off! Get it off!" Nate yelled, clawing at the headpiece.

The apparition reached behind his back and pulled forward a spectral rifle, the haunted object made of the same misty stuff as Van Gogh.

When I saw the rifle, I acted on impulse, yanking Kira behind me to shield her and attempting to get us to the exit.

Everyone was frantic. Heather was frozen in place sobbing, and then I heard her start to scream "No!", but her scream was swallowed by the sound of the shot ringing out of the barrel. He dropped the rifle, and from his ghostly sternum, dark blood began to seep and soak the ground beneath. As if this act of shooting himself freed him from something, the Van Gogh apparition wandered away from us with a peaceful look.

The rifle remained. As did our growing emotions and vivid memories of Van Gogh's last days. A rapture, a compulsion possessed us.

This is how he actually died when he was alive - he killed himself, brutally, by shooting his chest and walking a field for two days before finally passing away slumped over in a barn.

One by one, our bodies moved without choice, as the final memory reenacted itself in the present.

We watched as Nate’s hand reached for the rifle, his eyes wide with terror, "Help Me" etched into his features, even as his legs walked him forward. He pressed the barrel into his chest and pulled. Blood bloomed across his shirt. He dropped the rifle, and trembling, he walked away.

"No… no, no!" Heather's voice cracked as she fought against the pull. It was futile. The rifle passed from one set of hands to the next, each of us succumbing to the haunting rhythm.

Nate. Heather. Even Oli, his polished veneer crumbling under fear as he, too, gave in to the compulsion.

I grabbed Kira's hand, gripping it tightly. "Kira! Stay with me!" I yelled, but she stumbled forward, her hand slipping from mine.

I was the last.

The rifle was at my feet, bloodied and waiting. Hands shaking, I bent to pick it up. Against my will, I moved the cold barrel to my chest.

I pulled the trigger.

The last thing I saw before the world blurred was the woods, dark and endless, where we all wandered until our final breath.