Bodies of Work: A Novella

by Clay McLeod Chapman

Genres: Horror; Ghost; Supernatural suspense

Synopsis

“Clay McLeod Chapman is one of my favorite horror storytellers working today.” — Jordan Peele

A murderous artist is haunted by the spirits of those he has killed in this surreal and chilling supernatural revenge novella.

From the acclaimed author of Ghost Eaters, and perfect for fans of Joe Hill and Delilah S. Dawson.

At sixty-six years old, Winston Kemper has always been a nonentity. No one notices him. His simple existence barely registers for those who come into contact with him. Some call him feeble-minded. He is a janitor at the local church, a groundskeeper by default, and that’s it. No friends, no family. When he’s done with work, he returns home—a remote, single room apartment located above a garage—and that is where his true work begins.

Winston Kemper is a collector of voices, and his magnum opus—The Butterfly Girls—is a sprawling epic of untapped imagination. It has no single canvas, no particular frame. It is everywhere—scribbled on the walls, the floor, and countless notebooks.

Winston is creating a fantasia which exists in words, images and blood. As part of his 'art' he has been murdering forgotten women. Poor souls who slip through the cracks of society, who no one’s looking for. Mothers, sisters, daughters to someone, but no more.

Winston takes their lives, their voices.

But now he can hear them. They whisper to him. They talk of revenge.

Winston Kemper might not believe in ghosts, but he is about to learn they are very real. And they are very, very angry.

A surreal and dreamlike novella about the ghosts of our past and the dangerous, obsessive pursuit of art, from the "true master of horror." (CJ Leede, Maeve Fly)

Release date: April 7, 2026

Publisher: Titan Books

Print pages: 175

Sample

The Sixth Muse

 

As the unofficial archivists of Winston Kemper’s art, not to mention his muses, we find ourselves in the privileged position of being the foremost scholars of his body of work.

We are, in fact, the bodies of his work.

If not us, then who?

He murdered me first, so I should be the one to start his story . . .

That’s not true. I was first.

Not true, not true!

Well, I was his favorite . . .

That’s a lie and you know it!

And we’re to believe you? Since when did you become the trusted source on—

Sssh! Do you feel that?

Feel what?

Here comes another . . .

Already?

How long has it been? I’ve lost count . . .

A year, I believe?

Try ten.

Quiet! It’s starting again . . .

***

Winston finds the sixth sister much like the rest of us, delivered unto him at church. We always arrive at Shiloh Baptist when it is our time—never early, never a moment too late—even if he feels the strain on his faith almost as much as in his own weary body.

Just as he’s about to lose hope, just when he wonders if he’ll never find another muse again . . .

There she is! There we always are.

Do our names matter?

Not to him.

Her name is Kendra Weathers. Middle name Anne, after her grandmother, not that she ever uses it. On her fourth birthday, her grandma bought her a stuffed bunny with peach-colored buttons for eyes. Professor Howdy. Kendra never went anywhere without him . . . until she accidentally left him

As the unofficial archivists of Winston Kemper’s art, not to mention his muses, we find ourselves in the privileged position of being the foremost scholars of his body of work.

We are, in fact, the bodies of his work.

If not us, then who?

He murdered me first, so I should be the one to start his story . . .

That’s not true. I was first.

Not true, not true!

Well, I was his favorite . . .

That’s a lie and you know it!

And we’re to believe you? Since when did you become the trusted source on—

Sssh! Do you feel that?

Feel what?

Here comes another . . .

Already?

How long has it been? I’ve lost count . . .

A year, I believe?

Try ten.

Quiet! It’s starting again . . .

***

Winston finds the sixth sister much like the rest of us, delivered unto him at church. We always arrive at Shiloh Baptist when it is our time—never early, never a moment too late—even if he feels the strain on his faith almost as much as in his own weary body.

Just as he’s about to lose hope, just when he wonders if he’ll never find another muse again . . .

There she is! There we always are.

Do our names matter?

Not to him.

Her name is Kendra Weathers. Middle name Anne, after her grandmother, not that she ever uses it. On her fourth birthday, her grandma bought her a stuffed bunny with peach-colored buttons for eyes. Professor Howdy. Kendra never went anywhere without him . . . until she accidentally left him

As the unofficial archivists of Winston Kemper’s art, not to mention his muses, we find ourselves in the privileged position of being the foremost scholars of his body of work.

We are, in fact, the bodies of his work.

If not us, then who?

He murdered me first, so I should be the one to start his story . . .

That’s not true. I was first.

Not true, not true!

Well, I was his favorite . . .

That’s a lie and you know it!

And we’re to believe you? Since when did you become the trusted source on—

Sssh! Do you feel that?

Feel what?

Here comes another . . .

Already?

How long has it been? I’ve lost count . . .

A year, I believe?

Try ten.

Quiet! It’s starting again . . .

***

Winston finds the sixth sister much like the rest of us, delivered unto him at church. We always arrive at Shiloh Baptist when it is our time—never early, never a moment too late—even if he feels the strain on his faith almost as much as in his own weary body.

Just as he’s about to lose hope, just when he wonders if he’ll never find another muse again . . .

There she is! There we always are.

Do our names matter?

Not to him.

Her name is Kendra Weathers. Middle name Anne, after her grandmother, not that she ever uses it. On her fourth birthday, her grandma bought her a stuffed bunny with peach-colored buttons for eyes. Professor Howdy. Kendra never went anywhere without him . . . until she accidentally left him

behind at a roadside restaurant during a family trip. It took three hours for Kendra to realize her best friend wasn’t sitting next to her, but by then, no amount of crying was turning their car around. Not as far as her father was concerned.

Kendra’s first heartbreak. The first of many.

Join the club.

Hush.

Winston will never know this about her. Our stories never hold significance to him, there and gone. Who she is, who any of us were in this world, matters very little. To him.

It’s what she will become in his mind that matters, what we all became.

Butterflies.

Kendra is Winston’s muse. His sixth, at long last. The answer to his relentless prayers.

It has been much, much easier to answer his divine calling here, at Shiloh. Far easier than at the group home. Or in the rest stop. He never fails to find inspiration amongst its aisles of hand-worn mahogany pews, much the same way Winston imagines those renaissance painters God spoke to. Michelangelo. Da Vinci.

Hadn’t angels inspired them to greatness as well? Did that place Winston amongst these master craftsmen, serving his higher calling?

He uses the backroom to aid in his holy summons. For years, Winston has had the space all to himself. To scribble. Dabble, perhaps, with paint. Even clip—

snip

snip

—out pictures from the various abandoned magazines left behind by parishioners. He’s been able to attend to matters much more

efficiently since he’s called Shiloh home.

Now they are taking all that away.

Blasted leaky ceiling. A hole has opened somewhere in the tin roof, sending rain seeping through the beams, causing extensive water damage. He’ll be homeless soon.

No more studio for Winston.

He has to be far more careful now. More patient. Watchful eyes and all that, at his back. Always peeking. Always following him at work.

Inspiration only comes but once in a blue moon. He’s had to bide his time before receiving that divine lightning bolt, the archangels delivering his next muse.

But time is running out. His own body is beginning to shrivel in on itself.

So Winston prays. Prays for her arrival.

Doesn’t sound like He’s listening, pal . . . Sorry.

Don’t speak too soon . . .

You feel it, too? What is that?

Her.

It has been raining all evening. The storm pummels the roof, a shower of nails against Winston’s skull. It sounds cataclysmic. He’s heard nail guns before, the gunshot of pressurized air firing one steel bolt after another into the roofing of a random house. Now those retorts are legion, an endless rapid fire, each and every nail driving right into his skull—sssplunk-ssssplunk!—giving him a fresh migraine.

Until Shiloh raises enough funds to mend its panels, Winston periodically replaces the mop buckets underneath the leaks in the backroom. It is such an expansive space, used for storage, ample enough to fit a cot and a desk, along with Winston’s growing collection. Nobody else goes back there unless they need a fresh roll of toilet paper.

Winston has had the space all to himself.

In his younger years, Winston would’ve been the one to fix the roof. No longer. He’s far too old to find his way up a ladder, his knees too sore to take the strain. His bones moan under the most menial task these days, leaving him helpless to tend to his responsibilities.

The church is now bleeding. Leaking.

Winston prefers the church over his last place of residence. The group home was absolutely awful. Everyone stealing from each other. Here, Winston is in the presence of angels. He attends services morning and afternoon, sitting in the rear pew. Most families attend on Sundays. Tuesdays and Wednesdays are nearly all but empty.

Sometimes he has a service all to himself. He loves those the most. He will absorb the words, take them into his heart, as if he were an entire congregation.

Winston’s capacity to love Christ for more than just himself is almost enough to make up for Shiloh’s dwindling attendance.

His heart is enough, isn’t it?

The rain will wreak havoc on the grounds tomorrow, he just knows it. The private cemetery out back becomes all soggy when it storms like this. Loosens the tombstones like old teeth in gray gums. No one ever visits these graves anymore. Only Winston.

In the morning, he will be sure to survey the grounds for any damage. Upright the headstones again. Make sure the steel drums are still sealed, nice and tight. No leakage. No spills. Double-check that nothing tipped over. That means getting muddy. Trudging through puddles. Getting his boots caked in red clay.

Tomorrow. Tonight, he has the church all to himself. The roar of the rain. The wrath of it is almost exciting. Listen to God sending his storm. A flood is surely going to come.

That would certainly be a sign, wouldn’t it?

What if it washed Winston away?

We should be so lucky.

He will stay here, alone. Simply sit in a pew and listen to the storm against the roof. His skull. He lights a few candles around the sanctuary, saying a prayer for his butterflies.

As soon as he makes his way through the nave, walking down the center aisle of pews, he senses a density in the air. A gathering of electricity, gaining power. A presence.

Someone is here. He knows it straight away.

A new muse.

She is near. Oh, how long it has been since he’s felt this! He’d almost forgot. It takes his breath away, this strain on his chest, a brick weighing down his lungs.

Winston halts. Takes in the nave. The pews, all empty.

Save for one.

There. Third row. Left aisle.

No. Please, no . . . Not another.

Stop. Make him stop.

How?

Try something . . . We have to at least try.

The wooden seat glistens. Water droplets. Rain.

Tears.

She’s come because she has nowhere else to go. She h

had a fight with her boyfriend, her father kicked her out, her husband left, she lost her job . . . It’s the same story, even if the details fluctuate. Our outfits change, our hairstyles vary, but it’s always the same.

Fate put this woman on a path. That path narrowed, her options dwindling down to this very night on this very planet at this very house of worship, leading her here.

To him. Winston has been patient and his patience is now...