Oksana B’s Nightmare Avenue: Dead Man’s Wish

The exhibit hangs behind a heavy black curtain embroidered with one word in reflective script: Hollow. It is rectangular, the enclosing frame constructed of wood reclaimed from an eighteenth-century tavern whose employees were said to flirt with the occult. At first glance, the three-dimensional artwork appears to represent a window overlooking a well. Further scrutiny reveals that it is not a window at all—more like an image through a camera’s viewfinder bordered with oak paneling.

†

 Shayleen draws the curtain and enters. Stands before the art installation. Arms limp at her sides. Eyes wide and unblinking.

She leans forward to examine the focal point—

A well without a roof, seaweed-green ivy climbing over rugged stones, climbing over the edge of the well, descending into its depths.

A man’s head suspended in the air where a bucket would hang.

†

Eyes shiny and seeking, she examines the landscape—

The skies aswirl with thunderous ebony clouds, shapeless and all-consuming. In the background a handkerchief somersaulting in the wind. The handkerchief is sewn from gunnysack in a muted shade of white that makes it look long-used and dirty.

†

Shayleen slow-blinks. Leans backward. Exits the exhibit without turning off the indicator light. 

The installation remains vacant for the remainder of the evening.

†

Oksana B’s Nightmare Avenue is an elemental experience. Some walk in, curious but unaffected. Pull back each curtain. Perceive only what’s on the surface. Others react intuitively, viewing pieces according to the words they are drawn to. And there are some who depart without peering behind a single veil. 

The exhibit exists for anyone, but it is not for everyone.

†

Jacobi enters the Hollow viewing area. Goggle-sized glasses help to correct his slight astigmatism.

Under the burnt-orange glow of the installation’s light fixture, he first notices the words scratched into the bottom left-hand corner of the frame: “Dead Man’s Wish.”

The letters are painted bone-white. Their edges jagged. Like a four-year-old’s uncultured scrawl. 

He reaches out to touch the indentations, stops millimeters short of making contact. Abruptly pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Jacobi does not notice the well or the floating head or the somersaulting handkerchief made of gunnysack. He is too distracted by the letters and the words they form and the phrase they create. They flash blood-red in his mind and his body shocks with cold.

Upon leaving the exhibit, he follows the protocol of turning off the light.

But it clicks back on.

And the installation remains vacant for the remainder of the evening.

†

Dharma tugs on her partner’s shirtsleeve.

“Check this one out with me.”

“You’re supposed to go alone,” Vinz replies. “For the full experience.”

“Pshaw. I don’t care what the pamphlet says. Or the staff. Besides, it’s not a rule. It’s not like they’ll kick us out,” Dharma whispers loudly in Vinz’s ear. “Just come with me, okay? I want to experience this with you.”

Entering first, Dharma pulls back the heavy drapery and slips inside. Vinz follows two steps behind. Places a hand on Dharma’s waist as they examine the artwork.

“That head is so realistic,” Dharma says. “Do you think that’s real hair?”

“Horse hair, maybe?” Vinz says, resting their chin on Dharma’s shoulder. “I like the blending of the grey and white.”

“What about the eyes?”

“You ever seen anyone with a fake eye? They look pretty real.”

“Yeah, but the way the yellowing is worked in the glass! They look like actual, jaundiced eyeballs.”

“The artist’s got talent, I’ll give you that.”

Dharma examines the weeds in the foreground. Squints at something hidden within the tangled creeping buttercup.

“A fish?”

“Something’s sticking out of its mouth,” Vinz says.

“Oh, I see it!” Dharma exclaims, noting the pale yellow string. It extends about a quarter of an inch from the trout’s fat lips. “Maybe it does something?”

“What do you mean?” Vinz asks.

“Like, you know those fancy birthday cards that have pop-up things? You pull on the tab and a cake jumps out at you. That sort of thing.”

“I guess it’s possible. It’s three-dimensional, after all.”

“This art show is described as an experiment in the macabre, right? Maybe we’re supposed to interact with it?”

“I don’t know anything about art, babe. This is your thing, remember?”

Dharma surveys the surrounding wall. “There aren’t any signs that say not to touch.” Shrugging, she touches the string. Pinches it between her fingers. A shiver of anticipation ripples through her, and she pulls. “Whoa…”

From within the creature’s mouth, like a silken tongue, emerges a black ribbon with a message composed in taupe.

“I told you!” Dharma whispers.

“What’s it say?” Vinz asks.

Dharma holds the ribbon taut as she reads its words aloud. “Tell this dead man your greatest wish. On his rough tongue, the tastiest dish!”

“Uh...” Vinz examines the painting again, eyebrows scrunched. “It’s some sort of warped wishing well?”

Dharma curls her lips inward and bites them. Dropping the ribbon, she angles toward the suspended face—close enough to its gaping mouth that she can see the uvula at the back of its throat, the cracks in the dry lips, the chips in the incisors, the cavities in the molars.

Desire mounting, she opens her own mouth. 

“I wish…” 

Dharma whispers her deepest, darkest desire, her breath lapping the canvas, lapping the dead man’s tongue. 

The repercussion is immediate. There’s a lightening. The painting sways out of focus as the oxygen leaves Dharma’s lungs. The marrow seeps out of her bones, hollowed like reeds. Blood gathers from the tips of her toes, shoots upward through her body, sprays like a geyser through her lips. A pulsing, scarlet stream. A wet scream that spews directly into the dead man’s gaping, waiting mouth.

Vinz doesn’t see this.

And so they are shocked by the unexpectedness of their lover as she collapses in their arms, hollowed out by a wish unhallowed.

†

Vinz stares down at their lover’s husk, the fish sucks the ribbon back into its mouth. The dead man’s head laughs silently, its appetite appeased… for a time. And the lights turn off again at Oksana B’s Nightmare Avenue.

© 2025 C. L. Sidell

About the Author
C. L. Sidell is a Tampa Bay native who grew up playing with toads in the rain and indulging in speculative fiction. When she’s not busy with librarianship or writing, she’s usually spoiling her pets or stopping traffic to rescue animals. A Pushcart/ Best of the Nest/ Dwarf Star nominee and Rhysling finalist, her work appears in 34 Orchard, Apparition Lit, The Cosmic Background, and others. You can find her on various social media platforms @sidellwrites or at crystalsidell.wixsite.com.