The Model Maker

Don’t build temples for forgotten Assyrian gods – from the Small and Scary Substack Event.

Photo & Text all rights reserved © Saint-Lazare, 2025.

In my almost twenty years as a professional model maker, I have had my share of eccentric commissions. Requests rivalled each other in darkness after the horror movie Hereditary came out. Eighty percent of my production was related to table-top role-playing games, a sector that has exploded in creativity and quirkiness in recent years. My portfolio thus includes examples as diverse as a miniature torture museum with a Barbie theme, a model of an evil sex supermarket, and a diorama of the Roman countryside made entirely from imitation Italian cheeses. Not everyone wants a cute Japanese house with a little pond or an austere Le Corbusier villa, even if I build a lot of these. All I had to do was glance at the workbench to my right to know that I would never allow myself to judge a customer. Indeed, there awaited my latest personal project, a reconstruction of the crime scene of Mary Jane Kelly, Jack the Ripper's fifth canonical victim. So, I got up to refill my cup of coffee, scratched Zurbaran's head in passing, who raised an irritated eyelid before reverting to a ball of beige and black fur on my windowsill, and reread the email with fresh eyes.

“I would like you to build a model of the temple of a forgotten Assyrian deity, Ogmökus, about 8 inches high, 8 inches wide, and 10 inches long. Unfortunately, there is no trace of this temple anymore, neither ruins nor drawings, but you can rely on an ekphrasis of author Assacheraddon, which describes this building. I am attaching a copy of the text.”

Always taking my customers' information with a grain of salt, I decided to do my due diligence first, and checked some serious online sources such as JSTOR and the Bodleian Library. He was, however, absolutely right, nothing had survived whether on the temple or the god, except for this text, from an obscure writer alive around 666 BC. So, I opened the attachment to read a vivid description of my new project.

“From the Upper Sea of the setting sun to the Lower Sea of the rising sun, there was no temple greater than the one of Ogmökus, erected by [illegible], the worshipper of the great gods, and architect of noble buildings. It rose above the desert like a vulture with folded wings, with its two tall square towers standing on either side of a rectangular nave. Its high, black marble outer walls showed great sobriety, and only its façade was engraved with geometric lines around the entrance arch. The floor was raised above a crawl space filled with opaque water visible in the forecourt basin, where worshippers performed their ablutions before entering further. The exquisitely rich paving was made of ceramic tiles in the God's colors: ivory, black and amber. Each tile was adorned with a ram's head, intertwined snakes, and precious stones called agarta, with other details beyond number plentiful. These treasures glistened in the sunlight thanks to a circular opening in the flat roof, creating a contrast with the naos, plunged almost into darkness with the exception of a few metal braziers. With humility and a holy fear in their hearts, the faithful then entered a room with huge columns. The walls were entirely covered in carnelian stone, and in the glow of the flames, their deep redness resembled that of a lion's entrails. From floor to ceiling, bas-reliefs of great beauty showed beardless priestly figures with jewel-covered arms and traced eyes, conversing with winged creatures with serpentine bodies and foreheads girded with ram horns of perfect spirals. The shaft of each column was decorated with motifs of palm trees, orange trees, lilies, and various branches, rising up to capitals with bearded faces grimacing in flames at their four corners. Finally, narrow steps led to a small round room, where an altar with snake feet and ram's heads at the four corners was used for offerings, in front of a dais which protected the only known statue of Ogmökus. The devotee could only be seized with absolute reverence and submission to the power emanating from his form, which would have seemed insignificant had it not been so unsettling.”

I was immediately seduced by the esoteric aspect of the project and its many creative challenges. It would also allow me to vary the pleasures with my other commissions, architect Eileen Gray's refined Mediterranean villa E-1027, a doll's house from the 1920s, and a cosy little library. I settled down at my drawing table, with the album Sabbath Bloody Sabbath playing in the background, and set about sketching the temple. Before the afternoon began, I had erected the exterior walls with balsa wood, prepared the resin layer that would replicate the water in the crawl space, and made a satisfactory mix of red varnishes to imitate carnelian as closely as possible. Quite satisfied with myself, I decided to take my lunch break when I received a WhatsApp video call.

“"Hey, Pop, how's it going? Hey, wait, is that a man bun I see there?"

Pretending to ignore the sarcasm in my son's voice, I casually touched the bun that fell over the back of my neck.

"What, you don't think it adds some charm?" I joked.

“I mean, It's bad enough you look like James Hetfield during his Black album era with the beard and handlebar moustache!”

I chuckled, very proud to have passed on my musical tastes to my teenage son. Leaning over to the dollhouse, I grabbed a small cat figurine, and brought it close to the phone's camera.

"Hey look at that, I miniaturized Zurbaran. Now he can chase mice in a posh early-twentieth-century British kitchen!"

The pout I received in response was polite at best. I felt a sting of nostalgia in my chest. Long gone were the days when this kid would sneak into my studio with a sense of sacredness in his eyes, losing himself at length in the smallness of details.

“I've got a great new project, very video game set, you can see it this weekend,” I added, trying to revive a little enthusiasm.

"Uh, well, actually, I can't make it this weekend, Mom booked a last-minute trip to the seaside, we're going scuba diving and everything. Sorry, Pop. I'll see you next weekend, I promise."

When the call ended, I rolled my chair toward my workbench, and leaned over the pink clay I had used to reconstruct Mary Jane Kelly's mutilated body. Without breathing, I molded her features to resemble my ex-wife’s, and, grabbing the scalpel, was about to inflict fatal blows, when I caught my reflection in the lens of the magnifying glass with the articulated arm. Man, you look like a rodent with your crooked nose and teeth, and your forehead wrinkled from tension. Calm the fuck down, don't let her get into your head. Throwing my presbyopia glasses on the table, I took a long breath. From his windowsill, Zurbaran gave me a sarcastic look. I needed to get some fresh air.

When I wanted to clear my head, I would go to the little antique store on the corner. It sold mostly old books and overpriced maps, but there were also boxes full of discounted prints, and I could always find some cheap treasures to make wallpapers or other decorative items. Leaving the shopkeeper bell ringing behind me, I signaled to the assistant that I could help myself to the boxes. From the shadows at the back of the store, she gave me a friendly wave, recognizing me as one of the regulars; the place was never very busy. I was just beginning to rummage through the heaps of old papers when a piece flew up and swiftly whirled to the floor. The assistant rushed to my rescue and saved the miniature engraving before it disappeared between the floorboards.

“Oh dear, it's really tiny this one!” she exclaimed, her cheeks flushed with adrenaline.

I approached the palm of her hand to study the image. It was slightly smaller than a stamp, engraved with remarkable finesse, probably after an ancient wall carving. Bewildered, I identified an Assyrian symbol, made of arrow-like triangles interlocked with a serpentine line. Strangely reminiscent of the half-serpent, half-ram creatures in my temple.

"Fascinating!" I exclaimed. "Would it be possible to have more information about this?"

She turned the print over to study the back, which was blank. I caught a whiff of her perfume, flowery, pleasant. We were close, almost touching. She was rather homely, but probably too young to be interested in me. I seemed to catch a sidelong glance from her, and suddenly found myself self-aware of the paint stains dotting my olive-green cardigan, my Iron Maiden Trooper t-shirt, and my cargo pants, whose pockets were ridiculously bulging with things useful for my models. I also probably stank of glue and varnish.

"Normally, there's a code on the back, which refers to a computerized file, but this is too small for that. Mr Kazanian might know more about this engraving, but he's away on business. I'm sorry, I can't help you any further, I just know it's in the £1 box."

Thanking her awkwardly, I took a last breath of beewax and musty paper, and left the store with my tiny Assyrian engraving in an envelope. After all, my good author of 666 BC had not gone to the trouble of describing the God statue, and, until I came up with a genius idea, I could always stick my new find on the back of the dais.

The day ended with finishing touches on my three other models in progress: the creation of a comfortable armchair for the library, the painting of an art deco fresco on the dollhouse’s staircase, and the reconstruction of a system of folding windows suspended to steel channel, designed by architects Gray and Jean Badovici for E-1027. Stretching, I was about to switch off the studio light and go to bed when I heard a strange creaking in the room. Approaching the models, I saw that the hammock outside the little seaside house was swaying as if moved by the sea spray. With my finger, I stopped it, while a twinge of sadness made me hear my son's laughter in his marine activities. I also noticed that the pieces on the library chessboard had moved, now forming a checkmate. As for the clocks in the 1920s house, they were all indicating midnight. Shaking my head, I realized I was more exhausted than accounted for, and went to bed. My sleep was restless, as always, but with a single dream. In slow motion, I saw a figure in red emerge from a van, carrying a large square black box.

The next day, the temple had its ceramic floor, basin, and open roof, as well as six columns ready to be decorated with clay. I let the glossy black paint of the outside walls dry while I put the finishing touches to the miniature books that would cover the library shelves. With their vegan leather covers and gilded lettering, they paid homage to my favorite authors: Stephen King, Astrid Lindgren, Thomas de Quincey and so on. I then tackled the dollhouse's electrical system, which could light the lamps and which also provided running water, thanks to an ingenious cistern system. I had also finished Eileen Gray's gramophone, which had a music box playing Duke Ellington, and put it among her designer furniture.

“What do you think, Zurbaran, another productive day, isn't it?” I said to the cat. “Not as cool as scuba diving, but it might just pay for a guitar for the kiddo at Christmas.”

The feline had, for once, forsaken his favorite spot. He was waiting for me by the door, looking annoyed.

“What about it? You want more wet food? An evening stroll?”

The animal meowed plaintively, and rubbed against my legs insistently all evening. I had to close the bedroom door in his face to finally get some peace.

In the morning, I woke up drenched in sweat, compressed by anguish. Something was wrong. I reached for my cell phone to check on my son, and laughing vacation photos called me a pessimistic idiot. Then I remembered I had had the same dream again, with the black-box figure emerging from the van, this time slowly crossing a sun-drenched street. My nerves were still twisted, and when I arrived in the kitchen to find Zurbaran clawing frantically at the front door, I decided to add a shot of whisky to my coffee after I had let him go outside. I put Mötley Crüe on full blast and got back to work on the temple, pushing the envelope containing the engraving onto the roof of the model to make room on the workbench.

Some of my sculpting tools had disappeared from their usual place, and I wondered whether Zurbaran's behaviour might not be the result of some guilt. He liked nothing better than to push my ribbon tools and brushes under the workbench. I grumbled at him for a moment, but the decoration of the bas-reliefs plunged me into an appreciable flow-state. Covered in red varnish, the naos looked majestic. I placed a few braziers with glowing LED bulbs, and finished off the rest of the furniture. The model was almost complete, and now I had to decide whether to interpret the statue of this Ogmökus, or just go with the engraving. While I waited to decide, I fixed the print to the dais with blu tack and fitted the removable roof.

I was just about to tidy up the workshop when my blood froze. On the stairs and outside passageway of E-1027, sandy footprints stood out clearly against the white paint. This weekend by the sea thing was starting to drive me crazy. With my heart pounding, I left everything on hold and decided to go for a run. When I returned home, soaked and aching, I felt refreshed. I found Zurbaran hiding under the armchair, crying.

“Yes, I miss him too, buddy,” I said softly.

I decided to give him a triple ration of wet food, but I could not find his bowl. Other objects were missing from the house: my coffee mug, the portable speaker, and the candle that was usually on my bedside table.

"What are you playing at, you bloody cat! " I shouted, fumbling under the bed.

Withdrawing my hand, I was surprised to discover a miniature hairbrush, like the ones on the dressing table in the doll's house. Strangely enough, my own brush was missing too.

"I don't fucking need this," I hissed through my teeth. Banishing Zurbaran from my room again, I was about to watch a film before going to bed when a ping on my phone alerted me to a new email from my temple client.

“Good evening, just touching base to make sure you don't have any worries about the deadline.”

I could not remember him mentioning one, so I typed in a hurry, "All good, should be finished tomorrow. I work with a very serious and fast delivery service."

Then, out of a clear conscience, I sent him another message: "As there is no description of the statue, I have taken it upon myself to replace it with an Assyrian antique print on the same theme as the decorative bestiary. If you prefer another option, please let me know asap."

I attached a photo of the engraving I had on my phone and received an instant reply, “That's perfect, thank you.”

I fell asleep in front of Jaws 2, and I woke up with a sense of doom I had not experienced since my divorce. With my throat reduced to a pinhole and trembling, I saw the figure with the black box imprinted on my retina, crossing the street, undulating with heat; I had seen it all of the night. The room around me undulated in the same way, everything seemed to suffer from the same gravity, the same sense of danger. Zurbaran did not wait for me at the door, as he did every morning. The house seemed even emptier. A strange sound came from my workshop and, with wobbly legs, I made my way towards it.

When I arrived in front of my models, the violence of my goose bumps caused me to hiccup in terror. All the taps in the doll's house were turned on full blast, pouring out what looked like the color and consistency of blood, bubbling, and clotting thickly on the tiled floors. In the middle of the red puddles, little figurines of mice lay as if disemboweled. I was suddenly alerted by the smell of burning, and retrieved from the library's fireplace a miniature Bible, partially consumed. But what twisted my nerves the most was the sound coming out of the gramophone, now framed by blood-colored symbols painted on the walls, the same symbol that was on the engraving. The fake record produced what sounded like a guttural chant, impossible to attribute to a human voice.

Etah'lfomi kiem sertuf!

Aekm ativ aut sarom!

Ainmok tikniv sarom!

Ogmökus mairolg da'a!

I felt my legs give way and groped for my chair. I could not find it, but my heel struck a miniature reproduction of it. As I reached into my pocket for my phone, I also found a smaller version in my hand, unusable. The engraving. It had to be that damn engraving. I had to get rid of it. Everything had started with it. Throwing down the roof of the temple, I moved my fingers up to the dais to peel off the blu tack. But to my horror, the paper was now one with the model, and under my fingertips, it seemed to breathe, like a wild beast. I knew it in the depths of my being: this thing was sentient; it was the embodiment of this forgotten god.

Mad with terror, I called the cat's name.

“Zurbaran! Zurbaran, where are you, buddy?”

My voice, barely recognizable, echoed in the empty space. It was answered by a hiss from the storeroom, whose door was strangely open.

“Zurbaran? Are you in there?”

My veins full of cymbals, I entered the place where I stored my most prized models. On display were a diorama of the cinema room from the film Demons (1985), one of the corridors of the Overlook Hotel, with its recognizable carpet, and a model of the West Wycombe mausoleum, which had been used as the set for the horror film To the Devil a Daughter (1976). A growl from my cat echoed through the room, but I could not locate him. My gaze fell on the various figures from the films, usually depicted in their iconic poses: George and Cheryl on their motorcycle, katana drawn, Danny on his tricycle, and Father Michael Rayner, praying to the heavens. Now, however, they were all lying on the ground of the models, disemboweled in the same way as the mice in the doll's house. In another context, I might have remembered the dark humour of artist Abigail Goldman's work, but this supernatural and sinister sight made me lose my senses.

Stepping back, I felt something crack under my sole, and saw the figure of Mary Jane Kelly in a pool of fresh blood, as if shredded by claws.

“Zurbaran!” I shouted, as the guttural sound intensified. “Zurbaran? ZURBARAN! NO, NO! AAAAAAHHHH!”

***

It was unseasonably warm for an October afternoon, and the delivery man took comfort in the knowledge that this was his last stop. He opened the sliding door of the van, his tablet tucked under the soaked armpit of his red uniform, and picked up the large square box, black as coal. The object smelt of luxury, and he held it delicately as he removed it from the van. Crossing the street to the address, he felt the sweat run down his back. The tarmacadam was on the verge of melting, and he huffed as he reached the porch of the house, ringing the bell with his elbow. The door opened to a welcome breath of fresh air, and the courier delivered his speech automatically.

Once the tablet had been signed, the door closed, and the box was ceremoniously placed on a table. The cubic box slid upwards, revealing the model of the temple, protected in black velvet padding. Meticulously, the packaging was removed, and the final result admired. Just in time for Hunter's Moon.

It was truly exceptional work, every detail meticulous, right down to the little sacrificial victim on the altar, with his bun, his handlebar moustache, his Iron Maiden T-shirt, his paint-stained cargo pant, and his gashes, like those made by claws.

And the statue! The power emanating from it was astonishing for a form that might have seemed so insignificant had it not been so unsettling.

Etah'lfomi kiem sertuf!

Aekm ativ aut sarom!

Ainmok tikniv sarom!

Ogmökus mairolg da'a!

---

Artwork by: Keith Long

This short story was written as part of a Substack event organized by the TIF Team. The theme, Small and Scary features tales that take the tiny and make it terrifying. To read the other posts written by an impressively talented group of authors, follow this link:

https://www.topinfiction.com/p/ss-bb

and don’t forget to check their other works too!