Aliya Whiteley's strange novels and novellas explore genre, and have been shortlisted for multiple awards including the Arthur C. Clarke Award, BFS and BSFA awards, and a Shirley Jackson Award. Her short fiction has appeared in many places including Beneath Ceaseless Skies, F&SF, Strange Horizons, McSweeney's Internet Tendency, Lonely Planet and The Guardian. She also writes a regular non-fiction column for Interzone magazine. She lives in West Sussex, UK.

The Creator by Aliya Whiteley

Phillip has always been a little in awe of his brother, Reynold – the genius behind ThinkBulb, the invention that changed the world. When he receives a distraught call from his sister-in-law, Patricia, to say that Reynold is dead, he doesn't hesitate in dashing to her side. Little does he imagine the tragedy and horror that awaits, as he uncovers what really happened to his brother – and where Reynold's latest obsession has led.

The author says of the book: "The Creator is a story of a disappearance. Set in 1950s Britain, in a crumbling world of upper-class expectations, it tells the tale of a sheltered young woman who marries a wealthy genius, a world-renowned inventor, only for him to vanish from her life. It's also the story of the inventor's strange work in the basement, and the creation of something monstrous.

"The novella takes two very different inspirations and smashes them together: one is a particular 1950s horror film that I love (I won't say which one!), and the other is the concept of inspiration. How do we create? What inspires us? Is that impulse manifested differently between science and art? Is it divine, and how does it mutate when it meets our darker human impulses?"

CURATOR'S NOTE

Aliya is one of my favourite writers, and any new title from her is a delight! – Lavie Tidhar

 

REVIEWS

  • "Author Aliya Whiteley captures the atmosphere of these old country houses perfectly and her realistic prose, reminiscent of Graham Greene or Somerset Maugham, suits it well. By the end, you realise she has applied this smooth literary veneer to a pulp fiction plot with a mad scientist in the basement... Enjoy the book. I did."

    – SFCrowsnest

  • "Without spoiling the ending – which is fabulous – I want to note that by the conclusion, Phillip has become a better artist… I'll say no more – go read it."

    – Supernova Reviews
 

BOOK PREVIEW

Excerpt

It was open.

His sanctum, open.

At that moment I understood that something terrible really had happened to Reynold.

Patricia kept her hand in mine. She swung the beam of the torch around as if searching for something: what? I could not help it; I called out his name; darkness swallowed the sound.

"Reynold!"

There was no response. The beam fell over the long table in the centre of the room, thick with scientific instruments in a row and papers, in a stack. I had not imagined he worked so neatly. Three filing cabinets crouched against one wall. The light caught a flash of a white form: no, no, it was a lab coat, hanging from a hook beside the cabinets, and beside that stood a tall stool with metallic, tubular legs. Then the beam split, bounced strangely; it had hit two glass screens erected around the stool, from the floor to the black beams across the ceiling, creating a booth into which one might enter, sit upon the stool. Dangling from the beams was a silver device, conical in shape, widening at the bottom. A helmet, of sorts. Wires protruded from the point where it was suspended, and more wires snaked down the sides and over the floor. The beam followed the wires to another set of glass screens surrounding a second stool. A duplicate? But the wires connected them.

"What is he working on?" I said, quietly.

"I can't begin to explain it now," she said, taking her hand from mine. The beam of the torch steadied on the far corner, along from the second stool. There was a green screen, rather like the ones found in hospitals and surgeries, and it was folded back to reveal a plinth, tall and solid, as high as my chest. Upon it sat a sculpture, or, rather, a block of clay left incomplete in the process of becoming a sculpture. It would, eventually, be a bust – that much was obvious from the shape – but the head and neck looked blank from this position, and the clay had that curiously dull quality that it possesses before the real work of shaping begins.

Patricia moved to the sculpture, taking the light with her. I followed to gain a better view of the head: eyes, nose and mouth. Here the act of transformation was closer to completion. A third of a face could be seen. The features were proud, handsome. One finished eye contained a hard glint of playful intelligence, and the line of the brow made something in my throat catch. It was Reynold's likeness.

"He… made this?"

"In a way."