by C W Briar
Edward, far less enthusiastic about their encounter, managed only to be polite. “Have you had a few drinks, Luciano? I didn’t expect a warm welcome.”
“Why should I be mad?” Luciano raised his glass as a solitary toast. “I’m the artist who finally proved you wrong. I have my own gala. I arrived here in a Lamborghini with Daria as my personal guest.” He nodded toward the woman in his arm. “I have won.”
“Congratulations,” Edward said, hoping he sounded sufficiently earnest. He gestured toward the stage, where the legs of a solitary easel showed beneath the curtain. “Is that True Reflection?”
“It is.”
“Will you be showing anything else?” There had been seven other pieces at Luciano’s previous MoMA exhibit.
“Why should I? They would only distract from the main attraction.”
The admission baffled Edward. Nothing else? The gala was a perfect opportunity to establish a second signature piece, or to make millions in auctions. Luciano was arrogant, but he didn’t seem completely incompetent. Why not show more pieces?
Perhaps he had nothing else to show. Edward doubted it was true, but asked nonetheless. “Have you created any other pieces since you made True Reflection?”
Luciano shook his head. “My life is too busy.”
A sense of pity mixed with Edward’s dislike for the man. “So you’ve exchanged art for fame? You’re squandering your talent.”
Luciano’s demeanor soured. He poked Edward’s chest with a finger, spilling champagne on Edward’s coat. “Squandered? On the contrary, I’ve used all of my talent to make my masterpiece even greater. The public loves me for it, and every hope and dream I add to it comes true.”
Edward tensed and checked again that the portrait was still covered. The unforgettable discomfort from his first viewing of it awoke. “You talk as if it’s a magic lamp. Paint in a wish and the picture manifests it.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Luciano said without any indication he was joking. “My connection with the piece is such that it speaks to me. I unload my heart and soul into each new rendition, and stars align in my favor.”
An overwhelming pang of fear seized Edward like a cold grip around his neck. His knees weakened, and he nearly stumbled into Luciano’s silent date. His premonition about the painting’s unnatural qualities flared.
If Luciano noticed anything unusual about Edward, he didn’t mention it. He swigged the last of his champagne. “For example, I added you to the image as one of my many admirers, and here you are.”
Edward’s entire body began to ache. His stomach churned at the thought of being on that wretched canvas.
“It’s more than just my masterpiece or lucky charm,” Luciano said. “I’m painting my own destiny.”
A deal with the devil if ever there were one, Edward thought.
His rescue came in the form of the chamber orchestra starting to play. Luciano released Daria and checked his gold Cartier watch. “That’s my cue. Time for the show.” He headed toward the stage.
Edward, meanwhile, staggered to the drink table at the back of the room. He needed more separation between him and the painting.
The orchestra’s melody rose. Luciano strutted to the microphone with open arms and delivered a speech that Edward missed because of his disorienting migraine. However, he did notice the artist’s stage-performer posture and pompous tone.
Was he going insane, or did no one else recognize the suffocating aura in the hall? Edward was rubbing his eyes and considering a swift exit when the crowd cheered. Luciano had undressed the new iteration of True Reflection, an ulcerous wound of art that lived up to all of Edward’s original, overblown scorn. The eyes were almost as dark as the cavities of a hollow skull. The lips glistened red like a bloody kiss, and the figure’s inner glow provided the image’s only source of light. The sea of people in the background had not only multiplied but was bowing as well. True Reflection had become pride incarnate.
The audience cheered despite the brush strokes having regressed enough that Edward could tell the difference in quality at a distance. The amassed layers of paint looked thick enough to rip the fabric from the canvas’ wooden frame. Witnessing the corpulent painting released some of Edward’s tension, turning his fear into sorrow for the young artist. Luciano, in his pursuit of pleasure and fame, had turned his work into a hefty mess.
Rather than a celebration of art, the gala was the public suicide of a career. The people’s enthusiastic approval was fueling Luciano’s self-destruction.
A woman bumped into Edward as she hurried toward the stage. Her casual, gray jacket surprised him. She looked beggarly compared to the other, finely dressed women.
***
The audience vanished from Luciano’s sight as a barrage of camera flashes lit up the stage. The cheering and applause shook the elevated floor under his feet. He opened his arms and absorbed the warmth of their praise.
By following the painting’s lead, he had not only lived out his dreams, he had surpassed them.
A specter rushed forward from the immaterial crowd and leapt onto the stage. Luciano recognized it was Julia, the object of his past affair, in spite of her frenzied appearance. She reached into the pocket of her gray jacket and withdrew a knife. Her expression read murder.
Luciano tripped and fell in his flurry to get away. Expecting an attack, he shielded himself with his arms. But she ran at the easel instead. Shrieking, she slashed the canvas across the portrait’s cheek.
“No!” Luciano screamed.
A pair of security guards tackled Julia. As they dragged her away, her shouts changed to hysterical laugher and then deep, guttural sobs. “You ruined my life,” she wailed. “You ruined my family. You don’t deserve this, you monster.”
Cameras continued to flash, their lights blinking through the portrait’s gaping hole. A sickening sense of violation ripped into Luciano. “No. No!” he cried. He needed to hide the damage from the stares of the horrified onlookers. He ripped his masterpiece off the easel. In his haste and panic, he snapped the canvas’s upper frame in two.
Luciano ran with his portrait to the prep room behind the stage. Once inside, he slammed and locked the door. He laid True Reflection on the wooden table like a medic preparing a critical patient. A frantic search of the supply cabinets turned up only brushes and tubes of paint. He shoved them off the shelves. Where was the tape?
When the reality of what had happened set in, he threw jars of paint and cleaners against the wall. Shattered glass and pools of color covered the floor.
He collapsed on the table beside his ruined creation. Luciano touched the portrait’s tear, then he noticed his reflection across the room.
Luciano slid off the table and approached a mirror leaning against the wall. His eyes were red and sunken, his face pale from shock. He gazed at the smooth, flawless skin on his cheek.
He glanced back at the ripped cheek on his portrait, then again at the mirror.
By following the painting’s lead, he had not only lived out his dreams, he had surpassed them.
Luciano picked up a shard of broken glass and raised it to his face.
***
Edward pushed through the crowd toward the prep room. The audience was in turmoil, shuffling in every direction and shouting over one another into their cell phones. Reporters and their videographers had dispersed to the hall’s perimeter to announce the shocking news.
The madwoman’s attack had done more than destroy True Reflection. It had released Edward from his nightmarish curse. Whatever its cause, either supernatural or psychosomatic, the affliction was gone. Edward’s head felt clear, as if he was finally breathing oxygen after prolonged suffocation.
He feared Luciano’s reaction was quite the opposite. In spite of their hostile past, the artist’s panic-stricken disappearance worried him.
Several people had gathered around the prep room door, including Luciano’s date, Daria, and museum director Franklin Gibbs. He was knocking and trying to
coax the artist out. Franklin sent one of the event waitresses to fetch a key from the security staff, but before she could return, the door opened.
A woman screamed, and those closest to the door staggered back. Daria covered her mouth and turned away, heaving.
Edward stood on his toes, trying to peer over another man’s shoulder.
Luciano emerged with the ruined portrait under his arm. He walked toward the stage with the heavy, uneven steps of a drunk. His shoes, which were covered with paint, left multi-colored footprints on the wood floor. When Edward caught a glimpse of Luciano’s left cheek, he understood what had startled the others. The flesh was flayed open and hemorrhaging blood down his chin and shoulder. The portrait’s face, torn and bent around the broken frame, also bled from its wound. Clearly, Luciano had smeared his own blood on the ruined canvas.
The artist climbed onto the stage and held up his new, ghastly version of True Reflection. The audience muttered and snapped pictures. Absolutely no one applauded. Luciano, devoid of his usual swagger, searched longingly over the crowd while blood rained from his chin to the floor.
No one moved to help him. Even the museum director stood aside, sickened and dumbstruck.
Edward called from the side of the stage. “Luciano, put the picture down. We need to get you to a doctor.”
A hollow vestige of the once-arrogant artist glanced at Edward and shook his head slowly. He looked like a cornered, frightened animal.
“Please, come with me. The museum’s restorers can take care of the damage while you get medical help.”
The portrait glared at Edward from beneath Luciano’s arm. But it no longer intimidated him. If anyone were under its spell now, it was the painting’s creator.
Luciano bolted from the stage and back into the prep room. Edward ran after him, but the door was locked by the time he reached it. He knelt and spoke through the keyhole. “Luciano, the painting can be salvaged.” He doubted that were true, but he needed to say something encouraging. “There are people out here that can help you.”
A heavy, metallic object scraped across the floor inside the room. Edward rattled the doorknob, trying to force it open. If Luciano had already resorted to cutting himself, he was susceptible to doing worse. The guy deserved a lesson in humility, but not self-mutilation.
The museum director was pacing nearby, hands interlocked behind his neck. Edward grabbed him by the shoulder. “Do you have the key?”
“Not yet. I sent Emily—“
“Here it is,” the waitress said as she jogged up to them with a ring of keys in hand.
“Open that door,” Edward ordered. “He looks scared. He could do anything.”
Something crashed inside the prep room.
Director Gibbs tested one key after another in the lock, twice dropping the whole ring in his panic. “This is a nightmare,” he repeated several times.
A pungent odor began to waft under the locked door. Edward recognized the rust-like fumes at once. Turpentine. Was Luciano destroying the portrait? Turpentine would wash away the layers of paint.
Edward pounded his fist against the wall. He shouted, “Luciano, you’ve got an entire lifetime to create another masterpiece. You could even—” He stopped before suggesting the artist make another True Reflection. “I want to help you.”
No answer, save the sound of more glass shattering.
“Hurry,” Edward pleaded with the director. “And have someone call an ambulance.”
The director jammed a key into the hole. “I’ve got it!” He tried to open the door, but it swung only a few inches before banging against something heavy.
“It’s barricaded,” he said, then fell backwards, fanning his face and coughing.
Edward peeked through the small opening. Luciano had shoved a metal cabinet behind the door, barring their entrance. A concentrated rush of noxious fumes burned Edward’s eyes and throat. He covered his face, but too late to keep the tears from gushing.
During his brief glimpse, he saw Luciano, who had the crazed, terrified look of a man plummeting into the depths of Hell. The lower half of his face was entirely red with blood. Luciano was draining a tin can of turpentine onto a table and his chest. He must have emptied gallons of it. The vapors had nearly knocked Edward to the ground.
Between coughs, Edward begged with a strained voice, “Luciano, stop. Will you let me in?” He wiped his eyes and, squinting, peered once more into the room.
Luciano dropped the can. Its clear contents continued to spill over the floor. His head and limbs hung limply like those of an abandoned marionette puppet. Luciano finally spoke, his voice forlorn and disemboweled of all confidence.
“You were right.”
Edward pushed against the door, trying to force the cabinet back. His shoes slipped. “Right about what?”
Luciano rubbed his body, spreading turpentine and blood over his tuxedo. “About the painting. I started to hate it, too, but I needed it.” He wrung his hands together. “I lost my desire to paint months ago. I don’t want to make something else.”
“Take a break. With time, you’ll fall in love with painting again. It worked for me.”
The artist picked up something too small for Edward to see. “It has become such an ugly picture,” he said.
“I’m sorry I was so harsh. I admit I’m not a fan of this piece, but I see your skill. You could make an even greater painting.”
“Don’t apologize,” Luciano said. “You were the only one being honest with me. Thank you.”
“I want to help you.”
“I know, but I don’t want it.”
Edward heard the quiet but terrible sound of Luciano striking a match.
“No!” Edward dove against the door with all his might, crushing and dislocating his shoulder. His effort and pain managed to move the door only an inch more.
The prep room erupted with yellow fire. Edward jumped back from the flames and intense heat that shot out through the narrow opening. After the initial roar of the ignition, the museum hall echoed with the screams of hundreds of frightened guests and one burning, dying artist.
People shouted “Fire!” and stampeded from the museum. Staff members grabbed paintings off walls and fled as the alarms and sprinklers activated. But Edward shouted for help as he alone continued ramming the door. He kept up his futile rescue attempt long after Luciano’s screams ceased. Firefighters eventually pulled him away.
***
Pablo Picasso is the most famous name associated with the Cubism movement, but others share credit for the revolutionary form.
Edward was seated on his front porch, typing the first draft of a textbook on modern art history. He could only use one hand on the keyboard because his right arm was still tied to his body in a sling. The injury from the museum and the subsequent surgery were healing more slowly than he had hoped.
The screen door opened and closed. His wife emerged from their house and headed toward her car.
“I’ll be back in a couple hours,” she said. “I’ll bring lunch.”
“Okay,” Edward said. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Luciano Mideo had perished in the fire. Thankfully no one else was hurt—besides Edward—and the damage to the museum was minimal. He attended the closed-casket funeral a week later. Job opportunities returned shortly after. Old acquaintances began calling again with offers of work, including the book he was typing.
In the wake of True Reflection’s destruction, some people awoke to its diminished quality and questioned its status as a phenomenon. Most, however, lamented the loss of what they viewed as one of the greatest masterpieces. A curator in London collected the portrait’s ashes and put them on display, creating a new infatuation. Time ran an article of the memorial piece and quoted the curator, who called it, “A savage beauty that conveys the existential consumption of passion.”
Edward had no intentions of visiting the display.
His cell phone rang. The caller began the c
onversation by complimenting Edward’s past work but quickly moved on to her real reason for contacting him.
“No,” Edward replied to her request for quotes about Luciano. “I’m open to being interviewed on any topic but that. I already told your publisher I won’t be discussing Mr. Mideo. It would feel like trampling his grave.”
At least a third of Edward’s business calls involved Luciano’s death. Edward wanted to move on after paying his respects. Dwelling on the tragedy saddened him immensely, in part because he wished he had done more to help. Logically he knew the death was not his fault, but guilt and sorrow were not entirely logical emotions. Time and involvement on other projects would be the best remedies.
“Fine,” Edward said to the caller. “This is the only quote you’ll get from me. I lament what happened to Luciano Mideo. I may not have adored all his work, but he was still a young man with promise and a full life ahead of him. His death is a greater loss than his painting. I hope the next time someone creates an admired piece, we get to know the real artist as well as the artwork … You’re welcome … Good day to you, too.”
Edward hung up and set the phone next to his laptop. Before typing, he pondered what he would write in the history book about True Reflection.
Ghoul: A Gideon Wells Story
April 21, 1895
Professor,
These letters contain details from our investigation into the Haughtogis Point mystery. I found the beast, and I am trying to stop it before it can kill again.
I know enough at this time to implore the university to send you or one of your peers to this town posthaste.
Sincerely, Gideon Wells
1
We reached our destination by carriage as the sunset bled on the gray Allegheny cliffs. I cannot overstate the trepidation I felt as we rolled up to the pale, weather-gnawed Ragiston house. My concerns were not due to our hosts, for the young owners of the home, siblings Claude and Ida Ragiston, greeted us with relieved smiles.
My uneasiness came instead from the property itself.
