by Carrie King
He took a deep breath. “Okay, I think we’ve talked about everything, so everyone can get back to work,” he said, trying to sound upbeat. “Thank you all for your time.”
They murmured to acknowledge they’d heard him, and then they scraped back the chairs and trundled off to whatever they were doing that day. Harry turned away. He couldn’t bear to look at them. They all thought he had something to do with it, and to be completely honest, it really hurt.
There was still almost a whole day left before the gallery closed for the night. Harry looked around. He’d sunk his life savings, and his hopes and dreams into this place, and he wasn’t going to let it be ruined because the police around here couldn’t pour water out of a boot with the instructions on the heel.
A plan came together in his mind. If someone was stalking the people who worked at the Madison, it was happening at night. He’d stay there tonight. There was a semi-comfortable sofa in the office, and he’d be there to keep an eye on the guards during the nightshift. Having a plan made him feel a lot better. He’d catch whoever it was, and then everything could go back to normal.
Chapter 74
Soon enough, the gallery had emptied out and left Harold all by himself. The one guard on duty that night, Sam, had done his rounds; he had his radio held securely in his hand in case anything went wrong. Harry waited in the office, the other half of the pair of radios on and active, just in case anything happened.
Once Sam finished his rounds, Harry told him he was free to leave. There was no point in exposing someone else to whatever was happening here. He shook Sam’s hand, trying to seem authoritative and kind at the same time.
“G’night, boss,” Sam said. He walked out of the gallery at a pace just under a run. And finally, Harry was completely alone.
Galleries at night. It was almost like stepping into another world. The apprehension he used to feel as a child came back, and he was almost afraid to breathe. The air in the Madison felt heavy, suddenly. He shook his head and walked back into the main gallery, locking the door behind him. The lights were all off, except for the recessed lights illuminating the pieces dotted about the walls. The lights had been carefully selected to make sure they wouldn’t damage the paintings with heat, and now they glowed almost comfortingly into the darkness. Still, it didn’t do anything to take away from his apprehension.
Harry walked into the office and sat down at the computer. He had pulled up the security feed from the cameras around the outside and inside of the gallery. If something was going to happen here tonight, he was going to see it. He turned the monitor toward the sofa at the side of the office and settled in for the night, making sure to keep all his focus on the security cameras.
The night passed quickly. Many, many cups of coffee later, he found himself waking with a start. He woke up on the sofa, his neck stretched at an awkward angle. He blearily picked himself up. His feet had stayed on the floor even though his top half had collapsed onto the arm of the sofa. He groaned as he straightened up, feeling the sharp pains in random parts of his body. He couldn’t for the life of him imagine what had woken him up that abruptly.
Nothing had happened all night. Not a peep. No one had so much as passed by the outside of the gallery as far as he knew. It was completely pointless, and now here he was with a crick in his neck and wrinkled clothes and nothing to show for it.
Then, he heard the sound again. There was a banging on the door, deep and metallic. This time, it didn’t let up. Whoever was knocking just kept going, probably trying to make sure that he heard them. He stumbled to the computer and switched it over to the camera that sat above the front door. He cursed softly to himself. It was that man again, the detective from yesterday.
Harry ran out of the office and washed his face in the sink in the men’s room. The man starting back at him in the mirror wasn’t someone he recognized. Bloodshot eyes sitting above bags that were big enough to haul groceries. Hair sticking up in every direction, no longer as dark as it once was. Uneven patches of stubble. He was a sight, and woefully unprepared to face the might of Detective Inspector Jones, at least not without copious amounts of coffee.
He cleaned up as best as he could and headed back out to open the gallery. The day guards would be coming in any minute, and he’d rather not have them see him looking like he’d spent the night in a skip. Especially not when he’d be talking to the police at the same time.
He collected himself and opened the door. “Good morning, Detective,” he said, as cheerfully as he could. “You’re here early.”
“Mr. Ainsley,” Jones said curtly.
Harry thought that the man must do everything curtly. The detective held up a piece of paper. “I’ve a warrant here to search the premises. In search of new evidence, you know.”
He handed the paper to Harry and pushed past him, holding the door open for the officers that filed in behind him.
Harry was incensed. “Detective, you’ve gone over this place with a fine-tooth comb. More than once! What do you think you’ll find now?!”
Jones smirked at him. “You tell me. What’re you hiding here, Mr. Ainsley?”
Harry was torn. He really wanted to stay here and give this man a piece of his mind, but on the other hand the ham-fisted officers were putting his entire collection in danger. He decided on watching them out of the corner of his eye. He had some things to say to the man who thought he could get away with bullying him.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Harry said. Jones looked skeptical. “There is nothing here. And rest assured, I’m going to complain to your superiors about this.”
Jones smiled at him again, and Harry wanted to hit him. “Where were last night, Mr. Ainsley?”
“I was here. All night.”
Jones raised one eyebrow. “Do you make a habit of sleeping in your office?” He sounded suspicious.
Harry shook his head. “No. I just stayed last night.”
“Why did you stay here?”
Harry wanted to tell the truth, but now, in the cold light of day, there was a chance that it might sound a little silly. He took a chance anyway. “I thought maybe I could find something to do with what’s been happening. I thought maybe whoever it was would come back and I could get them on the security cameras.”
“And did you?”
Harry shook his head.
“All right. Well, in that case, I think maybe you should leave the detective work to the professionals, don’t you?”
Harry rolled his eyes this time. The cops were just looking around, not searching anything with any level of thoroughness this time, just lazily picking things up, looking under them and setting them down again. They were just doing this to rattle him, he realized. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. He just stood calmly with Jones, waiting for them to finish with this charade.
It took another twenty minutes, but they finally finished up and filed back out of the gallery. Jones stayed behind.
“You know, Mr. Ainsley, you’ve given me something of an idea,” he said.
His voice was measured and even, but Harry thought he heard some kind of emotion behind it. Maybe anger that his people hadn’t managed to find anything. Harry felt a little superior in that moment.
That was until Jones said, “I think I’m going to spend the night here, as well. Perhaps I can find something you missed. Before something happens to another one of your members of staff.”
Harry gave him a strained smile. “I think that’s a fine idea.” Once Jones saw that Harry was not a monster who was making people literally disappear, he would be able to move on to whoever was at fault. He rubbed his cheeks, feeling the scratch of his uneven stubble against his hand. Standing next to the debonair Detective Jones, he just felt worse about himself. He pulled himself back out of his funk. This was a good way to clear his name at least.
“Good,” replied Jones. “I’ll come back when you close and then we’ll see what we can find.” He turned on his heel and walked out. It was
going to be a long day.
The day dragged by. Harry tried to distract himself from his nerves by doing the copious amounts of paperwork that came with running a gallery. Everyone thought that the art business was a glamorous life, but it was mostly sitting in an office, filling in forms for taxes, purchases, and sales and receipts.
Finally, it was closing time. There hadn’t been that many visitors that day. There hadn’t been many visitors for a long time, sadly. People just didn’t appreciate art like they should have. Jones would be there at any moment, and then he’d have to spend the night with one of the police force’s worst hires.
He had to distract himself. He pulled up the security camera feed on his monitor and started to switch between the cameras. There was a rather large man walking his dog past the front door of the gallery, but that was the last person to walk past the door for a long while. It puzzled him. The Madison had been the center of a thriving little community, tucked away in this little corner of their city. But lately, it was like people didn’t even see it anymore. They either walked right past it or didn’t walk past it at all.
He’d told the nightguard not to come in tonight, and he’d been only too happy to oblige. He was a new guy, from a staffing agency, but word got around fast and people were starting to refuse jobs at the Madison. The sooner Jones found out who was behind the disappearances, the better.
Jones came up to the front door exactly five minutes after closing time. He started knocking on the door again, the same as he had in the morning. Harry ran to open the door. He didn’t think he could take another second of Jones’ heavy fist against the door.
“Please, stop doing that,” he said as he held the door open for the Detective.
“If you know a better way for someone to request entrance into a room, please let me know.” Jones stepped into the gallery and looked around. It was quite dark, except for the light illuminating the paintings. Jones felt the same as Harry about the dark gallery, Harry could tell. It was the catch in the breath, the slight widening of the eyes.
“Make yourself at home,” he said, gesturing to the wider space.
Jones looked around. “Where’s the office? I assume that’s where you have the monitors for the security cameras,” he said.
Harry led him through. He’d managed to get away in the afternoon to go home and shower and change, but it was still strange to have to spend the night in the gallery for the second time in a row. Worse still, to have to spend that time with a policeman. He suppressed a shudder and showed Jones the feed for the cameras.
“Most of the gallery floor is covered from here, as well, as all of the outside,” he explained.
“What part of the inside isn’t covered?” Jones asked.
“It’s just a little part of the gallery, near the back. There aren’t any windows or anything, and we make sure to check it when we do the night patrols. It isn’t anything significant.”
Jones frowned. “I’ll decide what is and isn’t significant, thank you sir. Now, what’s in that area?”
Harry huffed. “It’s part of the floor. There’s a painting on display there. Just one.”
“What painting is it?”
“It’s one done by my grandfather before he died, actually. Any more questions?”
Jones smiled at him “No need to get defensive, Mr. Ainsley. Just making sure we have all the facts straight.”
Harry sat heavily on the sofa. “I’m sorry. I know we’re all trying to find out what’s happening. But it doesn’t help that you people have been harassing me instead of trying to find out what’s really happening.”
The detective turned back to the monitor. “That’s exactly what we’re trying to do,” he said. The two men settled in for a long night, Jones in the desk chair and Harry on the sofa.
They traded shifts watching the camera, every half hour. Still nothing. Eventually, Harry nodded off, dozing lightly in the desk chair, trying to keep his attention on the monitors. He was almost completely asleep when he heard it.
Someone was whispering right in his ear. He sat bolt upright, his heart pounding in his ears. Jones was still sitting on the sofa, but Harry could have sworn someone had just spoken directly into his ear. The detective noticed how startled Harry was.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Did you say something just now?” Harry asked. He hoped against hope that the answer would be yes.
“No. I didn’t say anything,” replied Jones. He looked confused.
Harry’s blood ran cold. “I think there’s someone in the gallery,” he whispered.
Jones sat straight up and reached for his coat, pulling out a can of pepper spray. Suddenly, the voice whispered again. Harry still couldn’t make out the words, but there was someone close by, whispering to someone else.
“Did you hear that?” Harry could feel his heart in his throat.
Jones nodded and stood up. “Stay here. I’m going to go see who’s out there,” he said.
He carefully walked out of the office, checking around the corner of the door as he went. He stepped out of the office completely, looking for all the world like he was just going out for a stroll.
All of a sudden, the door slammed shut behind him, and Harry heard the key turn in the lock.
He sat frozen in his chair. The key was on his side of the door.
Chapter 75
“Detective Jones?” Harry called. He hated how frightened his voice sounded, but he couldn’t help it. He hated the dark, especially here. The whispers had stopped, but he still had the feeling he wasn’t alone.
He levered himself up from his chair and walked slowly to the door. He tried the knob, his hands shaking. It was completely stuck, like something was holding it fast. He may as well have been trying to open a section of the wall. He jiggled it and tried his best to turn it, before he remembered. The lock. He’d heard the key turning. Harry laughed at his own stupidity. How do you open a locked door? Turn the key.
But this time, it didn’t work. The key wouldn’t even turn in the lock. Harry could feel his stomach clenching; a slick, sick feeling rising in the back of his throat as he gave it everything he had. The key was stuck. Totally stuck. He rested his forehead on the door, feeling the cool wood of it against his skin. He’d done it before, in times of stress and trouble. He found it soothing, solid. But this time, it was just frightening. Someone wanted him to stay in here. And God only knew what had happened on the other side of the door.
The quiet started to fold in on him like a blanket. Suddenly, behind him, someone whispered… something, close enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He whirled around, eyes wide. Nothing. He ran back to the desk chair, trying to suppress the feeling that had just come over him to hide under the desk. Frantically, he rifled through the drawers, trying to find something—anything—he could use to open the door, and he finally touched something cold and metallic. He grabbed it like a lifesaver. A letter opener. A manic giggle forced its way out from between his lips.
His stomach unclenched a little as he ran back to the door, slotting the letter opener in the space between the door and the jamb. He juggled it around, trying to force it to retract the lock. Nothing doing.
‘Detective Jones?” he called a little louder. There was only deathly silence from the other side. Harry shook the handle again, the rattle echoing through the silent office. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. Little spots danced in front of his eyes. His mind went blank, replaying only a loop of Okay, okay, okay, okay.
It was like being in a dark room as a small child. He had an undeniable feeling that there was something in there with him. Harry looked behind him, seeing only darkness illuminated by the glow of the monitors.
The whispers had stopped. He pressed his ear up against the door. There was a sound from the other side, something like scraping, the way a chair would when dragged against the floor.
“Detective Jones?” he called again.
This time a voi
ce answered from the other side. “Ainsley? Ainsley, what’s happening in here?”
Harry breathed deep, releasing the tension that had collected in his body. “Help me, someone’s locked me in here!” he called.
“What do you mean someone? We’re alone in here, aren’t we?” Jones’ voice didn’t sound too confident.
“I don’t know! The door’s locked, and I can’t get out!” Harry replied. Jones tried the door from the other side. He jiggled the handle forcefully, and, as if by a miracle, it swung open. Harry could have cried.
“What’re you up to?” Jones said suspiciously.
“I’m not up to anything, I swear. But I think there’s someone in here. This door wouldn’t open. I swear it!”
Jones stepped into the office and looked around. Harry noticed he didn’t go much further past the door than he absolutely had to.
The words started to tumble out of Harry’s mouth like a waterfall, and if he had stopped to think about what he must have looked like, he would have been almost ashamed of himself. But fear had completely taken over his body. His hands were still shaking, and the slick taste of anxiety was still painted on the back of his throat.
“There were whispers,” he said. “Did you hear them? They came back when you were out there.”
“You can’t be serious,” Jones said. “I just looked around and there’s nobody else here but us. If this is some kind of trick you tell me right now.” He looked like he was ready to do violence if Harry didn’t admit to setting all of it up, but Harry could barely even think. Something had locked him into the room. From the inside. And started whispering things he couldn’t hear, and it was almost more than he could bear.
Jones ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “Look, I searched everywhere. I didn’t find anything.”
Harry cast about for an answer, some way to make Jones understand that there was someone there with them. Or something. As he tried to figure out what he wanted to say, the scraping sound came back, this time getting louder and louder. The two men turned this way and that, trying to find where it was coming from. Slowly, the sound got so loud it seemed like it filled the room. Neither could see where it was coming from.
