❝Your secret is a painting?❞ I took a few cautious steps; the hairs on my arms stood on end.
❝Not just any painting.❞ Dorian approached the easel, shadows on his face as he touched the cloth protecting it. ❝It's a dark object, the manifestation of m...
It was eerie being inside my own painting. Two summers ago, Jeffrey had taken the family on a whirlwind visit to Paris. Inspired by our visit to the famous Pere Lachaise Cemetery, I painted my own reenactment of the burial grounds. A cobblestone footpath led a foggy, moonlit trail through stately rows of headstones and mausoleums. The moon was a white ball in the navy horizon and the trees were crooked fingers reaching for the sky. Half frozen, I shivered, rubbing my arms through my nightgown, promising to go to bed next time in my winter jacket and boots.
I followed the path, marveling at the realism - my painting, in a dream come true. How was this possible?
I had painted a catacomb at the end of the trail - a menacing door through a peaked stone grotto leading to god knew what. The skull engraved over the archway warned away intruders but the faint sound of music beckoned me forward. I approached the door and turned the knob, staring into the blackness ahead, wondering what dreams lay in wait...
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The music was clearer now - a slow, sultry version of Doin' Time that led me down the tunnel like a trail of breadcrumbs. My only company was the burning torch I had lifted from one of the wall sconces. The firelight threw bizarre shadows across the walls, frightening shapes that bore down on me with fiery eyes and reaching hands. The first time it happened I tried to run back, and discovered the door was locked.
Each room I passed was lined with the remains of the fallen - skulls and bones and stacked in tall, artful piles. I took a chance and ventured inside one, running out with a scream when the bones arranged themselves into laughing skeletons, jaws clacking as they chased me out.
"If you're trying to scare me, congratulations!" I yelled, turning in an angry circle. "You're the one who needs me, remember!"
There were no more skeletons after that.
Eventually the tunnel widened. The air turned cooler, the yellow lighting dimmed, the music was at its loudest. The singing voice I followed was hauntingly beautiful, seductive enough to keep me following the path to doom.
Rounding the corner of a steep bend, I stopped short at the entrance of the largest catacomb yet. Instead of bones and skeletons, the hall was filled with living corpses I recognized from their fancy, disheveled dress - Jeff's donors and constituents. The same men and women who had gathered at the Fairway were now dead, dancing in clumsy, shuffling steps, expensive clothes offset by black fingers, gaunt faces, and cloudy eyes. I started in horror, reminding myself aloud that it was only a dream, only a dream, when I caught sight of my mother with Jeff. He tipped his head back and drank from a wine glass, the liquid leaking through holes in his grimy tux.
As I entered the hall, the crowd seemed to part with a mind of its own, revealing the night's musical entertainment. Dark Dorian, his demon face as ghoulish as that of his dead companions, was shredding the keys on a glossy grand piano, his provocative, clear voice filling the ballroom with notes of harmony. Head on her hand, skin and lips blue with death, the girl who once served my martini now sipped her own. She lounged on the piano top, mesmerized by Dark Dorian, who only had eyes for me. He left the piano, still singing, the keys striking their own tune as we met in the middle.
