"And here we have a real classic, one of the favorites in this collection, Dawn Chariot by Eduardo Cantata. See the way he portrays the morning light, a comet of peach and scarlet racing towards the tiny town, advancing into the shadow and forcing the night to retreat. A change from the usual image of dawn settling softly, waking up the world with a gentle touch, and notice the beautiful contrasts, the fireball of morning against the blue-gray shadows, the pale, creamy greens and yellows of the trees surrounding the sleeping town done in midnight purple. Quite beautiful, almost poetic, and always well-liked here at the museum."
A flurry of oohs and ahhs clamored along behind Belinda Carole as her tour of the Fourside Museum of Art continued. Barely two steps away from the Cantata painting, the 22 year-old college student’s mind was already racing ahead with the next painting’s description: it was called Simple, the artist was Grant Fife, a casual yet elegant portrait of a young woman and a little girl seated in a meadow, tall grass and wildflowers, wide summer sky, everything done in shades of green and turquoise. She’d led this tour a thousand times, or so it seemed, always the same, but that was okay, because college life was interesting enough without any surprises or extra responsibilities on the job. She was studying sociology, though art was her passion and she hoped to take a permanent position at the museum someday.
Three paintings later, Belinda still stood at the head of the group, ending her tour the same as the always did: "Well, that concludes our tour of some of the most popular pieces in the museum, I hope you’ve all enjoyed what you’ve seen and heard and if anyone has any questions, I’d be more than happy to answer them, otherwise please enjoy the rest of your visit and thank you for your attention."
There was a small, polite round of applause before a voice spoke up from the back of the crowd. "Excuse me miss, I was wondering if you could tell me who did that painting over in the corner?"
The ocean of heads turned in the direction of the voice as Belinda frowned. "Corner? Which corner is that?"
"That one," said the speaker, an older gentleman who readily gestured back across the room to some paintings behind them. "One of those ones we missed by the door, the one in red."
Belinda squinted as she searched her memory for a red painting in the corner by the door. She came up empty. "I don’t recall a painting in red..." Her voice trailed off as she passed through the eager group and took the lead backtracking along, until at last she found herself face-to-face with a row of familiar paintings. "Which one did you... oh! Where did that come from?"
It was a peculiar piece of work, in a battered wooden frame, one that Belinda could have sworn she’d never seen before in her entire life. The background was red, all right, and appeared to be carefully textured, with the center a sharp contrast, smooth and white and liquid. "I... I’ve never seen this painting here before, I didn’t even know the museum had this one..."
She turned to face the curious crowd, still awaiting her call. "I’m sorry, folks, I’m... not sure of the artist on this one, it must be new, although the frame certainly doesn’t look it..." She threw it a sideways glance again, then continued. "I’ll be sure to find out, though, and we’ll have a nameplate put up very shortly with the title and artist listed on it..."
"But the title’s already on it!" Belinda looked around; she had been interrupted by a middle-aged woman in a pantsuit who looked very businesslike and serious. "Isn’t that it, right on the bottom edge?"
Belinda peered at the border, which was tinted in lighter shades of red as it met the frame. Sure enough, a word was inscribed delicately along the bottom, a thin gray line that was difficult to detect at first glance. "Destiny," she read aloud so that everyone could hear. "It seems to be titled... well, I’ll be sure to find out who the artist is, and have a new plate made up as soon as possible. Any other questions?" There were none, so the crowd thanked her again before dissipating into the depths of the museum.
"Hank, I’m telling you, I saw it with my own two eyes, everyone on the tour did!" It was just after hours at the museum, and Belinda was leading her boss, museum curator Hank Anderson, through the maze of hallways to the spot where she’d seen the strange painting earlier that day. An intelligent yet easygoing man, Hank claimed to know the museum like the back of his hand but didn’t come unglued when surprises sprang up. When confusion arose over the unexpected arrival of several pieces on loan from the Summers International Art Museum, Hank had dismissed it as a mistake in communication, and he’d been right: as it turned out, the three others considered curators of the museum had neglected to inform Hank of the delivery, which happened on a day when Hank was the only one of the four present. He was and had always been hard to shock, and slow to worry.
"Well, no one told me about it. They better not be leaving me out of the loop again," Hank said with a yawn. "Man, I’m tired, I’m gonna sleep like a rock when I get home."
Belinda sighed, a little frustrated. "Don’t you even care? Wait until you see it, Hank, it’s a weird painting, I’ve never seen anything like it in my life! And it has the title right on the canvas, in this thin script that looks like something scratching..."
"Maybe it’s some kind of modern art," Hank chuckled. "And it ended up here by mistake. That’s happened before, you know."
"But Hank," Belinda began as they rounded the last bend, "this is different. It’s just different... there it is, over there in the corner." She pointed across the room, trying to keep her hand steady, but it was shaking and she didn’t know why. She couldn’t control it.
"What, that one with the red and the pink sky? That’s been in the collection for years, Bel, Five O’Clock at Carillon, Cheryl Porter," he explained, striding ahead of Belinda towards the edge of the room.
"No, not that one, a couple paintings down from..." Belinda started, but her breath caught in her chest as the room went cold for a second, and then Hank was on the floor and Belinda thought her heart had stopped altogether.
The east wing of the museum was closed down for a while to allow for an intense investigation which included the other curators, several scientists, a historian, a detective and two police squads. No one seemed to know how the painting had gotten there or what it had done to Hank Anderson; the artist’s identity was the last thing on anyone’s mind, for some reason, which concerned Belinda. More and more, people began to believe that the incident was completely unrelated to the painting, that Hank had simply had a fainting spell, that it was all sheer coincidence. Hank, however, was not convinced. He said the painting had bitten him.
"It was like, I can’t explain it, one minute I was there and then there were fangs, but they were made of air, soft fangs? But it hurt like anything, and then I was down..." Hank told his story to reporters from his hospital bed and later from his home, the same details recurring time and time again. "There’s something very wrong with that painting, and I don’t think that wing should be reopened until it is removed."
But since nothing could be discovered to be immediately wrong or dangerous about the painting, it remained on the wall, right near the corner when the east wing opened to the public again several weeks later. Hank protested at first, but since he had decided to take a long hiatus from work to recover from the episode and clear his cluttered mind and wanted to enjoy it, he gave up after a while, deciding it was no longer his concern.
Belinda, whose favorite part of the museum had always been the elegant artwork of the east wing, was somewhat disappointed but not entirely surprised when it became clear that the public, no doubt having heard so many second and third hand accounts of the incident with Hank, was beginning to ignore that side of the collection altogether. No longer faced with demand for tours, she spent her days patrolling the wing in silence, always turning a cautious, curious, and somewhat wary eye towards the painting by the corner of the room. Belinda had been there that evening, that moment, but she still wasn’t sure what had happened, whether she should believe her eyes or Hank’s words or the police, or the phantom draft that had swept over her -- had she really felt the cold, or just imagined it? The halls were as empty as Belinda had ever seen them, completely empty until one day when a spark of movement turned her head towards the door as she realized the east wing had a visitor.
"Good afternoon," Belinda greeted the girl, a little surprised because this girl did not fit the usual profile of an art connoisseur. She was short and thin and obviously teenaged, wide-eyed as she pushed several strands of blonde hair out of her face.
"Hi there," she said with a radiance in her voice, as if a smile were infused in each note. "I’m... well, I must be the first, aren’t I?" Belinda noticed that she was scanning the corridor, looking for other guests.
"The first? You mean, to visit the east wing since..."
"Yes, since the... incident, with that painting... that’s what I came here to see, actually." She stepped boldly forward, her eyes now searching the chamber walls. "Could you show it to me?"
Belinda hesitated. "Why yes... certainly, but are you sure you want to see it?"
The girl smiled. "Are you the one who witnessed it, what happened to the curator?" Belinda nodded, suddenly feeling as though her mind was being read. "Don’t worry about me, I’m into these sort of things. I’m very deeply interested in... we’ll call it, unexplainable phenomena. The paranormal. And other such things."
Conscious that her mouth was hanging open, Belinda straightened up and gestured behind her. "Right over here, then, here’s the one."
"Oh, thank you." She came closer, following Belinda’s lead. "I’ve been so interested in seeing this, I’ve heard so much about... oh!"
"Yes, isn’t it... kind of peculiar? That’s what I thought, from the first moment I saw it, I knew there was something odd about it and I had to show Hank Anderson, but when I did..."
The girl had drawn her hand up to her face, covering her mouth. Her face looked pale, her eyes shocked, flashing with a concern that Belinda couldn’t place. "I... didn’t expect it to look like..."
"Yeah, it’s scary, isn’t it?" Belinda wondered why the girl looked so upset. The painting hadn’t really frightened Belinda, just given her a bit of a spook, and that was mainly because she hadn’t been expecting it the first time.
Nodding, the girl backed away slowly, twisting a lock of hair around suddenly nervous fingers. "Very... scary..." Taking another couple of steps back, she looked at Belinda. "I’ll be back to see it again soon, very soon, you can bet on it." She started for the door, intent on leaving.
"All right then... are you all right there?" Belinda came towards her, worried about the wild look in her eyes.
"F-fine... just fine..." It was obvious that she was lying. "Thanks for showing me... I’ll come back soon!" Then she bolted for the exit, leaving Belinda behind, shaking her head, feeling as though the girl knew something that she, Belinda, didn’t know.
The hall remained silent for over an hour, which Belinda spent mostly towards the opposite end of the room, admiring happier paintings. Her strange encounter with the young girl and the painting had all but left her mind completely when the quiet was broken by the sound of voices, two hushed whispers traveling at a frantic pace.
"Wait until you see it, Ness, it’s not right, and I don’t know who painted it but it just makes me feel strange inside..." It was the girl from before, and she was leading a boy who looked about her age, tall with patient eyes and jet black hair.
"Are you sure, sure you weren’t just imagining..." the boy who was apparently named Ness was saying.
"How could I have imagined that? Why would I even have been thinking about..."
"Calm down, Paula, it’s okay, I’m sorry. Show me, show me..." His hand fell on her shoulder as she pulled him around the corner and pointed.
"There! There it is, Ness, look at it! Look at that bubble in the middle, and tell me what you see!" The girl’s tone had grown even more urgent, her words run tighter together. "See the face, and the blond hair and the headband I’m wearing..."
Ness looked like he had stopped breathing. His eyes were open wide, his body frozen in a gasp, then he blinked once, again, over and over, rubbing his eyes like he was seeing something he couldn’t believe. Turning to the girl, he managed a breath and finally found words. "I don’t see you, Paula. I see me."