Brushstrokes of Betrayal

While waiting for the curator, Peter stood transfixed in the museum; his gaze locked onto a painting that seemed to vibrate with an eerie energy. A light from above focused on the painting, seemingly bringing her to life, while the rest of the area around him seemed dark and mysterious. The girl within the frame stared back at him with a haunting blend of sorrow and yearning, her eyes pulling him in like a siren's call. He felt a strange connection to the magic of the art that somehow breathed life into the scene before him.

“I see you found our version of Georgiana,” the curator said. 

Peter turned to see the elderly man walking down the long aisle toward the different paintings from the 1700s. His strange accent caught his attention.

A blend of dust, aged wood, and polished wood floors created a musty scent that lingered in the air. Peter couldn’t help but think he was breathing in echoes of time itself while staring at the painting before him.

As the old man’s footsteps echoed closer and closer, Peter gazed at the painting, noticing the stark contrast of light and shadow. The lady in the portrait appeared so lifelike that it almost felt like her chest was rising and falling with each breath. 

“Wow, this painting almost seems real.”

“Yes,” the curator said, “she does, right? The fable is about how a sorcerer trapped her there hundreds of years ago. She and her lover were caught with one another, and the king was not too happy, as his daughter was pledged to another. A sorcerer was called to punish her by putting her into a painting. As the pigments fade, so does she. The story is that someone must be willing to take her place under the shadows of a blood moon that falls on October 31st when that boundary between the living and dead becomes thin as a veil.”

Peter smiled at the story. “Even by today's standard, she is pretty. The artist did an excellent job.”

“Ah yes, this artist would be a good one to learn from,” Roger said.

Glancing back at the painting, he nodded in silent approval. "My goal in working here is to improve my art knowledge. I figure if I get close enough to them, I might become one with the painting, to understand the artist, you know?"

The curator nodded, casting a wry smile in the dimly lit corridor.

“Well, Mr. Thomas, the security guard's job is not that demanding. You ensure everyone leaves the museum. Once an hour, you make your rounds and start again the next hour. You should have ample time to do college work between walking the rounds. I will give you a pamphlet on our museum that tells the story of each piece.”

Peter noticed the man’s attire, which seemed somewhat eclectic, especially with the large amulet around his neck. The amulet cut from a large gemstone seemed to glow different colors under the focused lights from the ceiling.

Noticing Peter’s attention to it, he explained. “Kids from the local school were here earlier today. I wanted to put on a bit of a show for them. I even practiced an accent as if I were from Transylvania. Their teacher told me they were studying Mary Shelley’s works.

A chuckle escaped Peter's lips as he imagined the monster stirring to life. The absurdity of a crazed madman digging up corpses with bells attached to their fingers or toes made him smile.

The curator gave Peter a tour of the museum and suggested that he get some sun and exercise during the day, as his job as a security guard was sedentary. He found it curious that an employer was concerned about his well-being but let it go.

On the following Monday, Peter finally started his first shift. Spending extra time at Georgiana's painting was becoming a regular occurrence for him at night. Just before midnight, he would drift off to sleep, only to be jolted awake by his alarm, signaling it was time to start his rounds.

Both Peter and Roger found the convenient schedule to be helpful. Roger's character was defined by his consistent actions, which never faltered.

He was drawn to that specific painting night after night, captivated by its beauty. There were times he felt an involuntary chill creep up his spine, a visceral reaction to the tension and haunting surrealism captured within the frame. It was as if the painting had reached out and ensnared his imagination, leaving him both disturbed and fascinated by its nightmarish allure. The story of the painting haunted him. Why didn’t the king ensnare the lover instead of his daughter? He wondered.

Weeks passed when he noticed subtle changes in the painting. Again, the lights were playing tricks on him. The time changed with the earlier nights; Peter let it go.

Other paintings also seemed to appear a little differently. 

The next day, the museum hosted more children. Roger, the curator, was still there when he arrived for his shift.

“You’re working late,” Peter said.

He nodded. “The people who fund us require me to do some ordinary things, like an employee review. It's been six months since you started; how do you like it here?”

Upon seeing the man, Peter couldn't help but notice the peculiar outfit he was wearing. With a smile, he nodded in agreement as he expressed his appreciation for the ambiance of the place. After six months, he had only learned about some of the artists and a few of the paintings. Roger knew why. The painting of Georgiana was enchanted. The fable he told Peter only six months prior had validity to it.

“I would have loved to meet Georgiana,” Peter admitted.

Roger smiled when he thought of the girl in the painting. Her real name was Vanessa. The king ordered her real name not to be used, as he didn’t want the world to know of her betrayal. His people were told that she was on a voyage to help people who were in desperate measures.

“Good, I am thrilled that you will be staying with us. Tell me, Mr. Thomas, what do you do when you are not here or at school? Surely you have hobbies. An intelligent fellow like yourself must indulge in some other activity.”

Peter scratched his chin, thinking about his college friends still engaged in cosplay. He told Roger about a play he was in, dressed as a kindergarten cop.

“Brilliant, Peter, that’s smashing. Would you be willing to come in a little early in a few weeks dressed as John McClain from Die Hard? The kids would love it.”

Peter thought about the tagline when his lips curled upward. “Ah ah, Mr Thomas, I already know what you are thinking. I am afraid the Yippieee-ki-yay line will have to only play out in our minds.” 

Peter laughed, “Sorry, can you believe that’s a Christmas movie?”

Roger smiled as he nodded. “We are living in exciting times. By the way, I brought you a celebratory bottle of red wine. You look a little pale. Are you getting plenty of fresh air and sunshine? Are you getting lots of meat in your diet? Red meat is good for you.”

Peter glanced at him and the bottle. “I will get out this weekend and walk in the park. Thanks for this.”

Roger peered at him, noticing what appeared to be red pimples below his long, wavy hair around his neck. 

“Would I be the bad guy or the good guy?”

Roger warmly smiled again. “One man in his time plays many roles in their exits and entrances, Peter. This time, you play the good guy, as you call him. I will play Hans. The kids will love it!”

The wine was gone, Peter had hiked through the park, and he was ready for the play. He was looking forward to being a cop. The line Yipieee-Ki-Yay ran through his mind as the bell above the door chimed letting Roger know that he had arrived.

Peter was met by a convincing antagonist (Looking down at his outfit). "Well, well, well. Looks like I've got a new job: playing a cop in a play. Who would've thought? My life's just one big cosplay, isn't it?"

“Yes, you are brilliant beyond compare.” Roger decided to offer him more wine, hoping it would help him relax and pass the time.

“These kids are coming this late?”

Roger peered at the clock and then at the moon which was still mostly white. “They are out tricking and treating Peter, they will be here. Should we run through this a bit before the kids get here?” 

“Sure, what did you have in mind?”

“I used to write many years ago. I was playing with this script, ad-lib, as you see fit. Let's see how this sounds.”

Roger, as Hans Gruber: (Smiling slyly) "Ah, Mr. McClane. I must say, your attire quite fits our little performance. Perhaps you're more prepared for this role than you think."

Peter, as John McClane: (Rolling his eyes) "Oh, great. Now I'm getting fashion advice from the bad guy. Just what I always wanted."

Roger smiled before getting back into character.

Roger, as Hans Gruber: (Laughing) "Well, Mr. McClane, you'll find I'm full of surprises. But don't worry, I'll make sure to give you a proper introduction to the audience."

Peter, as John McClane: (Sarcastically) "Oh, goody. I can't wait to see what you have in store for me. Maybe you'll even let me borrow your fancy European suit when we're done."

Roger, as Hans Gruber: (Smirking) "I'm afraid that's out of the question, Mr. McClane. I wouldn't want to ruin your tough-guy image."

Peter, as John McClane: (Grinning) "Well, at least I'll have my trusty white undershirt to keep me looking sharp. Who needs a fancy suit when you've got style like this?"

Roger, as Hans Gruber: (Shaking his head) "Ah, Mr. McClane. You truly are a man of elementary tastes. But fear not, I'm sure our little play will be anything but simple."

Peter, as John McClane: (Chuckling) "That's what I'm counting on, pal. After all, what's a good action movie without a little chaos and mayhem?"

"Peter," Hans began, swiping a wisp of hair away from his eyes. "I have this hunch that your nonexistent girlfriend could be in potential danger."

Peter scowled, disregarding Hans' ill-timed joke as he surveyed the metaphorical canvas of Roger's disturbing joke.

"Girlfriend?" He snarled, mirroring Roger's flamboyant speech style. "You think the painting I've spent countless nights with has somehow gained human consciousness, thus getting her into 'trouble?' The audacity!”

Roger wasn’t just any museum curator. He had a plan, and his unwitting security guard was a large part of it. On cue, the two walked the museum away from the front door, which Roger had locked.

No kids were coming to see some cosplay, and the museum would not be open that night. There was indeed a type of murder afoot, and while all the world might be a stage, tonight, this stage was for the dead.

Engrossed in his role as John McClain, Peter strutted confidently through the museum while Roger slithered stealthily behind him with a sinister grin.

The blood moon was just a few minutes away from its total eclipse. 

Roger chuckled when he saw Peter’s face as they rounded the corner where the mystical lady had hung for the last hundred years.

Peter spotted the painting materials, an easel with a spotlight on the canvas. "Hey Roger, what's all this?"

"Come on, Peter, I'm Hans. Ask me again in character." Peter chuckled, thinking the story had something to do with a counterfeit masterpiece.

"Hans, what's all this about?" Peter inquired.

“I don’t know, John. Is that the same painting you have been guarding for months now?” He asked while peering at his watch.

Peter inspected the painting more closely, noticing the same amulet around her neck that Roger had around his. Pointing at the amulet in the painting, he turned to see Roger’s amulet, which seemed to be alive, it glowed and swirled as a strange light cast eerie shadows through the skylight above them.

“Wouldn’t you like to join her, John, and be one with the painting?”

Peter glanced at Roger and smiled. “Sure, why not?”

No sooner did the words leave his lips when the spell from hundreds of years ago was broken.

With the striking of the midnight bells, Peter became one with the canvas, and Vanessa, who had been hanging on walls for eons, stood in front of Roger, in the flesh.

"Reginald, ye don't say! How ever did ye find someone to take my place?"

Before he answered her, the embrace was long overdue.

“He might not have gone willingly, as the sorcerer said he had to, but he was in full character, which was enough to fool the spell.”

“You mean you tricked that poor boy?”

“Trick is such an ugly word. Let's say he is playing the greatest role of his life.”

Vanessa glanced at Peter. His face told a tale of betrayal. 

“Won't they come looking for him and find him in this painting?”

Roger, or Reginald as he was known to her from 300 years ago, shook his head. He glanced at her, pulling out his paints and brushes. He showed her his mastery of the skill he had gained through hundreds of years of art lessons. He added a quick mustache, stripes on Peters’ white t-shirt, and a few bars in front of him to give the illusion of his vocation as a career criminal. When Reginald created a new title, Vanessa strained to read it. She stared at the text, realizing it was written in a script she couldn't comprehend.

“What is this…is that a title?”

Reginald smiled. “You wouldn’t understand it, but it says, Yippieee-Ki-Yay…”

Vanessa shook her head in agreement. “I have some catching up to do.”

Chuckling to himself, he meticulously shook out his paintbrushes, the soft bristles swishing as he readied his art supplies for storage.

"I'll explain to you what a 'DVD' is, show you a 'TV,' and introduce you to the concept of 'streaming services.' They have a collection of ancient plays we can watch all day while the sun is up. Perhaps we'll stumble upon an amusing scenario, such as people stranded on an island after a 4-hour boat tour. Everything you encounter will be a fresh experience for you."

It was as if he was speaking another language. Vanessa rolled her eyes, feigning dread. "Sounds awful, but I suppose the people stuck on the island would make for some easy snacks."

Clearly, she didn’t understand what she was in for regarding televised programming. With a smirk, he capped his paint tubes.

The world has undergone countless changes over the last few centuries, but tonight, on October 31st, it was illuminated by the rare occurrence of a blood moon.

Most of the locals were likely celebrating this event by getting tipsy and providing ample food sources for the night.

As Vanessa watched Reginald finish the painting, she noticed the man's ashen complexion. “The man in the painting appears pale. Was that his original color?”

Reginald glanced at her and smiled as the glint of his teeth caught the moon's light. “No.” 

Vanessa's grin held a hint of sadness as she asked him, "Are they still hunting our kind in this day and age?"

Reginald shook his head. “No, fiction writers have made a mockery of our kind, so much so that they no longer believe vampires are real.”

She glanced at him with a wry smile. “Fascinating.”

The museum door closed, and the bell above it signaled the end of an era.

You might be wondering about the happiness and well-being of the overlooked security guard—well, let's talk about him. Not every story needs a happy ending—unless you happen to be a vampire. Yippie Ki YaY!  -Scott