Mr. Timerack's Gallery of Lost Souls

“These are truly remarkable.” George Dundee commented as he continued down the hall. 

“My late grandfather Sidney Timberack believed that every photograph told a story.” Lewis Stanrick led his patron down what his grandfather had called his gallery of lost souls. 

“These tintypes are in pristine condition.” Mr. Dundee ran his finger along the base of one of the photographs, not knowing his grandfather would rage at anyone who dared run a finger over one of the portraits hanging in the hallway. Since he inherited the portraits from his grandfather, Lewis was not as nitpicky with the lot.  The subjects in the portraits were long dead and forgotten as was his grandfather.  

“Magnificent.” Mr. Dundee stopped at the Butterfly Girl. Her name in life was Matilda Ronce, born of a poor Irish family who could not afford to keep a child born with such a birth defect.  Missing several bones and internal organs that were insufficient, Matilda lived to around thirty before what internal organs she did have had given out.  But in her brief life on earth she never exceeded fifty pounds or stood three and a half feet high; she had been a star in Sidney Timberack’s Side Show.  

The banner he used while traveling with his troupe by rail, hung at the entrance of the hallway of the gallery.  Known as a cruel man or as a humanitarian, depending on which newspaper you subscribed to, Sidney Timberrack had kept meticulous records to show that he did indeed care for the members of his side show.

“Who is this hairy person?” Mr. Dundee pointed to Oscar Richert.

“The Wolf Man.” Lewis nodded.

“He looks furious, doesn’t he?” George chuckled.

Lewis did not wish to contradict his patron, but the fact of the matter, according to the record, Oscar Richert was a gentle soul who loved to stretch out under an oak tree on a riverbank while they were traveling.  While most people ran from him in horror when he was a young man, Oscar’s father realized that the only chance he had of having a “normal” life was to go off with Mr. Timberack who had shown up at the front door wearing a long coat, white shirt with a starched collar and a bolo tie.  His face was long and narrow, but he seemed to have a gentle voice and a mild manner. 

“So, your grandfather had a slideshow with human curiosities?” Mr. Dundee had moved on to the Rubber Band Man, Jerome Kossen, a true contortionist.

“He believed that no matter their affliction, they were all just as human as you or I.” Lewis hated to pontificate on the matter, but he hated how misunderstood these lost souls were by patrons who saw them as freaks from some cheap sideshow. All of them were gone before Lewis was born, but he spent time with his grandfather who would tell him stories of his travels on the rail with his troupe.

“Surely, he did not really believe that.” Dundee quipped as he smiled.

“He did, I’m afraid.” Lewis said as they had come to the end of the gallery. 

“Would you consider selling your collection?” Mr. Dundee patted his jacket, “I would be prepared to pay top dollar.” 

“These are not for sale.” He shook his head. 

“Be reasonable.” Dundee sneered as Lewis opened the door that led into an alleyway.

“I do not intend to sell any of these.” Lewis avowed. “In their lifetimes, they were part of the sideshow.  My grandfather closed the curtain just before the war.  I have no intention of putting them on display again.  Good day, Mr. Dundee.” 

“My word, I believe you are being unreasonable, Mr. Stanrick.” He protested, but received a door slammed in his face.

“Believe what you will.” He turned on his heel and walked back down the hallway past the portraits.  Stopping by Matilda’s framed portrait dressed in her butterfly costume holding a wand as her eyes looked toward the ceiling as the flash was ignited.  Caught in that moment, Matilda would forever stare at the heavens. “Imagine the nerve of that man thinking that he could possibly write a check equal to your worth.” 

For as long as Lewis Stanrick lived in his upper east side apartment, he had never taken the time to get to know some of his neighbors as he considered them beneath his contempt.  He would extend cordial greetings to the postman and the boy who delivered his groceries, but his world was narrow with all things considered.   

He had taken the apartment when his grandfather died and with the rent control, he lived cheaply in the two room flat.  Even when his grandfather was alive as a tenant, the apartment wasn’t much, a mere hovel by modern standards, but Lewis did not believe he belonged to the modern age.

Life seemed to be out of control as far as he was concerned.  He had come home from the war in Vietnam in 1972 and listened to his grandfather’s amazement, “You know, Lewis, I went over there in 1917 and I thought we had settled things then once and for all.  Boy was I wrong.” 

“I wish you had.” He sat on the stoop while his grandfather smoked his pipe, “So many bad things. So many horrible things.” 

“What are you gonna do?” His grandfather asked puffing in his Mercham.  “I got some money and went on the road with my circus.” 

“Not me.” He shook his head, “I wanna just spend some time on my own and get rid of these nightmares.” 

“The nightmares won’t go away.” 

“You still have them?” 

“Almost every night. Drove Ethel, your grandma crazy.” He chuckled. “Used to tell me I’d yell out the names of some of the boys who didn’t come home.”

“What happened to grandma?” Lewis asked.

“She died of consumption while I was in Omaha.” He answered leaning back in his chair, “She never told me how sick she was.”

“I’m sorry.” Lewis put his hand on his grandfather’s shoulder.

“It’s okay.” He bowed his head. “I kiss her portrait every night.”

“That’s nice.” Lewis smiled.

“Donnie Brookshire took that picture.” Grandfather nodded, “Took all of those portraits hanging in the hallway. He was a good man, old Donnie was, but I had a feeling he was headed for trouble.  He liked to fool around with women.  One of them was married to a jealous man.  The jealous man killed Donnie.  Shame.  Donnie believed that when he took his photographs, he would end up with the person’s soul too.  When I gave it some thought, I believed he was right.  Sometimes when I walk down that hallway, I can hear them whispering to each other.” 

“What do they talk about?” Lewis pushed his cap to the back of his head and leaned in so he could hear his grandfather better. 

“Oh, this and that mostly.” He laughed, “People are cruel, you know.” 

“Yup.” Lewis shook his head.

“Most of them people had it pretty rough, growing up different, like they did.” He sighed, “They locked Oscar in a closet most of the day, because he mother and father were afraid he’d scare the neighborhood kids.  Old Oscar was a gentle soul.  Wouldn’t hurt a fly, but one look at his hairy face and people thought he was the Wolfman. Matilda’s folks would make fun of her and tell her that they wished God had sent them a normal child. She would tear up even just mentioning her folks.  Some people have no idea how much they hurt their own children with their ugly words.”

Sitting on the stoop with an empty chair to his right, Lewis watched some of his neighbors take an evening stroll past his place.  None of them dared make eye contact with him, because they all fear him as the keeper of the Gallery of Lost Souls.  

The stories still circulated among some of the old timers about the crazy man named Sidney Timberack who had lived there surrounded by old tintype photographs of the circus freaks he once had.  Some of the old women would talk about the evil power emulating from their portraits.

His grandfather told Lewis that their portraits kept their memories alive, but Lewis suspected it went further than his grandfather let on.  He had done some reading about the power of the old tintypes of the past.  Photographs taken of men with hate in their eyes.  Some would claim staring at them too long would bend your mind toward homicide. He found most of these claims to be bunk, but there was some compelling evidence and stories that suggested there was weight to these folk tales. 

Often in the quiet hours, he could hear some disembodied voices.  He would put a marker in the book he was reading at the time and walk out into the gallery.  He would walk by each of them, fourteen in all, and assure himself that each was silent and still.

In a closet was a trunk left undisturbed since his grandfather had passed.  Inside the trunk were the negatives of the portraits taken by Donnie Brookshire.  His grandfather told him that it was the negatives that capture the soul of the subject and that if someone disturbed these negatives, the souls would become lost.  

While he found this nothing more than superstition, Lewis kept them locked away in honor of his grandfather’s memory.  He had no use for any of it and it was just easier to keep them where they were.  Still he wondered what would happen if someone opened the steamer trunk containing the negatives. 

One of his passing neighbors waved at him, “Evening, Mr. Stanrick.” 

“Howdy Mr. Harper.” He returned the cordial greeting, but did notice his neighbor’s suspicious glance as he passed.  Lewis knew the elderly gentleman would give his right arm to know if all of the rumors that circulated about that place were true. 

After the sun went down, Lewis decided he would get ready for bed.  His routine was set in stone since there was nobody around to disrupt it.  But when he went inside he heard voices.  There was a conversation taking place nearby.  Listening intently, Lewis tried to find the source of the conversation, but no matter where he looked he could not find it. The voices sounded muffled as if they were coming from inside a room somewhere. 

He opened the closet and stared at the trunk.

“I remember St. Paul.” His grandfather would tell him, “It was right at the source of the Mississippi River.  It was one heck of a town filled with all sorts of shady characters.  While it was illegal to have or sell liquor, there was always plenty to go around.  We’d set up a bonfire and break out the good stuff. My, my we’d have us a hootananny for sure. ‘Hey Donnie, come take our picture.’ High times they were, Lewis.” His grandfather would drain his hip flask as he reveled in his fond memories. Many times, Lewis would have to make sure he made it to his bed.  

The trunk was locked, but Lewis knew where the key was.  Still he was hesitant to open it.  It had remained locked for as long as he could remember. Lewis stared at the black steamer trunk wondering if he should open it to settle his internal struggle with his inner demons.  He had long sensed that whatever was inside wished to be set free. But he also knew his grandfather was very serious about keeping this trunk locked.

“You ever hear of Pandora’s Box?” He once asked Lewis. 

“Yeah.” He nodded.

“You remember how once the box was open, there was no going back once the evil was set free?” He puffed on his pipe as he looked over the top of his glasses frames set at the end of his beak-like nose. “It’s like that, Lewis.” 

“Oh Grandpa, how can that be?” He chuckled.

“You have no idea what’s in there.” His face stiffened.

“The negatives-” 

“And so things that need to stay there locked up.” He waved a finger at his grandson. 

“Like what?”

“There are some things better left undisturbed.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “You grandmother made the mistake of opening it just a bit before I could prevent it from leaving the trunk. She died a few weeks later.”

“You said she died of consumption.” 

He nodded, “I say a lot of things sometimes.” 

“Open me Lewis.  I’ve been locked up too long.” The voice pleaded, “He was cruel to us.  He pretended he liked us, but it was all a lie.” 

“Who are you?”  He asked hoping he would not have an answer.

“We are the souls of the gallery.” Came the answer from within.  

“Let us out.” Another voice sounded.

“I can’t.  I promised.” Lewis put his hands over his eyes so he would not look at the trunk.

“He promised us things too, but it was all a lie.”  There was a sob after the final word.

“We are trapped.  Those photographs are our cells.” 

“No, they are just portraits.” Lewis knelt next to the trunk and put his hand over the lock. 

More voices began to speak.

“He used them to imprison us.”

“Mr. Timberack’s Gallery of Lost Souls.” 

“He told us that we would never be welcome on this planet.  Our odd deformities would prevent us from being part of this. We would never be safe unless we did what he told us.”

“At first it seemed he was right.”

“But then we began to feel trapped.”

“Before we knew what was going on, our images were captured and put into frames”

“He told me they were just photographs.” Lewis managed to say.

“Have you looked closely at them?”

“Many times.” Lewis shook his head.

“He told us of the war. Of mustard gas and artillery that never stopped.”

“He knew what atrocities were walking free and he captured them.  He would appeal to their vanity and then he would have their portraits done.  Once he captured their images, he made them prisoners like us.” 

Lewis closed the closet door. His will power drained as he slid with his back on the door until he was sitting.  As soon as he felt strong enough, he got to his feet.  He walked into the gallery and looked at Matilda.  He studied her portrait.  Her small frail body was in her costume with the wings, but he noticed that she was bent into an unusual position that did not look natural at all.  Her eyebrows were twisted into an expression of eternal pain.  

What about Oscar? Beneath his thick hair, Lewis noticed that his eyes held a glimmer of horror and suffering.

“A missing person’s report has been filed.” One of the uniformed policemen told Inspector Dundee.

“Name of missing person.” Dundee asked.

“Stanrick.” The officer answered.

“I was there the other day. I felt strange viewing all of the photographs.  I even offered to buy these portraits from him, but he became very belligerent.  I knew I had touched a nerve.” 

Later he went to Lewis’ apartment to have a look around.  The portraits were hanging on the wall  as they had on his last visit, but there was a strange, eerie feeling hanging in the air as he moved from one portrait to another. 

“This trunk was opened.” One of the policemen observed as a number of uniformed police swarmed over the apartment like bees. 

“What was inside?” Dundee squatted down beside the open trunk.

“Just old negatives.” The policeman pulled out one of the plates.

“Just old fashioned negatives.” He put his hand to his chin. He picked one up and peered through the darkened image on the plate.  Whoever it was on the negative had wings like the Butterfly Girl. “If I were to walk out there into the sun, this negative would be ruined.”

“Yes sir.” The policeman agreed.

Instinct took control and Dundee held the plate up to the light in the room.  While this obviously could hurt the negative, he saw the wings begin to flutter.  Startled, Dundee nearly dropped the plate.

“Easy sir, these plates are fragile.” The policeman helped steady Inspector Dundee. 

He placed the plate back in the trunk with the others. Coming to his feet, Inspector Dundee took one last look at the portraits on the wall.  Everything seemed in place when Lewis had taken him on a tour, but something was amiss that he could not quite put his finger on. 

Lewis had no clue that George Dundee worked for the local city police investigating the strange goings-on in this gallery.  Hoping to trick Lewis into spilling the beans, he was frustrated when he could not accomplish what he had set out to do. 

He glanced up at Oscar one last time, uttering, “Poor bastard, could never escape from his frightening exterior just like the rest of them.  Trapped with only one option available to them.” 

He walked right past the picture of the troupe taken by Donnie in Boise, Idaho in 1933.  It was the last framed picture of the gallery and it would be the last time Donnie would use his camera. Escaping his notice as he walked past the photograph, there was such a minor, easy to miss detail.  In the photograph there was a new person present.  A person who had just joined the troupe. There posting with the rest of the troupe,  Lewis Stanrick smiling like the rest of them and was seated next to his late grandfather Sidney Timerack.  Truly, the gallery of lost souls was now complete.