Sentient Masterpiece

There was an appeal in a museum that I could never quite explain. The expanse of the stone structure, the quiet reverence a building such as this commanded. Everything about it was comforting and felt so permanent and reassuring. 

The atmosphere held a strange, cool mustiness despite its impeccable cleanliness, like an ancient tomb opened to the world for people to discover its treasures, and I was here to discover them all. 

My museum was the best. It combined both the treasures of the past with art. The best of both worlds in this one glorious building and this week a new exhibit opened featuring artwork from the early modern era revolving around horror. A collection of the dark twisted paintings most of which, I assumed, were likely to be some kind of lead poisoning psychosis. Whether that was true or not was irrelevant to me. It made for a good story.

I made my way to the newly arranged hall, passing the other exhibits I had seen many times before with their pretty landscapes and bowls of fruit. I was on a mission and I'd left my visit too late in the afternoon to meander about. I could always come back and most certainly would, over and over, until the exhibit moved on.

“Carl." I nodded to the guard standing by the archway.

“Miss Sarah.” He nodded back.

Carl had been a guard here since I was a child with his perfectly pressed uniform and ageless ebony skin. It was as if he himself was a work of art and I enjoyed seeing him as much as any of the museum's treasures.

The room beyond felt different than usual. There was a slightly ominous tone in the air, an oppressive sensation, but I shrugged it off as I looked at the paintings. Their dark images and heavy use of brown tones was all that it was. A visual translating to a sensation. Nothing more.

I was pleased to discover that I knew some of the works. Saturn eating his son was hanging pride of place. The crazed look in Saturn’s eyes was clear, the paranoia that his son would overthrow him. My face twisted a little in disgust. Eating him seemed overly dramatic.

On the opposing wall hung a collection of Fuseli. The nightmare, rumoured to be a depiction of sleep paralysis, was paired with Thor battering the midgard serpent and others I had never seen. They cemented my assumption that Fuseli had mistaken his paint pot for his coffee mug one too many times.

Sitting down on the central bench seat, I took my time soaking in the works. For all their gory subjects, a severed head here, someone getting gutted over there, the workmanship was masterful. Not only in the purposefulness of the brushstrokes but in the emotions they conveyed. There was a lot of despair in this room, a lot of fear. Perhaps that’s why I was the solitary viewer.

My pocket vibrated and I jumped, letting out a pip of surprise. No one wanted to be startled in a room like this and, as it was, I was already of an anxious disposition. I pulled my phone out and looked at the screen.

Mother.

Instantly my stomach clenched and I felt lightheaded. A buzzing began in my ears, a sound I likened to mild tinnitus, and my mouth began to water.

I do not have a good relationship with my mother. I am the reason everything is wrong in her life. Those times that things didn’t work out for her before I was born were still my fault. The only reason she would be ringing me would be to either blame me for something or to set me up to take the blame.

“Hello?” 

Was it possible to have a mouth dry as cotton but salivating at the same time?

“You’ve forgotten your father’s birthday, you horrible child,” Mother screeched from the other end of the line.

I hadn’t. Dad and I had gone to lunch on his actual birthday and we had enjoyed a lovely, calm meal without Mother making it all about her. Dad knew what she was like and had made it clear that I didn’t have to come to the party. He had always tried his best to shield me from her but I had always wondered why he hadn’t shielded himself.

“I’m not coming.”

The buzzing in my head grew louder and my vision began to swirl. The paintings were all looking at me, revelling in my discomfort. I knew what was happening. I needed to get somewhere private.

Mother was screaming through the phone now but I couldn’t listen to her anymore no matter what her narcissism demanded. I hung up and lurched to my feet. There were no bathrooms nearby. There was only the supply closet. To my relief, the handle turned and I slipped inside just as it all went black.

Recently I was diagnosed with vasovagal syncope. High levels of stress cause me to pass out. Also having anxiety doesn’t particularly help the situation. However, it has only ever been my mother that has sent me over the edge. And that is how I find myself waking up in a closet.

Cracking the door open I looked out into the room only to find it dimly lit. Opening it further, I slipped out and instantly realised I had been unconscious far longer than usual. The museum had closed. 

There was a sound coming from down the hall that sounded like footsteps and I moved towards it hoping it would be Carl or perhaps one of the other guards I was familiar with. The figure stepped out from behind a sculpture and I froze. I could not see clearly in the dim light but nothing about its stance spoke of a guard. Its body was hunched and spindly and it began moving towards me with jerky movements. I took a step back, bumping into a bench seat which shifted ever so slightly with a squeak that reverberated throughout the room. 

The figure picked up the pace, its twitchy limbs struggling to move smoothly, but it was closing fast. I could see more clearly now. The creature's long fingers dripped with something dark, leaving smears on anything it touched. It looked underfed and gaunt and wore nothing but a filthy cloth bound across its eyes.

It was blind, I realised. I had inadvertently called it to myself when I kicked the chair. Frantic, I searched my pockets and found my bus change. Without hesitation I threw it across the room to have it clatter at the base of the painting of Thor. The creature's head whipped in its direction, its body twisting to follow.

My heart pounded in my chest. This couldn’t be real. Surely I was still unconscious.

As the creature reached for the last of the spinning coins, a long black serpent struck it from above. Its wide jaws and razor sharp teeth clamped down its neck. With a jerk of its scaly head it flung the corpse at my feet. Those cold empty eyes fixed on me and, with a hiss, the beast slithered out of its frame.

Real or not, I had to move. It was rumoured that dying in dreams was as bad as dying in waking life. It was not a theory I was going to test.

Thor’s chain came cracking down upon the serpent's head. The god was not done with the creature but I was done with both. I ran.

Saturn’s eyes followed me as he chewed on the corpse of his son. The madness in his eyes was so much more chilling now. He reached for the edge of his frame, his fingers curling around the carved wood, as he began to pull himself from it.

I left the gruesome scene behind me and tried every door I came across but everything was locked tight. Each failed attempt clutched harder about my pounding heart. My body thrummed with adrenaline and I was oddly grateful for it. It kept my condition at bay but for how long.

There was a scream of agony somewhere deeper in the museum followed by a deep roar and the buzzing in my head flooded in with full strength. My hopes had been short lived.

Using the wall for support, I staggered on. I had to stay awake. I couldn’t faint here. But it was useless and my last thought was that I was going to die here.

I awoke to blinding light and scattered, bold colours but it wasn’t right. The world didn’t look like this.

“Miss Sarah?” 

A familiar voice.

“Carl?” I said in confusion. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know, Miss, but I think we’re safe here.”

I was in a field, the grasses and wildflowers swaying in a slight breeze. 

“Where are we?”

“The impressionists section, Miss. I think we should stay here.” Carl pointed to a frame that seemed to float on nothing. Beyond it I could see the museum and the figure of Saturn glaring at us hungrily, his pale hands pawing at an unseen barrier.

“He doesn’t seem to be able to get in.”

“Carl?”

“Yes, Miss?”

“I don’t think I’ll come back here.”

"Me either." Carl nodded in agreement. “That is if we ever manage to get out.”