Paint Me Hell

According to the dusty archived book Otto had found in an obscure corner of the National Library while in Prague, Houska Castle had been built in the late 13^th century under the instructions of a Bohemian king. No wonder the paintings in the chapel needed restoration work, he thought. After standing in disrepair for decades, the whole estate must have been in dire need of modernization. Truth be told, it might have been better to rebuild it from the ground up. This was of course very unlikely, given the other secrets of the manor revealed by the book.

Legend said the estate had been built on top of a gargantuan hole stretching to unseen depths into the ground. The hole was rumored to be a gateway to Hell from which crawled out the foulest of demons, and the castle was alleged to be nothing but patchwork, a piece of cloth meant to prevent the gaping wound from oozing more corrupted blood. Upon reading these lines, Otto pondered the wisdom of his decision. It was never his aspiration to find himself exiled to a remote marsh for chapel restorations, but employment for artists was scarce since the stock market crash. Not even the rich could afford his paintings, and commission work was already a luxury before the crisis.

Besides, the estate had passed into the ownership of the Berger aristocracy before the Great War, and there had never been a whisper of demonic attacks against the noble family since the transition. After Lord Berger died of the Spanish Flu abroad during poorly timed travels in 1919, Lady Berger spent the following decade living on her own in the castle with her staff in the most serene normalcy, or so she said in her letter:

While I could never cease to marvel at Houska’s breathtaking architecture, I must admit life in the marsh has left me feeling increasingly lonely as of late. Servants aside, the men and women in the chapel paintings are my only company, and they are slowly but surely fading away. Many of my aristocratic friends have praised your work, and I would be honored to have you visit, if only to restore my companions’ former glory. Save my friends from the ravages of time, and save a poor childless widow’s heart from breaking with the same brushstroke.

Her words were compelling enough for Otto to overlook the words of warning found while researching in the library, and he embarked on the long journey towards Houska Castle, reaching his destination on October 23^rd, 1930. The scenery was a sight to behold, yet the high stone walls of the estate did project an unshakable eeriness, as if secrets were trying to break free from their foundations.

“I cannot put into words how glad I am you accepted my invitation,” Lady Berger said as she escorted him to the dining room for his welcome meal. “We very seldom receive guests.”

“The place is even more remote than I thought,” Otto replied, still taking in the grandeur of his new work environment. “The sheer dedication it takes to get here must be quite daunting for any guest indeed.”

“Isolation is no doubt a factor,” she explained calmly, “but I like to think our absence of guests is mostly due to our highly selective standards. Every invitation I extend is carefully thought out. Some people simply wouldn’t understand our lifestyle here.”

As he looked at her from the other side of the dining table, Otto couldn’t help but think the Countess must have been very beautiful in her young days. While she still was of great beauty, the paintings in the chapel were clearly not the only sight affected by the passing of time. The question he could not answer was whether Lady Berger’s faded smile and worn out eyes could be attributed to time only, or if the estate itself played a part in her premature aging.

The years didn’t add up: records in the library mentioned the Count and Countess had gotten married in their early twenties right before moving into their new residence, which meant she must have been only in her early forties; her body, on the other hand, seemed to carry the weight of a lifetime of woes. Perhaps this was to be expected – his own hair would probably also go white after spending nearly two decades confined in this castle. Interestingly, what the Countess had lost in youth, she had kept in cerebral acuity. She entertained him with witticisms between every bite, and the incessant laughter she drew from him made him forget about the gloominess of the dark room bathed in the dim glow of candlesticks.

Over the course of the meal, Otto became acquainted with the maid, the housekeeper, the cook… the staff felt quite voluminous considering the Countess lived here by herself and barely received visitors. As the evening came to an end, Lady Berger insisted on giving him a glimpse of the work that was waiting for him. She guided him to the old chapel, and Otto quickly understood she knew exactly what she was doing.

If he harbored any thoughts of running away in the middle of the night, the paintings on the walls swiftly chased them away. They did not portray scenes from the Passion like he expected. The images were instead of the Nine Circles, of Pandemonium, of the fiery rivers. He had been brought in this chapel to repaint Hell. The men and women who kept the Countess company were tortured souls, and the second he glanced at them, his soul became enslaved just the same. These were masterpieces, the very essence of art captured in displays of pain and despair. He longed to glorify them, perfect them, claim the magnificence of their craft as his very own.

“I trust you’ll find material worthy of your skill here,” she said, well aware of Otto’s subjugation. “Should you ever get bored of biblical tales, maybe you could even paint a me a portrait one of these days.”

Her hand fleeted seductively across his arm. The Countess suddenly seemed a lot more youthful to him, and her worn out eyes flashed with the unmistakable light of desire, giving her new life and power.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Maybe.”

“Very well. Enough for tonight. You must be very sleepy after this long journey. The maid will show you to your room upstairs.”

Just as she was about to exit the chapel on her way to her own room, the Countess turned, as if a thought had just come back.

“One more thing. Please do not wander in the subterranean parts of the castle. I’m sure you’ve heard rumors. They’re all false of course, but one can never be too careful.”

That night, Otto did not sleep. He tossed and turned in his bed, haunted by the hypnotic art he had been shown. It called to him, and he yearned to put his paintbrush to work with all his devotion in his heart. Midnight came. Almost mindlessly, he walked down the stairs to the chapel, his instruments of craft in hand. Waiting for dawn was not an option. The restoration had to start now. He would first paint the scene above the altar, which showed Dante and Virgil walking down the stony steps to the Underworld. Just as his brush was about to come into contact with the wall, a scream of pain reached his ears, sending waves of fright throughout is body.

The bone-chilling cry seemed to come from a rusty door in the entrance hall. The urge for Otto to seek its source was irrepressible. It appeared locked at first, but it didn’t take long for him to successfully force it open. He found on the other side stony steps, not unlike the ones he had been about to restore. Could it be? Could the estate’s basement really be a gateway to Hell?

Another scream came. It wasn’t that of a demon or a tortured soul. Otto thought it felt strangely human and alive. Hell vanished from his mind. There was someone down there, someone in need of help. As a matter of fact, the voice resembled that of the Countess. Was she down these stairs in distress?

Otto ran down at lightning speed, a candle in hand. At the bottom of the stairs, he found a long and dark hallway. The screams were getting closer. He made his way through the corridor, drowning in sinister shadows with every step. At last, he arrived into a sort of chamber. He lit it from side to side and found nothing remarkable at first. Another scream right next to him made him realize a body was lying by his side, chained to the wall. Otto gasped himself, out of fright and disbelief.

“Who are you?” he asked, almost yelling. “What are you doing here?”

The woman on the floor seemed taken by surprise. It must have been the first time her screams of despair had attracted the attention of anyone. She was very young, twenty years old at most, and very beautiful, not unlike the Countess. As she spoke, Otto discerned a sign of guilt. Her intention was not for someone to come down to her rescue.

“Run away. Run while you can.”

The time to run had already passed. Otto received a solid blow on the back of his head, and he collapsed to the ground. The next thing he knew, he was chained to the wall himself beside the wailing young woman.

“Such a shame,” said the cold voice of the Countess as she emerged from the darkness. “Just when I thought I had finally found a new husband.”

Otto was too shaken to speak. He stared into her worn out eyes, which now glowed with the red of anger.

“You can keep my stepdaughter company,” she continued, her voice growing more terrifying with every syllable. “Beautiful, isn’t she? Lord Berger certainly thought her mother was. That’s surely why he slept with her. Maybe you can paint her portrait some time. In blood, perhaps.”

Lady Berger vanished down the corridor, a Countess of pain walking back to her quarters. Otto glanced again at the poor orphaned girl one more time as she sobbed uncontrollably, trapped to a wall by the chains of jealousy. The book was wrong. The demon in this estate was not spawned from Hell. She was human, as most demons are, just like the soul she tortured.