Blood Sacrifice

If you listen closely enough, you might just hear the faint whispering of the paintings when a new artwork arrives at The Gallery Diablerie. A stifled laugh here, a murmured rumour there—easy to attribute to any of the gallery’s wealthy clientele or dismiss as a passing echo or the squeak of a wooden floorboard.

But when the lights are down and the visitors have departed, the paintings gossip freely amongst themselves, nudging their neighbours and visiting friends on the next landing; exchanging hearsay and dealing judgement; assessing the newcomer’s merits and origins; conjecturing on its artist and their portfolio; determining for themselves whether it is deserving of praise or ridicule.

At the very least they are politely curious, apprehensive at the most.

But today? Today, they are downright furious. 

Desmond Dutoit feels it from the first moment of his Friday morning shift. It is the third month of his tenure at the exclusive, eclectic art gallery and by now he knows every corner of The Gallery Diablerie, every winding staircase and creaky landing, every triptych and bronze plaque. His instincts are attuned to hone in on the lightest layer of dust upon the gilded frames and the slightest tilt or imbalance of a display. He knows in his bones the odour of fresh oil and varnish that a newly acquired painting carries.

But today, nothing is as it should be. The anger of The Gallery Diablerie’s residents is felt in every room and every landing, unsettling the visitors with their restlessness. The tension is most pronounced in the Upper West Wing, where the gallery’s newest installation resides.

Its arrival late last night was shrouded in secrecy, with the suicide of its artist—one reclusive Gustave Delacroix—as the only news circulating its creation and acquisition.

In the dappled sunlight that trickles down from the stained-glass windows, Blood Sacrifice stands proudly in its obsidian frame, poised upon a marble dais, defiantly ignorant of the mutterings and musings of the patrons surrounding it. 

Desmond has worked in museums and galleries for the past three years, passing in and out of the revolving doors of France’s most prestigious establishments, and still he has never seen such a grotesque artwork, never seen an audience so shaken by a single image. Even the tour guides stumble over their words, and the security guards keep glancing over nervously, as though checking that the crazed man in the painting has not moved to pursue them from beyond this realm.

“Don’t stand so close to it,” a gaunt mother tells her juvenile son, who seems unable to tear his eyes from the image.

“I heard there’s actual blood soaked into the canvas,” a swaggering youth remarks to an unnerved girl. “The old geezer killed his wife, smeared her blood into the art, then offed himself.”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” a sophisticated woman declares distastefully. “Shock value, that’s all it is.”

“Describe it?” a young man says into his cell phone. “I don’t know, sweetie, it’s got a naked guy covered in blood, and dead babies… it gives me the creeps. Okay, if you really want to see it, I’ll try to get a photo…”

“It’s no Saturn Devouring His Son,” a bespectacled man tells his wife, who looks as though she’d rather be anywhere else, “but it’s pretty grim, alright.”

Pretty grim, indeed.

For it is said that the painting has strange effects on those that view it, that a strange life slumbers within the linen canvas, oozes between the dried oil. It is said that if one peers too closely, allows oneself to be absorbed into it, they may find more of themselves in it than they would like. Before they know it, they are sinking, drowning in a lake they mistook for the sky, or in blood mistaken for dark waters.

His gaze transfixed upon the canvas, Desmond almost completely forgets he’s in a sterile gallery surrounded by chattering visitors, with sunlight streaming through the windows. Forgets the cool air conditioning and the warmth of his three-piece suit. Forgets the smell of hot coffee and the taste of his spearmint chewing gum.

Instead, he’s naked and alone inside the painting, with the scent and taste of blood, the screams of tortured children and the rigid agony of cold iron for company. A monstrous man’s clawed hand reaches towards him, clamps around his soul.

Desmond is hardly the world’s foremost authority on art. His mother always said, if an artwork makes you feel something, then it has succeeded. This is the first time that he has to disagree with her. 

Averting his gaze from the sordid scene, he searches the walls for a distraction, only to stop, perplexed. The wall in front of him held a portrait of a sorrowful lady and her newborn only moments ago; now, however, it contains a crude work of abstract Expressionism, all formless shapes and contrasting shades, a jarring contrast from the sharply rendered Romantic works surrounding it.  

It is not uncommon for the paintings in the gallery to inexplicably swap places, but never within seconds of being observed. Something is wrong.

Slowly, Desmond raises his radio to his lips and says, “Dutoit to Head Office. We may have a situation on landing five. Please advise. Over.” 

A crackle and a hiss, and then: “Un moment. Sending someone over now.”

Desmond hovers nervously by the odd painting. This isn’t the first time he’s had to report a missing or damaged painting, and his supervisor was quick to point fingers the last time he called for help. He isn’t sure why, but he’s always had a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But the person stepping onto the fifth landing of The Gallery Diablerie is not Karl Novak, the sneering American with the horseshoe moustache and the receding hairline—not even close. 

This person’s vibrant velvet suit nearly, but not quite, takes precedence over their exquisite countenance. At once they exhibit the very finest femininity and evince the most virile manliness, and yet there is something more in their features, more than can be surmised in a single gender, something both much older and newer than the human race.  

Anger and pleasure play around the defined contours of this person’s face like fancies upon the wind, never settling, and yet forever etched like carvings upon stone. The colours of their cheeks and lips are rendered more perfectly than from the finest brushes and the most well-made oils. And their most vibrant eyes—that striking, ethereal hue that is only found in the rarest of souls, those who know without the shadow of a doubt who they are and what they must do—why, they are both benign and hostile, from one angle as plain and honest as day and from another as dark and capricious as treacherous night.

Within them lies an immeasurable wealth of colour and texture: the formless dreams of surrealism; the classical beauty of the Renaissance; the dramatic grandeur of European Baroque; the elegant symmetry of ancient Grecian tableaus; the vivid fantasies of the most renowned expressionists; all bound within a body that seemed to strike figures and postures found in imposing marble statues, larger than life and unnatural in their realism.

All eyes are upon them—they have the entire gallery wrapped around a single finger and seem wholly unaware of the fact. Instead, their attention is held by a man who feels completely undeserving of it: Desmond Dutoit.

“Monsieur Dutoit,” they say, and their voice sounds exactly how they look: beautiful. “I am Frances Avery, the curator of La Galerie Diablerie. It is my pleasure to meet you at last. Now, what can I help you with?”

Avery speaks with the wisdom and conviction of someone much older than they appear—a person who has travelled many countries and seen many horrors and wonders. 

“I—yes,” Desmond stammers, stepping forward to shake Avery’s warm hand. “Pleasure to meet you. I just noticed—this wall here, it should be occupied by La Triste Mère, yes? Instead, we have… this.” He gestures vaguely towards the misplaced canvas.

“Ah,” Avery says, sounding vaguely concerned, “not to worry, monsieur. I shall see to it that the correct painting is replaced by this time tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir—madame… sir,” Desmond says awkwardly, unsure how to address Avery.

Avery smiles exquisitely, seeming to take no offense. “Tell me, Desmond. What do you think of our newest friend, this Blood Sacrifice?”

Desmond can feel the painting at his back, can feel the eyes of the sinister man boring into his skull. He decides to answer honestly. “I don’t like it.”

Frances Avery’s gaze travels past Demond’s shoulder, and his eyes visibly darken. “I’ll let you in on a secret, Desmond Dutoit. Neither do I.”

Desmond wants to know more, but as he draws breath to speak, Avery nods in farewell and smoothly descends the narrow staircase towards the lower floors. 

Despite the brevity of their conversation, the gallery curator’s words stay with him long after closing time, when the sun has fallen and the lights are dimmed, and he stands alone in the dark with the gallery’s finest collections.

The gallery is restless tonight, and so is Desmond. He cannot get Frances Avery out of his mind, and the nervous energy in the building fills him to capacity. Metal scrapes on wood as paintings swing from side to side, floorboards groan under his weight, and sheets of rain wash down the windows, turning the stained-glass images to tempestuous storms.

At around four in the morning, there is a most peculiar sound from the attic: a wet squelch, a sharp crash, and a heavy thud, all at once.

Desmond ascends the staircase slowly, resisting the urge to draw his torch. The attic contains the rarest, most priceless paintings in the gallery, and therefore is the most likely target of robberies. But the room, he soon finds, is abandoned. He walks slowly from one end to the other to be completely sure, and that is when he realises something is terribly wrong.

Rather than the mysterious shapes and colours that one sees from the corner of their eye as they pass a series of paintings, his peripheral vision observes only a uniform blank darkness. Desmond’s shoes squeak on the floor as he stops, midstride.

He does not want to look—he has no desire to see. And yet he must, and he does.

The frames adorning the walls, from floor to ceiling, are empty. The paintings are gone. But it is not that they have been stolen—the frames have not been touched; every corner is in place, not a single one is crooked. It is as though all the paint has seeped from the canvas and been replaced with an otherworldly darkness. Every frame holds the terror: the fear of nothing; a valued treasure’s disappearance, a loved one’s absence; an unknowable depth, a forgotten order. It is impossible but undeniable. 

All but one.

It is a curious frame, hidden away in a small alcove, away from prying eyes. It is clearly meant to display a work of great grandeur, a pièce de résistance, he would imagine. Instead, the painting is awash with golden light, emanating warmth and memory. It is a window, a mirror, a doorway, stirring up the attic dust and making Desmond’s hair stand on end.

As Desmond approaches, his stomach tight with apprehension and anxiety, the golden light dims and the painting goes dark, just like all the rest.

He is gathering the courage to reach out and touch the painting when he hears a creaky floorboard downstairs, and remembers what is there, what he should have kept an eye on all this time, instead of avoiding it as a scared child averts his eyes from the horror film.

Growing more and more discomfited, Desmond hurries below. But instead of interrupting a heist in action, he discovers none other than Frances Avery, gazing into the depths of hell.

“Good evening,” Desmond says cautiously.

Avery turns from Blood Sacrifice and nods a greeting. “It seems inaccurate for the word ‘good’ to be uttered anywhere near this frame, doesn’t it, Desmond?”

He has to agree. “I have heard that a curse lies upon it. What would possess a man, to produce such a work? What must he have been feeling?”

Avery sighs heavily. “A bestial storm raged within Gustave Delacroix, made him more devil than man. Disillusionment turned to derangement turned to death. And this, his magnum opus, will go down in history as his defining work. There is no beauty in it. This is a piece of hatred, of darkness, themes which are not misplaced among the great works of our age and before. But that is all there is to be found here.”

“So,” Desmond says, swirling the word around in his mouth, “you agree then, that the work is cursed?”

Avery begins to pace, their dress shoes clicking upon the polished floor. “When an artist places so much of themselves in their work, their soul is said to live on, long after their passing. Perhaps you have seen it, in your Van Gogh, your da Vinci, your Vermeer, your Rembrandt. But this painting has a cruel life. A dark mana. This is a great painting, there is no doubt about it. But it does not belong here. I will not allow it.”

“If I may,” wonders Desmond, “if that is the case, then how did it come to arrive in the first place? And, for that matter, what are you doing here at this hour?”

Avery’s reply is interrupted by a long, drawn-out howl, turning from terror to agony to triumph, emerging, it seems, from within the damned painting. And before their eyes, from the darkest shadows in the terrible scene, an unsightly black substance oozes, dripping down the canvas. 

Desmond takes an involuntary step backwards. “What in the world—”

A grey, clawed hand bursts from within the fabric and clutches the obsidian frame. The skeletal hand flexes and cracks, and pulls a body with it. From the frame, a being of darkness comes forth, stretching its new limbs, rolling its neck, licking its bloody lips with a forked tongue.

It is every bad thought, every cruel impulse, every dastardly deed. More than an apparition, the very devil himself has come to visit.

And instead of terror, Desmond feels completion. His hands move against his will, going to his own throat, squeezing, his nails digging into his flesh, constricting his larynx. He knows, more surely than he’s ever known anything, that he is going to rip his own throat out. That would satisfy the beast. Blood—it was the only way, and all that mattered. Blood.

“Release him!” Avery commands, striding forward. “Release him, foul beast!”

The demon snarls, advances towards them with heavy, damp steps.

“You do not belong here,” says Avery in a mighty voice. “The Gallery Diablerie is for art only, and as its eternal guardian I command thee leave, abomination!” 

The thing from the painting lunges forward, plunging its clawed fist into Avery’s stomach, as Avery clamps their hands around the monster’s oozing skull and roars with anger.

Avery flickers with a great light, and an infinite number of images form within their silhouette: landscapes of crimson and forest green; mournful gatherings and murderous monsters; deities and myths; clarity and obscurity.

The demon howls as a blinding flash of light fills the room. Desmond shields his eyes and cowers behind a dais. It is only when he can hear the rain and see the darkness again that he dares to step out from cover. 

Gustave Delacroix’s final work lies in charred ruins, completely unrecognisable, and the figure of Frances Avery is gone. 

Before Desmond calls it in as an act of vandalism, he checks the attic. The frames and canvases are once more adorned with priceless art. Upon the walls lie the brilliant eyes, sharp jaw, and dramatic figure of Frances Avery, immortalised in oil and pastel and gouache of several centuries worth of art. The guardian of The Gallery Diablerie.

The ruined painting is removed early that morning. Desmond Dutoit never fully understands what occurred the night before, nor the true power of Gustave Delacroix’s final work. 

But it seems that the short tenure of Blood Sacrifice and its inglorious downfall serve only to popularise the painting. Hazy images circulate online, and the image lives on within those fortunate or unfortunate enough to be present during the sole day of its display. 

Desmond hands in his resignation to a smug Karl Novak two weeks later, citing incompatible scheduling as his motivation for leaving. But the truth is that he cannot escape Blood Sacrifice, cannot forget Gustave Delacroix’s infamous masterpiece.

For within every painting in The Gallery Diablerie now lies the same lingering shadow. From most angles it seems to be a trick of the light, an imperfection cast by other objects in the room, a misperceived thing that vanishes upon a second glance, if indeed it was spotted upon a first.

But press your intent gaze close to the frame, and you will see the truth. They all carry the same clawed hand, reaching out as if from behind a thin veil, beseeching you to look even closer, to touch it, permit it entry to your world. 

And suddenly, in a place where beauty is all that you see, nothing seems beautiful at all.