LOGINThe interior of her studio represented her personality. Vintage and classy. She wore an elegant bustier with a cropped jumper attachment. Her eyes were always hooded-mysterious as a rose leaf. She moved swiftly with a model-strut and her hair waved in a sea of red. She sat down on a lip-shaped cushion and she had the casualty of a flower blooming in winter.
"I'm sorry for coming so late."Dona fluttered. She wore her most casual outfit, others would argue that she walked in with pyjamas. She did feel out of place among all the artworks, Madame Alice was one herself.
"No, bother." She waved her hand in the air.
"Your studio is amazing."Dona walked around, peering at each canvas that spread across the walls.
"Thank you doll."Madame got up, swayed her hips to her minibar.
"Tell me."She poured them both glasses of wine. "Do you wish to discuss the case?"
"Well, it's something that I hope links to the case."Dona's voice trailed off. "I have no idea how to explain it." She stopped in front of one of Madame's portraits. She had captured the fire in her eyes brilliantly, her iris seemed to be coated in chocolate.
"Start from the middle."Madame leaned on the bar. Dona read the title of the artwork that caught her eye—go beyond your form.
Dona turned slightly. "Do you believe in the supernatural?"
She could sense the shock the question brought and turned shyly to the portrait. Madame Alice merely smiled. " I believe in the surreal." She ran her finger across the edge of her glass.
"Would a haunted artwork be considered surreal?"
Madame's eyebrow raised. " I think all artworks are haunted, by the artists' memories of course."
Dona couldn't find the words, but that answer isn't what she wanted. She started walking down the large spaced studio, her shoes clicking at the heels.
" Haunted as in." Her voice grew shallow. "Right after finishing the artwork, the artist committed suicide."She waited for a gasp, for a profound reaction. But Madame Alice remained as calm as beauty.
"Ah, like Van Gogh." She pointed out. "Remember his artwork, Wheatfield with crows?"
Dona nodded. She looked at the floor. "This is different", she said. She started to fiddle with her hands."The artist sort of." She looked at her hand. "Used his own flesh to create his art."
Madame didn't respond at first. "A type of disturbance art?"
"I'm guessing." Dona walked towards the bar. "Maybe I'm just paranoid and this artist was a madman or something."
Madame Alice gave her, her glass of wine. "All artists are mad as madmen should be." She added, "And women." She smiled. "They are the whips that madmen envy."
Dona brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. " I've done my research on it." She let out a heavy sigh. "It has no history but an intriguing background."
"Do tell."Madame's hair trailed down her chest.
"Its previous owners were killed by the youngest boy in the household". A chilling wind swept through the studio, making the dreamcatcher chime. " In the police report, the little boy told the officers..."
The dreamcatcher's rattles picked up the pace, banging against the wall. "That the man in the painting told him to do it."
She was wearing a classic trench coat, with a fedora and that hid most of her red hair. Sitting across from a concerned family, she stated."Like any private detective, I have seen many things in my years, even previously as a former agent."She took her hat off and entwined her fingers. "But nothing could have prepared me for what was to come." As the husband held his wife in his arms, she wailed as the detective continued. "I am sorry for your loss."
There she was. As a lusting satyr grabbed at a feminine figure, Dona was now the sleeping Hermaphrodite artwork. Approaching her from the rear, Harry thought she represented Venus, but, the front side revealed something unexpected.Why had she been represented as Aphrodite's son and not Aphrodite herself? She was stark naked, posing like a doll with no expression. He wanted to touch her, to stroke her cheek and feel the urgency of the scene in front of him. His chest was caving in, and he found it hard to breathe. The tears st
The doorknob twisted and a light twinkling of metal came from outside. With murderous intent, Harry flung open the door, clinging onto the arch in need for support. Like a cunning serpent, he entered the garden of artworks. Grabbing his phone torch; he lit his way through the gallery.The air was dry, and his sinuses gnawed at him. He sneezed so hard he stumbled into something near the wall. It was wet paint. The gallery was still in the making, the interior design was incomplete, but there were
No matter the room, the smell of rotting flesh followed him like a shadow. He had to steady himself on the walls, trying to escape the voices. Fervent wailing and inaudible speech vibrated all around him. He staggered his way to an unassuming door at the far end of the house.He turned his back to it as soon as he fell, rolling down the door with his stomach clenched. He held his head in his hands, shaken and confused he looked up. Looking down the hallway, the paintings and all their tumult ceased. He was now able to breathe,
*Trigger Warning* This chapter contains graphic contents.Breathless, he stood outside of Tony's residence. His throat was dry, as he swallowed in the sultry rage bobbing around his apple. He kept flicking his forefingers together. It was the witching hour, and he didn't care.
His ribs convulsed with every breath as he sat on the edge of the bed with his hands on his knees. Sweating profusely he tried to stand but rocked his way back to the bed. He felt groggy, a headache, was waiting for him along with the clutter of a new day. He stood and stretched his shoulders, twisted his neck and walked towards the studio.He'd find himself wandering around like a desert wind, without a place to rest. He tried to stay busy with something other than work- he knew that it was a bad idea to be enthralled by the