Clear it and move on. Don't stop to talk. Don't look where you shouldn't. Text your mother.
The Old Masters
Click. Click. Click. Click.
There was a sense of power in how Officer Calloway’s boots rang out against the silence. Perhaps it was the raw individuality of it, a solo performance — Jules was the only source of sound now — or perhaps it was the memories of their schooldays, of sharp-dressed administrators and the heel clicks they'd come to match. Whatever the case, they stepped proudly, surveilling the halls and knowing nothing would dare to cross them on a night like this.
Though, judging by the buzz in their pocket, that didn't mean that nobody would. Their pacing halted with a click-ksh as they checked their notifications.
Goodnight Homey
Homey
Honey
!
haha, hey mama
sleep well! im at work
So late?
Be safe!
Remember that Article I sent the other day ?
Woman found dead? That was near you!
mama that was like four cities away
i can take care of myself
promise
now go sleep. i love you bunches
You too !
Call soon
I had a dream your brother's wife was pregnant.
Very weird.
haha im sure
night!
There was a line an older coworker of theirs had said: it's nice to have someone worry about you. Except Jules was nearing twenty-four, and it was all getting to be a bit much.
Besides, it’d been almost a year since anyone had wanted them dead.
Sighing sharply, they jammed their phone back into their pocket and continued on their route.
Click. Click. Click.
The beam of their flashlight made the frames on the walls shine. Some of these paintings were hundreds of years old, some worn enough to need restoration. On their unluckier nights, Jules had to share their domain with the man who headed up such efforts, Adam Morrows. The lucky bastard got to actually touch the paintings. They had to settle for just quietly admiring them. They clicked their way over to an empty space at the wall and aimed their torch at the poster that hung there.
Martin Drolling's Interior of a Kitchen has been taken down for restoration.
We apologize for the inconvenience.
—The High Museum
Even a photo displayed how cracked the surface was. He was right, the old thing needed fixing. And once he was done, it'd look as perfect as ever. On one hand that was good, because history and culture and preservation very well did matter, but on the other it meant Adam wouldn't be fired any damn time soon. Even in spite of being an insufferable prick.
Jules stood for a while in front of the piece, glaring at the figures smiling back at them. At least this job was giving him some trouble. Issues with one of the paint colors being hard to match. They’d tried talking with him about it when he’d first undertaken the project about two weeks prior.
"What, so you just don’t mix some colors and slap 'em on?" they'd jeered, leaning over his shoulder as he took notes.
"Not quite, no." He'd pushed up his stupid magnifiers and smiled at them. "We have a mastery of several pigments — Egyptian Blue, even, though it was lost for so long — but this one is difficult to emulate. Its rich tones are largely due to its…well, unsavory composition."
"Y'mean…?” They'd gestured vaguely towards their lower regions.
"Wh- no! Goodness. It's perhaps a bit more… sinister."
"…I’m not followin’.”
He'd paused for a moment. "Nothing you need to concern yourself with."
"Well, you're bein' a lil' too quiet about it."
He'd stood, looming a few extra inches over them. Something of a sense of superiority. "I'll leave it at this: art and its history are complicated matters, Jules. If we tried to measure the past by the ethics of the present, we'd deem everyone a criminal. It's best not to judge the old masters, and better to simply appreciate what they gave us."
Jules understood. But it didn't mean they had to like it.
"I know there's somethin' up with you," they told the poster. "I don't really know what, but there's somethin'. And it feels a lil' spooky."
If the picture had opinions, it kept them to itself.
Jules was a person of many talents. At least, this was what they mused to themself as they circled around the staff area and checked the entry logs. These talents included their security work, of course. The one time someone had broken in, he hadn't stood a chance, and then there was the work back in… hell, they were beating around the bush. Their real talent was extreme patience. So much patience, in fact, that when the log displayed a sign-in from Dr. Adam Morrows just two hours earlier, they didn't kick the damn display console.
So much for solitude. They noted down the activity in their logbook and pushed open the door to the restoration space. That saintly patience came into play once more as they caught themself before they flicked on the harsh fluorescent lights, instead just turning up their torch beam and aiming it square at the cloth-covered workstation.
"Protocol says you owe me a heads-up before waltzin' in here."
The beam glinted off his glasses, tossing shards of light at the wall as he looked up at them. "Apologies, Officer Calloway. I couldn't sleep a wink. I thought I might get a little extra work done on the Drolling piece."
They scowled. If he could see it, he didn't react. "Guess I better head out, then. I'd hate to disturb all your high-tech efforts."
"Oh, they're hardly high-tech." He reached over to adjust the lampshade, letting the bulb cast a faint, warm glow across his face. "You're welcome to take a look if you'd like. I've made some progress mimicking the old pigmentation. Nothing can quite match the original, of course, but I believe it should suffice."
Jules raised an eyebrow, but after a moment's pause, they crossed the room to join him at the broad table. Secured to its surface was Interior of a Kitchen. Now that they were up close and personal, its cracks were all the more apparent. There was some level of poetry in here, they mused. A beautiful piece tarnished with time, cracking to reveal… well, something Morrows obviously knew, but something Jules was still in the dark about.
Those faces were mocking them. They were sure of it.
"Not bad." They examined where cracks had been carefully sealed and colors had been precisely matched. God only knew what kind of concoctions he'd used to patch up the damn thing. The fume traps — really just large fans — were on full blast, but Jules could still pick up traces of a chemical cocktail. "Still fuckin' creepy, especially with your being on some kicker about the paint comp. But I guess that's not changin' any time soon."
"Comp?"
"Composition. It's, what, 2 AM? I stop bein’ a wordsmith past 12. You want a sonnet, go talk to Billy Shakespeare."
He stared at them, his expression steadily growing more disturbed. "…William Shakespeare.”
"You got it." Jules stepped back from the table, giving the flashlight a twirl. "See, I know some things. I'd know more, if you weren't so weird about shit."
Adam bristled, closing his eyes and taking what Jules felt was an over-exaggerated deep breath. "Is this about the conversation we had the other day?"
"You should try for MENSA."
"Look, Jules…" He trailed off, pinching the bridge of his nose and heaving another deep sigh. God, what was it with that stance? Seemed like every guy who thought he was something big struck it to make a point. "There's a lot of complexity behind the history of that painting. Things that horrified artists like Drolling. You wouldn't believe some of the things people come across in this job."
They raised an eyebrow. "You work with paint, dude. Past fume-induced hallucinations, I doubt you're goin' up against much."
"…Huh."
For one long, disturbing moment, he was silent. And Adam wasn't a man who did silence. He did quiet, sure, in that little voice of his that both demanded you respect him and begged you to listen to him, but never silence. And never the blank silence Jules was being met with— calculating, ice-cold.
"Perhaps there is just a bit more you should learn, then, Jules."
"Past shelterin' me on paint? I'm honored. Next you'll be teachin' me about shapes— hey!"
But Adam was not listening. Their rant had bought him the time needed to shut off the fume fans, and now there was stark silence, the only sounds being Jules' struggles as he grabbed them by the back of the collar and dipped them towards the surface of the painting. They flung out a hand to catch the edge of the table and keep from plowing into the damn thing, but now their nose was practically touching the still-drying surface. The faces below blurred out of focus as they strained to regain sense. Struggled to regain posture, too, but couldn't find a weak point behind them, couldn't pull the collar away from their neck enough to not gasp for air, couldn't lash out for fear of damaging a priceless artifact.
And in all of this, all Adam offered was one word: "Listen."
They listened.
But he wasn't speaking.
(hello)
Hel-
Hello There You Seem New You Seem A New Face Seem To Be
(can i ask you something)
Does he often treat you in such a way?
(are you going to bury me again)
Your Eyes Open Wide Wide Eyes Moon Sky Like The Sky
I would have little patience for such a thing.
I Liked The Sky When I Saw It Higher Than I Ever Made It Higher Than The Gallow Higher
(could you do it right this time)
You seem pained.
(it keeps getting darker)
Higher Than My Soul The Sun The Son The Father The
(are you joining us)
He was at least kind enough to ensure they fell back when they collapsed.
At least, above all else, Jules was dutiful.
After the Shit With The Painting, as they had dubbed it, they'd finished their shift and returned home without another word to or from anyone. They'd slept for five hours, gone to the store, straightened up their apartment, and… well, and then just sat back and stared at the ceiling for a while.
How were you supposed to deal with things like this? Contacting the police, probably. At the very least contacting the museum to let them know their restoration specialist was batshit insane. But HR complaints were mounds of paperwork and legal proceedings were time and money, and Jules was exhausted just existing these days.
So after another nap that afternoon, they did what they always did when times were rough and money was tight: they went to work.
Click. Click. Click. Click.
Flashlight. Poster. Hallways. Art. Check-ins. Adam — No! Kitchen. Paint.
Clear it and move on. Don't stop to talk. Don't look where you shouldn't. Text your mother.
Although they'd tried convincing themselves several times over that they weren't concerned for Adam, they couldn't quite master the lie. Elitist he was, and condescending, but not violent. Never before violent. And if they'd heard those voices at his insistence, he'd heard them too, so they were either really there or they were both screwy.
A few nights of pondering these matters prompted Jules to call a therapist. A night awake prompted them to cancel the appointment. Something like this was likely to get them medicated or worse, and mandatory reporting would come back to bite both of them.
Besides, the museum at night was their domain, and it was that thought above the rest that kept drawing them back to pace through the halls. Flashlight shining, boots click-ing. In the moments where all they thought about was the silence itself and not what lay underneath it, it felt like they were back in control. Jules knew these halls. They knew these paintings. And they knew that if Adam Morrows grabbed them like that again, they were going to have a hell of a lot more than something to say about it.
But every night they felt the urge to return, to listen to what the choir had to tell them and to understand who and what they had been. When had ghosts become a thing? Jules had explored abandoned places as a kid, had hopped fences to walk through houses and tag their walls. Even the spots that gave the local tough kids a pause barely fazed them. So why, why did things have to become real now, right when they were trying to put their life back together?
"Are you joining us?"
A year ago, maybe. They'd been a hotshot young detective assigned to an art theft case that nobody took too seriously. Just another painting to be intercepted on eBay, and the damn thing wasn't worth that much anyway. The Art Theft Detail had welcomed it as a break after going on a months-long goose chase for a painting that had been in some grandma's closet.
Then people had started getting killed.
It'd escalated fast. Jules had been on the online side of things, grabbing details, and intercepting emails. But suddenly they'd been stumbling across the names and numbers of people working the case, details about their homes and families, all up for grabs for interested parties. They'd done what they could, but soon enough their own name had popped up, and nobody wanted the department rookie's death on their conscience. They'd been not-so-gently instructed to disappear.
They had. They'd hunkered down in a nice little job below both their pay grade and their skill level and now had to worry about getting choked out in a restoration workshop while a bunch of ghosts ranted at them. Rock bottom was beginning to feel like a fragile surface.
A stinging sensation in their palm dragged Jules out of their sulking. They pried their fingernails from their skin and eased their grip on the flashlight as they approached the screen. No names. No Morrows. Good. They cracked open the door, doing a quick once-over with the torch. Coast still seemed clear. They stepped back and pulled the door shut. Continued on their way. All routine these days, everything as quick as possible.
Except… except the issue was the routine. They'd been dodging around the room ever since the attack, doing their best to avoid running into Adam. The museum at night was supposed to be their domain, damn it, but here they were tiptoeing around Mr. X.
It all had to stop. They at least had to know, had to figure out what the hell was going on with that painting. And if he wasn't there, this was as good a time as any.
They took a deep breath and pushed the door open. It all felt like signing in at their old desk, hands trembling as they brought up news of the dead and soon-to-be. Now the dead had spoken, and Jules felt they owed it to them to listen.
Click. Click. Click. Click-ksh.
Just a couple gals on an old, old canvas.
"Hello."
(hello again)
We were waiting for when we'd see you again.
Hello Again Again They Always Come Back She Said They Would When
He's been dreadful company these past few days.
(it keeps growing darker)
Clouds Cover The Sky And I Cannot See The Sun And I Weep For It
I should hope you've taken care to avoid him. He's said some worrying things.
(he won't answer my questions)
"Yeah, Adam's… I don't know what's up with him, honestly. He's never been this bad." Speaking to the damn thing didn't make the whole situation feel any less weird, but it was nice to know that the weird painting ghosts seemed concerned for their wellbeing. Or one was, at least. "Any statements that stood out to you?"
Yes, quite a number of-
(you speak strangely)
Do Not Eat The Apple God Weeps For The Sin Of It All
As I was saying. Quite a number of things. About you, particularly.
(and about the old masters)
A Question A Challenge A Query An Inquisition
(i don't know who they are)
He seems to crave their approval. Others' as well, he seems a bit of a desperate man.
"I mean, he's a big shot 'round these parts. Has a reputation to keep. But why's that got you worr—?"
A thought flashed through their mind, morbid and vivid, but the very idea of it was ridiculous enough to sound like something from a horror movie. They shook their head, doing their best to shrug it off. They had to get it together, focus on what was really going on here.
"Nevermind… just, who are you?"
(just someone)
I Am Unworthy
I believe I am a simpler case. I was a darling little foreign wife.
(someone took me apart)
My husband took ill and passed suddenly. I was accused of killing him for his fortune.
The Sky Weeps The Sun Shies Away I Am Floating
I was imprisoned. I was killed.
Flying Floating Hanging Waiting
I was angry. I stayed bound to my body.
(someone bound my body)
I heard someone say they would mummify me. I knew the term only from my husband's curiosities.
(that's the word)
But laying there, I truly came to know what it meant.
Jules furrowed their brow. "So you…"
A lesson from training crept back into their mind at the mention of the mummies. They'd been taught to pick up on characteristics of art pieces from different eras, things that would denote authenticity. Stroke styles, signature quirks.
Paint types.
"But… so wait, you ain't Egyptian?"
From our apparent mutual understanding, it seems safe to say that the three of us are not.
"Yeah, fair, but…" They raked a hand back through their hair, tugging at their scalp to try and focus. "But, but, then… we'll talk about that later. What has he been saying?"
Your Doctor has become obsessed with authenticity. With you.
(he's called you his muse)
He refuses reason.
My Love Pouring Endlessly I See Her I See The Sun And-
Crea-ak. Click. Click. Click.
Even the voices quieted at the sound of the far door opening.
"Jules? I thought you might be here, I… I'm terribly sorry about the other day-"
Go.
Jules ran, boots pounding on steady floorboards, flashlight beam swinging wildly. Before Adam could even register their movements they had reached the opposite door, tugging on its handle to escape to freedom.
It wouldn't budge.
And now, alone with a madman in the dark, that stubborn thought rose to the surface again: there were more people in that painting than the three women it depicted. More, probably, than had even spoken to Jules thus far.
And they were in the paint.
Jules wiped a sweaty palm on their slacks and adjusted their grip on the flashlight.
"Was, uh, jammin' the door part of your apology, Adam?" They gave a nervous chuckle, turning to face the interior of the room. "Most people do this kinda thing over coffee."
In softer lighting, they might've been convinced of his side. His smile was small and meek, and he walked slowly. The torch's sterile beam was unforgiving, though, and Jules could see how he just looked wrong. His smile was paired with dead eyes, and his walk was deliberately slow — like a fox approaching a rabbit.
"A necessity, I'm afraid. You do have a bit of a… let's say, tendency to run when things get complicated."
Their nails were beginning to break skin. "Fuck off."
Adam stopped and held up his palms. "My sincerest apologies for hitting a sore spot, but I do my research on the things that fascinate me. You happen to be one of them."
"Yeah, your pals said somethin' similar." They took a few steps to the side, trying to keep him an even distance away. "Told me a bit about themselves, too, actually.
"Your 'unsavory composition' was just, y'know, human lives — I guess that ain't much to you. But you talk a lot of shit for someone restorin' a painting created with ground-up mummies."
They expected a reaction from that line. Something, at least, anger or denial, something that made him feel human. But he simply shrugged.
"It isn't as if I can change the past."
"At least have a little fuckin' shame for it, Adam!"
He stepped forward. Jules stiffened.
"And yet you have no shame for interfering with my work, Officer Calloway. I would think someone like you would understand the inherence of loss in art."
"The fuck do you-"
"Think about it." He began to pace. "Art— art always requires loss, does it not? Money spent on paints leaving one in the gutter, trying to appeal to the masses to earn their keep. Gorgeous portraits of wartime scenes — and there, there you can even see the loss right on the canvas, hm?
"So what is the next step, Jules?" He turned to face them. "Pouring human emotion, humanity into a painting is the start. Is putting in actual humans not the next logical step? Is it not the purest form of love to those we do not know to include them in what we deem beautiful? Is it not the best expression of admiration to turn our muses into our medium?"
Jules stared at him, eyes wide with shock. It took a moment for them to recover, but once they did, they said the one line they could think of:
"Bless your fuckin' heart, Adam, you're screwier than I thought."
He smiled broadly, stepping forward to close the gap and putting a hand on their shoulder.
"It's that Southern charm that draws me to you, Jules, it really is."
Drawing back with a grimace, they raised their arms to shove him back. But before they could react, they found themself staring up at him, their legs swept out in less than a second. Their head hit the ground with a crack. They tasted blood.
"Disappointing, considering your prior training. I suppose even the pros get rusty."
They spat, rolling over to try and push themself up. But now he had their legs, and they felt a ripping pain through their elbows and hands as they tried to brace against being dragged back. Adam simply hoisted them up like a fallen toy, holding them close, whispering an apology for their struggles. Assuring them the pain would be temporary.
And then the world tilted sharply, the edge of the table catching Jules in the back of the legs and making them crumple back onto it. The room felt like it was spinning. Their ears were ringing. Their palm, their tongue, God only knew what else was bleeding, and they could barely string together a coherent thought other than I don't wanna die.
They tried to get up. Couldn't. Could only look around the dark, wide-eyed, and disoriented.
But the room was now mockingly quiet, forcing them to hear their own whimpers and gasps and pleas for Adam to just stop this. But there was no response from him now. He was off by his supplies, getting something, and even though they had precious seconds there was nothing they could do.
They closed their eyes and willed the world to stop.
And for a brief moment, it felt like it did.
I Think I See The Sun
"…Whassat?"
(it's definitely brighter)
They opened their eyes, glancing over to the painting.
And the flashlight next to it.
I believe I will leave this decision to you.
I don't wanna die.
The sheer effort of moving nearly knocked them down again. They grit their teeth against the pain, felt a gasp slip out, heard Adam begin to rush back over. But the torch was theirs, and as they steadied themself on the table, they felt a strange clarity among the chaos.
"Come on, Jules, this is pitiful. You're only making this harder for us bo—"
They dragged him down and against them. Slammed him against the table.
Stared down at his shock.
Wondered which city they'd head to next.
Then slammed the torch against his head until he stopped moving.
"…Say hi to the old masters for me, Adam," they wheezed. "I think y'all might be in the same place now."
The room was silent.
They weren't sure how much time had passed. An hour? Two? Granted, five minutes could feel like an eternity with a corpse in the room. Whatever the case was, they knew they had time before anyone would arrive on the scene.
In spite of their nerves being shot, in spite of the shaking, Jules felt eerily calm. Deep down they knew they had expected something like this. Had seen it coming from the moment he'd first attacked them. The panic would come later, they were sure, but for now, they embraced the numb tranquility.
They leaned against the table, tilting their head back and closing their eyes. This was borrowed time, borrowed peace. But they had done what they had to do.
Well, except for one thing.
hey mama
just wanted to let you know im safe
love you bunches
gnight.
The Old Masters | TBA »