Page 179 of Shhh…It’s A Killer Story

No. This looked like something that had frightened the Brothers Grimm.

Massive black river stones formed impossible towers that disappeared into low drifting clouds. Ivy swallowed entire sections of the walls, thick enough to resemble living veins crawling across old masonry. Narrow gothic windows pierced the stone like watchful eyes while weathered gargoyles crouched along every roofline, forever frozen somewhere between prayer and violence.

It was magnificent.

"I've never wanted to live inside a nightmare before," I admitted.

Persephone smiled.

"They're surprisingly cozy."

The heavy oak doors opened before we reached them.

Inside, the temperature dropped immediately. The smell hit me first. Oil paint. Turpentine. Old books. Wax. Charcoal. Something floral. Something metallic. The entire mansion smelled like creativity slowly losing its mind.

The entrance hall stretched upward through three stories where crimson velvet curtains framed impossibly tall windows. Black marble floors reflected candlelight that danced across antique furniture, enormous bookshelves, and sculptures that looked half-finished, as though they'd climbed out of their stone blocks themselves, but nothing prepared me for the gallery.

My feet stopped moving.

The walls were covered. Floor to ceiling. Dozens. Hundreds. Paintings. Not portraits. Not landscapes. Not still life.

Emotions. Pure emotion somehow trapped beneath layers of paint. One enormous canvas was nothing, but violent crimson slashed through with streaks of charcoal black.

It made my pulse spike.

Another seemed almost empty until I stared longer. Muted blue. Soft grey. Tiny scratches beneath the surface.

Loneliness.

Not ordinary loneliness. The kind that settles inside empty houses after funerals. The kind that sits beside you while you eat dinner alone.

I could feel it.

Another canvas twisted my stomach so violently I stepped backward without realizing.

Fear.

Raw.

Animals.

Cornered.

The room wasn't displaying paintings.

It was displaying nervous systems.

“People paint faces," Persephone said quietly behind me.

"I've never understood the obsession."

I looked over my shoulder.

"What do you paint?"

She smiled almost shyly.

"What happens underneath them?"