Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71911 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71911 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
He stopped and stared at those for a long time, taking in the artwork with a curious eye. His arms crossed over his chest, and he stared at the image of Mussolini with the most interest. “He was my great-grandfather.”
“Mussolini?” I asked in surprise.
He nodded without taking his eyes off the painting. “His daughter Edda was my grandmother, although I don’t remember her. My family has a bloody history, and it only got worse as the line went on.”
Dictatorship had clearly been passed through his bloodline, judging by the way he spoke and treated others. “Do you like the painting?”
“No.” He stepped away. “I don’t want my ancestor’s final moments haunting me in my study.” He went past the other artwork, looking at history told by artistic historians. These weren’t paintings created during the time the events took place, but modern painters who’d taken a stab at a historical narrative.
I was quiet as I watched him look at all the paintings, taking them in with interest. “Are any of these suitable for you?”
“I respect the work, but no, they aren’t suitable.”
For a man who wanted artwork on his walls, he didn’t seem to care that much for it. “Then let’s check out the other exhibits.” I took him to the others we had. It was no surprise that he didn’t care for the watercolor section full of lilies and ponds. He didn’t like the religious section either and even said, “I don’t believe in that bullshit.”
At some point, we ran out of artwork. “Well, I don’t have anything else to show you. I can make us an appointment with our other galleries in the city—”
“What’s downstairs?” He noticed the stairs that led to the basement.
“Oh.” It was an unusual collection of paintings, a section I didn’t bother to show most people because they are so disturbing. “It’s hard to describe. They don’t really fit into any category. They’re sinister, dark, disturbing…” I wasn’t even sure why we kept them.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m all of those things. Lead the way.”
I looked into his face, seeing a handsome man with dark hair and eyes, but none of the other things he claimed. His words always had a bite, but he’d still allowed himself to be soaked to the bone so he could help me leave whatever danger he’d enigmatically warned me about.
“Sure.” I went down the stairs and flicked on the art lights. We didn’t bother to turn them on because so few people were interested in this collection. “Most of these paintings are hundreds of years old. The artists are lesser known. They depict some of the crueler things in society, the plague, demons, torture…things of that nature.”
He stepped into the room and looked at the first painting. He didn’t just look at it, but he stared without a hint of uncertainty, facing the horror head on. It was a demonic creature in a darkly lit room, its grotesque features impossible to describe. It occupied a cabin in the woods…and appeared to eat the corpse of a faceless human as it hung upside down.
“It’s a changeling,” I explained. “It’s a supernatural being who replaces someone who’s been taken by the devil or a demon or a monster. It resembles a human when it’s been spotted and shows its true form in solitude.”
He continued to stare at it.
I expected him to reject these paintings like he had all the others, even though he seemed just as interested in their evocativeness.
“I want this one.”
I almost did a double take as I looked at the side of his face. It wasn’t my place to judge another’s opinion about art, but I’d never had anyone ever want these paintings on their wall, never heard of anyone wanting to look at them more than once.
He stepped away and looked at the next one, dark monsters creeping out of the forest and surrounding a lone traveler by a campfire. A sword lay on the ground near the campfire, but the man didn’t reach for it, like he knew there was no escape. “And this one.”
I wrote it down and kept my judgment to myself.
He looked at a few others and wanted them too. But then he came back to the changeling and continued his stare again, because the first pass hadn’t been long enough.
“What do you like about this one?”
His arms were crossed over his chest as he stared, his head cocked slightly. “Do you ever feel that way?”
“What way?” I asked quietly.
“Like you died a long time ago, and now there’s this other version of you that lingers…a changeling.” His stare lasted a few seconds longer before he turned to look at me directly, gazing at me with the same interest he showed the painting.
I felt an invisible spotlight on my face. Felt like another painting he wanted on his wall. I swallowed, the intensity of his stare like fire from the surface of the sun.