Excerpt from "Gallery of the Midnight
Heart":
The building looked like a panther:
sleek, hungry, waiting. Moonlight silvered smooth black marble that rose to the rooftop, unbroken by windows. Selena approached
with caution, certain the walls were only façade; any second they would part to reveal jaws lined with razor-edged
teeth.
An ancient metal sign stood guard above
the entrance. Written in old fashioned script was Keptar Ejfel Sziv: Gallery of the Midnight Heart. Drawing a deep
breath, Selena stepped through the door.
Into
the mouth of the beast . . . where no one greeted her. She fought to swallow a lump in her throat; the same persistent lump
she’d battled for three weeks since receiving the gallery owner’s invitation. Embossed parchment with calligraphic
penmanship – strange what one little piece of paper could do. She felt the adrenaline, tasted the metallic tang of fear.
Selena dealt in several mediums. Oil on canvas,
stained glass; all mirrors of her dreams, drawn from some dark place inside her she never dared contemplate. Now she would
realize a different kind of dream. Within the hour, her first art exhibition would begin.
She stepped into the large room. An antique table waited nearby, elegant with fine linen and chilled champagne.
Taking a fluted glass, she poured it half full of liquid courage. Dove gray walls, charcoal carpet, nothing distracted from
the artwork displayed. Images surrounded her in the semidarkness, disquieting her with uneasy familiarity. Surrealistic wolves
sang under a midnight sky to rhythms wrought in stained glass. Painted lovers danced, cavorting through mist and blood. And
there, haunting her, the seeming innocence of a church captured on canvas, painted from memory but never seen. Portraits of
people never met, edged with ferocity she could only imagine. Remnants of another world.
Echoes of her dreams.
The
voice came from the shadow between two pools of focused light. A male voice, it held a similar arrogance as the invitation
to show her work. “Your art pleases me. Welcome to my gallery.”
“Thank you. Am I early? Or is everyone else late?”
“No one else is coming.”
“I
don’t understand.”
“I invited
no one else.”
“Is this some kind
of sick practical joke? Because if it is –“
“A
woman who embraces these torrid themes of the supernatural--I wanted to meet you alone. Tell me, why does an angel of light
create images of such malevolence?”
“I
don’t know where the images come from. They just are.”
“Perhaps a demon has touched you,” he said. “One who comes to you at midnight, when the
powers of evil are at their peak. He caresses you. Makes your heart shudder with emotions you dare not name.”
