Patron of the Arts

The flashlight swept over centuries of pigment, illuminating the priceless brushstrokes of long dead artists. Footsteps echoed in the silent halls as the security guard continued on his nightly patrol. Walter yawned blearily, a mixture of weariness and tedium.

None of the elaborate paintings impressed him, why would they? It wasn't as if he had an art degree in his back pocket or needed some expensive wallpaper to decorate his mansion. A patron of the arts? He snorted at the idea, imagining himself holding a wine glass and saying something pretentious.

What do they say to you?

The memory of his high-school art teacher made Walter pause. Let's see what they have to say, he mused. Casting the beam on a canvas depicting Venus, he grinned. Who said art was all bad? He certainly had a healthy appreciation for the female form. "Those painters sure saw a whole lotta titties." Walter chuckled as he strolled along, ogling the exposed breasts of goddesses and aristocrats.

There was a new exhibit opening, a velvet rope barring the entrance. "Opening next week, The Life and Works of Maxime Andre Taccardi", a sign read.

Maybe there was some curvy beauties waiting in here, those French people are some dirty bastards. Walter bet this artist was a huge pervert. In fact, he was counting on it.

After ducking under the rope, Walter eagerly swung the flashlight around the room. Eyes widening, he recoiled in disgust.

They jumped out at him, nightmarish creatures in shades of black and red. Misshapen eyes and limbs seemed to stretch towards Walter, as if trying to claw free from the confines of their grimy canvas. Swallowing nervously, he timidly wandered further into the exhibit.

Whoever this Taccardi guy was, he was definitely fucked in the head. Nobody sane would dream up things so vile and revolting.

Morbid fascination kept Walter moving along, peering at humanoid subjects writhing and screaming from a work titled 'Agony'. Was he painting visions of hell? Or were these the demented creations of his imagination?

He stopped before a plaque, frowning at the description.

"Maxime Andre Taccardi defied conventions and chose to paint using his own blood, insisting this made his works more personal and vivid. He lived a troubled life and spent most of his time inside the studio. On October 31st, 2008, his body was found lying before his final painting: "Anguish". This work contains more blood than any of his previous creations."

There was a sensation, a feeling at the base of his skull. Being in here made Walter's flesh crawl, but there was something else he couldn't quite explain. It felt as though someone was lurking here. Were those footsteps merely echoes? Or was someone else following him around the empty museum?

As he turned to leave, the light spilled over the painting.

It spoke to him.

And he listened very carefully.