by Carrie King
One thing was for certain.
She would never be out of a job.
She looked up just as Marcus lowered his head toward hers. Their lips touched. She lifted herself up on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his waist. She had found something else here at Greyfield Manor. She had found her own peace.
The Haunted Gallery
A Grandad’s Love
By
Caroline Clark and Carrie King
©Copyright 2019
All Rights Reserved
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A Grandad’s Love
Read on for this new, longer book that will keep you guessing up to the end.
“He’d catch whoever it was, and then everything could go back to normal.”
Harry Ainsley has had a difficult year in the wake of the passing of his grandfather to Alzheimer’s disease. His girlfriend dumped him and his business, the Madison Art Gallery, is steadily on the decline. Harry consoles himself with putting up some of his grandfather’s artwork in the Gallery. But then, something strange starts happening. His nightshift security guards start to disappear—straight up vanish—and leave no clue behind.
Detective investigator Gavin Jones suspects Harry, and Harry, in a desperate ploy to prove his innocence, agrees to stake out the gallery with Gavin to catch the real culprit. At first, all was quiet, but then strange things start to happen: disembodied voices, the sound of footsteps, lights flickering, chairs being thrown, and Harry’s office being locked from the inside—with Harry still in it. Gavin believes it’s an elaborate hoax, at first, even with Harry desperately trying to get the man to believe otherwise.
With his career and his gallery on the line, Harry sets to work trying to get to the bottom of the mystery, and what he finds will change his outlook forever.
Prologue
For the first time that night, Harold took a minute to just breathe. He looked up at the painting hung perfectly on the stark white walls of the Madison Gallery. The opening had been a success every definition of the word, but almost everyone was gone now. The last stragglers were standing chatting by the door, and Harry found himself unreasonably irritated at them, wishing they would just leave so he could go home.
The last few hours were a complete blur. Family, friends, artists, and guests had crowded into the small spaces situated around the gallery, admiring and criticizing his latest collection, drinking the lukewarm wine in plastic cups, and nibbling on rubbery cheese impaled on toothpicks that the catering company staff had unenthusiastically set up.
Still, standing in the almost empty gallery now, Harry found himself going back to his childhood to trips to galleries and museums with his grandfather, exploring and drinking in the visual feast.
Art galleries were strange places. He had always thought so. When he was a little boy and Granddad would take him to exhibitions, he’d always found himself lowering his voice, as if they were in a church—it felt like somewhere holy.
“It happens to everyone, boy,” Granddad would say, with a twinkle in his eye. “Just enjoy it.”
They’d make a day of it. Harry and Granddad would have lunch at the café down the road, and then walk to the gallery to spend two or three hours looking at the paintings and sculptures, and just sitting around together.
It was during those trips that Harold found himself thinking of galleries as alive. The brightly colored canvases and sculptures attracted all kinds of people during the day, absorbing their energy and admiration. And then at night, quiet as the grave, they would give off that energy, sustaining themselves like artistic black holes until the next day when some unsuspecting tourist would come in to make up their next meal.
Of course, he’d told Granddad all this, and been thoroughly laughed at. Granddad had the best laugh. But something about it stuck, and through all the years of awkward adolescence and terrible acne and all the aches and pains that came with growing up, Harry started to fall in love with painting and art and the possibilities that art opened up to people. They’d painted together, the two of them, working for hours and hours in the shed, amassing a collection of work they thought no one would ever see. Granddad was talented, very talented. He’d just never been able to make it on a professional level.
Now, almost thirty years, and countless hours, later, Harry had. He was a painter, critics liked him, and he regularly exhibited his work in galleries. Living the dream. He drained the last of the wine out of the plastic cup he’d pilfered and hidden from the rampaging cleanup of the catering crew.
A few years ago, he’d bought this place, on the verge of closure, and started collecting art from young and under-exposed artists in the local area. Including Granddad. The first show he’d put together had three of granddad’s paintings, a surprise that left the old man speechless and on the verge of tears. Since then, Harry’s shows at the Madison kept him pretty busy. He didn’t stop painting, even though he found himself without much time for his own work. Since then, every show had a permanent revolving installation of Granddad’s work, at least three in every one.
This was the opening night of his most ambitious show yet. With works from four different artists, he’d managed to create a show that told a story. At least, he thought he had. From the feedback he’d received, it seemed to have worked.
This was a success, he thought to himself. His own work was hung amongst that of the other artists. It was some of the most intimate and cathartic of his life, even though looking at it now was almost impossible. It was always like that after he finished a painting. He got so sick of it. Imperfections were all he could see.
Harry walked around the gallery until he came to the last section. The way the exhibit was laid out meant that visitors would end up here once they’d seen everything else. The secluded little section held four of Granddad’s paintings, these were dark and painful, done when his doctors wanted to keep him occupied at the home. Alzheimer’s was an evil disease.
In the middle of the other paintings, hung high and proud, was a portrait of Granddad as Harry remembered him, smiling, with his glasses on the tip of his nose, and his white hair tousled by the breeze. Granddad had been his biggest fan. His inspiration. But for the last few years, he had been sitting in a care home, unable to recognize even his own family. The good days came few and far between. And at the end, he could barely even wake up.
Harry had painted the portrait the week of the funeral, working with fervor and pain and very little sleep, but it came out pretty well. He hadn’t quite captured that sparkle that made Granddad who he was, but still. It was not too bad.
“Quite the triumph, wasn’t it, Harry?” Harry jumped, and whirled around. He hadn’t heard Alan coming up behind him. The hammering of his heart against his ribs made him feel slightly sick. Or maybe it was the wine.
Alan was one of Harry’s oldest friends. He had been working at the Madison for around seven years. Most people didn’t last that long in Harry’s life. He was a slightly rotund, always jocular man with the bushiest mustache Harry had ever seen. When Harry bought the Madison, Alan had chosen to stay. “Better than retiring and staying home with the missus,” he’d said.
“Everyone gone, Alan?” asked Harry.
“Yes, sir. The last few just left. I was just going around to make sure everything’s secure.”
Harry sighed. “So, what did you think?” he asked.
“I thought it was great,” replied Alan. “Not that I know that much about art.”
Harry laughed. “That isn’t true and we both know it.” He yawned. Suddenly, a chill ran down his spine. He noticed the quiet in the gallery. It was almost oppressive now that everyone was gone.
“Go on home, Harry,” Alan said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll lock up.”
The guard trundled off, calm and serene as ever, his keys clinking on his belt.
Harry tossed his plastic cup into the rubbish bin and headed fo
r the door. He pulled on his coat and buttoned it all the way. It was suddenly so cold in there. Out of nowhere, he was seized with the desire to run out of the gallery, as fast as he could. He forced himself to slow down, carefully pulling on his gloves and adjusting his collar. It was so cold. Cold and quiet. As the grave.
“Night, Alan,” he called over his shoulder, and walked out. There was no answer from the gallery. The door thumped closed behind him.
The building loomed over him dark, silent, and oppressive.
Chapter 73
“I still don’t understand what happened,” Mark said. He was an overweight, mustachioed man who sat in the folding chair like a lump. “Alan isn’t the type to just go off on his own without telling anyone.”
Harry glared at him from the other side of the circle. The gallery staff meeting was in full swing, with everyone sitting on folding chairs in the middle of the gallery floor. It seemed like a good idea before it actually happened. Harry thought it would give everyone a chance to vent their frustrations in a receptive environment, and then he would be the magnanimous boss who would address their concerns and be all nice and understanding, and everything would be fine.
Instead, everyone was just venting at him, without giving him any concerns to actually address. It had been a trying few weeks. A week after the show opening, Alan had gone missing. He left his house one day, and just never came back. He didn’t show up at work, he didn’t turn up at any of his usual places, he just vanished without a trace.
The police had been called, but they’d been completely useless, as usual. So, Allen called the meeting, gathering together all the security and non-security staff. But everyone was looking at him... strangely, like he had something contagious. He came in early to set up the folding chairs in a circle, but when everyone came in, he noticed a few of them moving their chairs away from him. He ignored it and pressed on.
“Good morning, everyone,” he said cheerily. They mumbled in answer.
“I thought we should have a chat about how things are going.” He paused and tried to think about how to phrase the next part. “There have been some unfortunate things happening lately, and we’ve lost some dear friends. I thought it might be a good idea for us to all get together and talk about it.”
He waited for someone to say something. He didn’t want to get into the details with them all, as if speaking it aloud would somehow bring it closer to home. Alan wasn’t the first person to have gone missing from the Madison. In fact, three other nightguards at the gallery had disappeared. They’d all gone the same way as Alan. Everything would be normal one-minute, kissing wives and children goodbye, and then... nothing. Not a trace. No signs of any struggles, just... gone. It was strange.
“What’s there to talk about?” piped up Mark. “Someone’s been waiting for ‘em and taking them on their way to work.” He kept talking, but Harry tried to tune him out. Crazy conspiracy theories were not this cup of tea, even though they seemed to fuel everything Mark did.
The police had been by to sweep the place, and search through the footage from the security cameras. They’d been through every second of it, searched every square inch of the gallery, but still, nothing. Harry himself had been hauled in for questioning four times.
“You’re the only thing they’ve got in common,” said one detective. “You’ve got to understand why we’re talking to you.”
It didn’t make it any better, though. Sales at the gallery were steadily falling as was the number of visitors. The ones left seemed to be the type who were fascinated with crimes and gruesome things, coming around to see where four nightguards had disappeared without a trace. It was so discouraging.
Mark was still taking when Harry snapped himself back to the present. “...he’d never leave his wife like that, would he, ol’ Alan? He’s not that type.”
“Maybe there’s like an interdimensional portal that they all like fell through.” The excited suggestion came from Johnny, a spotty 18-year-old, who had started at the gallery as part of the daytime security staff about a month ago.
“Look, if we don’t actually have any useful theories that might help us find them all, maybe we can move on to something else?” suggested Richard Crane. One of the oldest members of staff and the voice of reason spoke slowly and calmly as he went on, “You lot aren’t actually contributing a lot to the case.”
It didn’t work. Everyone started trying to talk over each other, each trying to make themselves heard without having to hear anyone else. The gallery only had a small staff, about seven people all told, but seven people could be quite loud when they wanted to be.
Harry tried shushing them, and then joining in the yelling, hoping that maybe they’d respect him enough to stop shouting at each other, but it was no use. As he was trying to get everyone to calm down, he noticed a tall, fit man entering the gallery. He was wearing jeans and a suit jacket, but instead of looking cheap like it would on a shorter, rounder man, the outfit made him look very put together, like someone out of a magazine. Harry couldn’t help but to feel intimidated, even from across the room.
“All right, I think everyone should keep talking things through and I’ll go and help this gentleman over here,” he said.
The noise continued, rising even higher.
Ah, well. No one was listening to him, anyway. He stood up and carefully extracted himself from the circle of metal chairs before making his way to the tall man. He made sure to walk as straight and tall as he could. It was a holdover from his teenage years. He’d reached his maximum height of five feet eight inches in 10th grade and then just stopped growing, even as the other boys shot past him. The tall man waiting at the entrance gave him that same sort of inadequate feeling, but at least Harry was grown up enough to admit that it was a ridiculous thing to think.
“Can I help you?” he asked as he approached the visitor.
The man nodded curtly and fished his wallet out from inside his coat. He flashed a warrant card at Harold, and Harold felt his stomach drop. Police.
“Detective Inspector Gavin Jones, sir. I wondered if I could have a few minutes of your time.”
Phrasing aside, it sounded more like a command than a question. Harry braced himself and tried to look confident. He held his hand out and the detective shook it firmly. “Harold Ainsley,” he said.
The detective nodded. “I know, sir. Is there somewhere private we could talk?”
Snooty, Harry thought as he led Detective Jones through to the small office he had in the back of the gallery. As they passed the gathered staff, Jones looked at them curiously.
“Did I interrupt a meeting, sir?” he asked.
“Oh, you know. Monday morning staff meetings.” Harry tried to sound nonchalant, but he wasn’t quite sure it was working. They walked into the office. Harry settled into the chair behind the desk, leaving Detective Jones to take the hard plastic guest chair facing him. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was quite arty. At least that was what the guy in the shop had said. Harold had never been good with keeping up with trends.
“Now, Mr. Ainsley, I think you know what this is about,” Jones said, leaning back in the chair.
Harry tried not to roll his eyes. This was the same thing that the police had been doing ever since the first person went missing. They’d come around, sit in the arty chairs and try to intimidate him into confessing that he had something to do with the disappearances. Of course, they always left disappointed, and Harry could try and find some comfort in that, at least.
“I think I do, Detective Inspector,” he replied. “But just like I told your colleagues, over and over and over, I had nothing to do with the people who went missing here. They were my friends. I’ve known them all since I bought this place, and Alan for longer than that. I don’t see why you have to keep harassing me instead of trying to find the person who is actually doing this.”
Jones smiled. It made him look slightly evil. “Now, Now, Mr. Ainsley, I think we can get through this calmly, don’t you?
All I wanted to ask was whether you’d heard anything or seen anything more than when we last came to see you. That’s all.”
Harry wanted to scream. The man was infuriating. It was like talking to a wall. It just stood there, and let you talk yourself hoarse before it went and did what it wanted to anyway.
Jones continued. “You have to understand, it’s very hard for us to believe that all these people, who worked at the same place, for the same man, all disappearing was just a coincidence.”
He rose up from his chair in one sudden, fluid motion, and Harry jumped. “I’ll be honest, Ainsley. I’m not buying this innocent artist act you’re putting on. And I want you to know that I will find out what you’re hiding.” He dropped a business card on the table. “Do yourself a favor and call me once you’ve had a chance to think this through.”
Like a big cat disappearing into the jungle, he stalked out of the office.
Harry watched him go with a mixture of trepidation and relief. This was a different approach than the one the cops had used. They’d tried cajoling, intimidating, and even pretending to be his friend. But none of them had been this up front about it. Still, if they were going so far as to try to scare him, they were desperate.
He walked slowly out to the main floor of the gallery. Everyone was still sitting in the circle. They were thankfully quiet now. Lounging on the chairs in various states of relaxation, half of them with their phones out, the other half gossiping amongst themselves. For a moment, he felt exhausted. Everything seemed to be going downhill in the past few years. Granddad had died, people around him started to go missing, and his last girlfriend hadn’t even done him the courtesy of breaking up with him in person. She’d chosen to send a short text instead.