by Sandy DeLuca
I believed I could do anything at that moment. I could be anything.
I completed and signed the exhibition agreement, and then I gathered items Alex mentioned. I propped my art against a plaster wall, and then laid out the hooks, hammer and wire.
I turned when door chimes sounded. Charlie stood there, his face paler than before, his voice low, measured. “You’ve done it.” He took a step, and then another, moving toward me.
“What have I done?” I asked, as memories of blood and wounded flesh flashed through my mind.
“What Lena never could,” he said, and chimes sounded again, and then he was gone, like a presage of darkness and pain.
I left Gallery Alexandra, never realizing, when I returned, my life would be transformed forever.
* * *
I arrived early, parking my car a block away from the gallery, walking slowly, savoring the gentle rain, and a full moon hanging in a purple sky. No one waited outside. No lights shined within. I moved through an open door, and then smells of oil paint and varnish filled the air. Guests would arrive shortly, waiting to view work Alex had handpicked.
I wondered if Alex waited out back, anticipating the press and buzz about her first opening. My eyes adjusted to darkness, moonlight cast an eerie glow, and my painting became evident—Alex, dressed in black, eyes lined with dark liner, hair piled high. She sat demurely on an old-fashioned chair, held a skull in her hands, others at her feet, where blood shimmered on checkered tile. A man stood behind her, Charlie, standing beside children—ashen, ghostly, with bloodstained clothing and fingers. Bones hung from gaping holes on walls behind them. Red dribbled from Charlie’s lips, and he held a vermillion-soaked knife. Shocking and beautiful images I’d created in nighttime hours.
Another canvas hung there; in a place moonlight did not touch. I reached for a light switch, and then a dim bulb shined above. Someone had fastened the canvas to the wall with hooks— Evie, photo-real, every detail perfect. Her head, arms and legs severed. Black and green paint blended with red strokes, running together, streaming down the horrific work. I moved closer, touched canvas, fearing the worst, but it had been only paint—only someone’s morbid vision, but who else knew Evie well enough to capture her image so vividly?
I found another light switch, flicked several levers, and then soft yellow light bathed paintings and gallery. That’s when I saw Alex slumped on the floor. Her head crushed, blood mingling with brain matter and skull, a bloody hammer by her side.
“Oh, my God!” I cried. My eyes scanned the gallery, searching for a killer, fearing I’d be next.
“Quite an exhibit, but don’t take all the credit.” I spun on my heels. Charlie leaned against my painting, arms folded, eyes fastened on Alex’s body—torn, ruined and bleeding. “It took years for it to happen. We all collaborated.”
“Alex. Who did this to her?” I told myself it was a dream, that tomorrow I’d awaken and Alex would be alive—whole—again.
Charlie laughed softly. “She was beautiful, but had to die.”
“No,” I told him, and rushed toward him, my hands clenched, wanting to beat my fists on his chest, but he was no longer there.
I turned, needed to leave, to call the police, remembering Detective Mansi’s card in my glove compartment. I’d redeem myself—mourn for Alex. The pain intensified, tearing at my heart and soul like nothing else I’d ever felt. I looked to the door. Lena moved slowly toward me. “She’s dead, and she can’t come back. You know that.”
The children stood behind Lena. A chorus of laughter erupted, tiny footsteps sounded, and then I began to tremble.
“What have you done?” I cried, clutching my chest, feeling as though it would explode. I felt faint, the room spun, and then smells of fresh blood permeated the gallery.
Now Lena went to Alex, knelt beside her, and cradled her in blood-drenched arms. She kissed her, and then ran her hand over Alex’s ruined head. “This is real,” Lena told me.
The children moved closer to me, singing, laughing. I cried out again, but did not struggle when they called my name, when cars began to arrive, when screams erupted, and when sirens began to screech. I didn’t protest when Detective Mansi handcuffed me and took me away. I merely looked over my shoulder at Alex’s broken body, and I knew they had defeated me.
Epilogue
Lena is here, her eyes shining, and her skin smooth and tight, so young and vibrant. She slips a hand mirror from her pocket, and then holds it up to her face. “Did you figure it out?”
I nod slowly. “The children got sick, suffered, and died before their time. They never had a chance to live their lives.”
Lena nods. “Everybody wants a second chance…me…those kids…even Charlie.” She shrugs as she moves toward me, and I smell summer flowers, and hear silver bracelets jingle. “Some people have to die…to balance things…for blood…”
“Alex?” I ask.
“Gone…with Andrea.”
She hands me her mirror, and I look into glass. Child eyes peer back at me, intense, curious…like old photographs of me lining my grandmother’s mantel.
“Even you get a second chance,” whispers Lena.
Now I wait in this darkened room, hands pressed to a table, and Ben stands in a corner, and sooner or later, someone will come through a door—alone—lost—and he’ll take her to where she needs to be—and she’s doomed to reside in this place, while Charlie waits in shadow, whispering curses he learned long ago, reaching out for my gram.
I touch my face, glad tears have stopped, feeling strong, confident…young. I want to live my life...we all want to live and love, just like Lena and Charlie, kissing…beneath a bloodred sky…lovers for eternity…whispering messages from the dead.
About the Author
Sandy DeLuca has been a painter since 1985. Her worked has been exhibited in college galleries, hair salons, tattoo parlors, bookstores and traditional galleries. Her art has been purchased throughout the United States, Canada, Asia and Europe. In addition, she has painted cover art and interior art for publications that have reached worldwide audiences.
She has been a writer since the late ’80s, penning nonfiction articles and photography for magazines and newsletters—throughout the ’90s. One of her claims to fame is writing under the pen name Autumn Raindancer. Two of her poetic chants were published under that pen in the popular New Age book To Ride a Silver Broomstick (Silver Ravenwolf).
She created Goddess of the Bay Publishing in the late ’90s, producing several anthologies and a string of small-press magazines. From 2001 to 2003 she edited and owned December Girl Press, producing novels and short-story collections.
She was a finalist for the Bram Stoker Award for poetry in 2001.
At present she is a full-time writer and painter. She’s written and published five novels, two poetry collections and several novellas. She is assistant curator at New Hope Gallery, in Cranston, Rhode Island, and continues to exhibit her art in local venues.
To learn more about her current projects, please visit SandyDeLuca.com.
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Table of Contents
Prologue
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23
Epilogue
About the Auth
or
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