A Portrait of the Curator

A curator experiences a night of sorrow, terror, and delusions after he so professionally, yet so unwittingly rejects an eerie painting with a terrifying vibe by an even more eerie painter.

Gregory Schmitt was my name, and my profession as a humble art curator of paintings at the North Birchton museum, which was a relatively successful art gallery in my small town of Birchton, Illinois. Being the curator of the museum, I was in charge of taking care and overseeing all the artwork in the gallery, documenting their history, as well as share my knowledge with the visitors. Another part of my job, and the one that eventually led to my tale of terror, was to select which artworks to display on the museum.

It all happened on a rainy day in March, when someone entered our museum carrying a moderate sized framed painting. He was a relatively average sized man with a pale sharp face wearing a brown longcoat. His jet black hair was combed neatly to the back, and his expression was ... grim and serious, to say the least, rather gloomy, but almost menacing. “Good afternoon, are you the curator of this museum?” He asked.

“Yes, and you are ...” I replied as I held out my right hand for him to shake.

“My name is Baron Ulmaar, and I would just get right into business, for I would like to submit my humble artwork into this museum.” Said the man, Baron Ulmaar, almost immediately after I was done speaking. He held out his framed artwork for me to see, but left my hand hanging.

The painting was that of a landscape. A large stretch of grassland with jagged mountains in the background. It was an eerie picture. The jagged mountains in the background were painted jet black, but it was decorated with strokes of grey and the edges were lined with a silvery shine, as if to separate it from the sky, which was also painted depressingly black, with rough strokes of red as a lining to the dark clouds covering it. There was also the moon in the top right corner, but it was painted blood red and looked as if it was oozing down to the mountains from the sky.

Before I could even open my mouth the respond, Baron Ulmaar said, “It’s called ... The Night of Madness.”

I blinked twice and tried to observe the painting once more. Some of the strokes were rough, while some were smooth. The good thing was that he painted the grass with such miraculous detail, almost as if it was a photograph, but the rough strokes of grey on the jagged black mountains sort of ruined the whole photographic look of the painting. That, and the oozing blood red moon. Drips of the red paint reached all the way down to the top of the rightmost jagged mountain, where it blended it sort of like the red paint was also lava coming out of the mountain.

It looked like it was accident, but at the same time I was also sure that it wasn’t. The painter continued to stare at me sharply while I observed his painting. His sharp, piercing silver eyes actually half-intimidated me.

“I’m sorry sir ... but I’m afraid this is ...” I began to speak, but once again Baron Ulmaar interrupted me before I could finish.

“You’re going to reject it? I’m sorry sir, but with all due respect, I’m going to need to push you into accepting my artwork. This is a most pressing matter.” He snapped as he drew his face inches closer to mine. I could feel his icy breath on my face as I flinched back.

“No, I’m afraid that’s not how it works sir, there’s formal procedures not to be ignored, and even just on the surface, I’m not interested in purchasing your work to put on display in the museum.” I replied as I adjusted my tie after clearing my throat.

The man didn’t reply right away, but he continued to eye me ominously, as if he was obeserving me. He blinked a few times and eyed me from top to bottom, and then back again before asking, “Are you sure there is nothing I can do to change your mind, curator?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” I answered as I shook my head.

“And no manner of bribe nor any form of persuasion is going to change your mind, can we both be sure of that?” Baron asked.

“No sir, my apologies, but I am a respected curator in a formal museum, and thus I do my work professionally. I do not, nor will I ever want to accept a bribe. Not just from you, but from anyone.” I replied, starting to get irritated and annoyed at the man in front of me, who still continued to eye me seemingly without hestitation nor sense of unease. Sadly, the same cannot be said for me, who returned his uncomfortable and most rude gaze, but with much discomfort.

“Very well, then ... I can respect that, but pardon me, I never got your name Mr. Curator. I told you mine, so I ask you at least return the favor.” Baron responded after another brief period of silence.

I was quite surprised by the sudden change in his manner, but I answered, “M-Mr. Gregory Schmitt.”

Baron smiled in response, but it wasn’t the smile of a friendly person, no. His smile was broad, sharp, and accompanied by the glittery and mysterious shine of his piercing silver eyes. He then proceeded to reach out his right arm, while his left tucked his painting behind his back. “I’m sorry, but I do believe I left you hanging earlier Mr. Schmitt. If you’d be so kind, I wish you won’t do the same to me.”

Although rather weary and suspicious, I decided not to offend the strange man any further and just decided to accept his handshake, though I was startled at how cold it was. I forced a friendly smile while Baron’s own smile slowly faded away as he released his strong and cold grip on my hand. “Good afternoon. Enjoy it while you still can, Mr. Schmitt.” He said curtly before turning away and walking out the door.

I was left somewhat unfocused and worried for the rest of that day, thanks to my encounter with that strange artist Baron Ulmaar, but it wasn’t until nighttime that I truly felt the impact. Pure terror.

“Good night Mr. Baldwin.” I greeted to the fat security officer as I put on my longcoat, preparing to go home.

“Good night, Mr. Schmitt. See you tomorrow.” Replied Mr. Baldwin as he waved with one hand. He was sitting on his chair as usual, about to sip his coffee when I got out the door.

“I hope ...” I whispered under my breath as I stepped out. For some reason, my heart was pounding fast and I was feeling nauseous. “Just coming down with a fever.” I assured myself as I pressed the back of my palm on my forehead. Just then however, I looked up and saw the moon. It was red. “Oh god ...” I murmured before starting to walk.

I began to sweat, even in the cold, windy night as I accelerated my pace. My heart also continued to pound and my nausea still hadn’t gone away. I just wanted to go home as soon as possible, but worse yet, I felt like someone was watching me from the shadows.

Before I reached my house however, about two blocks away, at the side of the street, I saw an old man sitting on a stool wearing a brown leather jacket, long black pants, and a black baret. Surrounding him were pieces of art. Amateur paintings.

Slowly I approached him. Anxious though I may be, something amongst his artwork captured my attention, and fully so. It was portrait of a man, and as I leaned closer to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me in the dark, I was certain that the portrait was a portrait of myself.

 

My eyes grew wide and my jaw dropped open. Immediately I grabbed that particular painting and held it up high, once again making sure that my eyes weren’t deceiving me.

“Excuse me young fellow ...” Said the old man as he lifted his head to look at me.

“T-this is ... did you paint this?” I asked in a stuttery voice.

“Of course, sonny. I painted all of these paintings around me. Amateur they may be, but painting is my passion, and even though I can’t get any of these displayed in a museum, I’ll keep on doing it. These are cheap sonny, I would most appreciate it if you’d buy one.” Replied the old painter.

“No no no ... that’s not the point. Th-this is me you painted!” I exclaimed as I turned the painting around so he could see it.

 

The old painter squinted his eyes and tilted his head. “Well, slap me thrice ... such a coincidence, ain’t it? You do look a lot like that person I painted.”

“What?” I asked in confusion. “You mean this isn’t me you painted?”

“Maybe it is sonny, maybe it is. Gosh, you do look like that man on the portrait.” Said the old painter.

“What do you mean? I don’t get it.” I asked again, getting more confused than even before.

“Look, I paint the faces I remember, sonny. Strangers. Perhaps one day you just happened to catch my attention while walking down this street, and I painted you by memory.” Explained the old man.

“Fine ... how much do you want for it?” I asked after thinking for a few seconds while examining the portrait.

“I told you they were cheap, sonny. About one hundred dollars will do, for all I want is to make a decent living.” Answered the old painter.

I didn’t even think about it much, so I pulled out my wallet, gave the old painter one hundred dollars, then quickly resumed my walk home.

“How very strange ...” I thought as I continued to examine the painting as I walked. Every detail of my face on that portrait was on point. From my wavy dark brown hair, my brown moustache, and blue eyes, even to the slight bumps on my face. “No way he painted this only by memory, no way ... there’s something to this painting ...” I murmured to myself. The good thing about the curious painting was, that it made my heartbeats slow down and my nausea go away. That wasn’t for long though, for not long after that, as I finally reached my house, I realized something really disturbing about that portrait of me.

The shirt. The shirt that I was depicted as wearing on the portrait was the exact same shirt that I was wearing at that very time, but the thing was, that was a brand new shirt. Only the previous day did I buy it, and never before that morning had I worn it.

“This was painted today ... but how?” I whispered to myself slowly as I put up the framed portrait right above my fireplace. It was odd enough to paint a realistic portrait so detailed and precise only based on memory, but to do so in just one day was just impossible to do, lest the painter is a mad, undiscovered genius who has skills surpassing even Leonardo DaVinci and Pablo Picasso. The very thought, the mystery shrouding that portrait hanging above my fireplace, it all gave me goosebumps.

That night, I did not much more than brew a hot tea and sit in front of the portrait, still examining it in curiosity, but the longer I did, the more and more I became scared.

Unnerving thoughts of how that portrait came to be, different scenarios all ran around in my mind. Witchcraft, stalking, and the biggest coincidence in the history of art, were all the ideas. After I while, I was starting to feel tired. Still scared, but somewhat tired, and so, I decided to just ask the old painter in the morrow and call it quits for the night. That was what I had in mind, anyway.

As I laid in my bed soon after, surrounded in darkness, with all doors in my house locked, I closed my eyes ... but I could not sleep. Suddenly the image of the portrait materialized in my mind’s eye, and all the wild ideas I had from before came flooding back, creating a havoc of conflicting thoughts, giving me a most terrible headache.

I turned around and buried my face in my pillow, and ever so desperately I tried to force it all to go away, but the more I forced my eyes to close, the more I wanted to drift away, the more awake I became.

“Damn!” I yelled as I raised my head and punched my pillow hard. With a racing heart, a sweaty body, and an uneasy mind I turned back around and faced the dark ceiling above me.

Silence ... though I could not hear it for the mess inside my head was deafening, maddening. Images of the portrait and the old painter were flying around, not letting me sleep, clouding and blocking the darkness. Not only that, but soon, even images of the creepy painter I met earlier that day, Baron Ulmaar appeared as well. Their voices, as well as my own all amplified louder and louder, conflicting one another, making it impossible for me to make out what these images were saying in my own head.

I gritted my teeth and planted my nails on the edges of my bed, gripping them hard, hoping it would make the madness go away, but it didn’t, and it wouldn’t, even after I opened my eyes and banged my head against the wall of my room.

It only got worse after that, the images popped out of my head and were flying around in my room. They weren’t just in my head anymore. They were in my room, the floating faces of the portrait version of myself, the old painter who claimed to have painted it, and Baron Ulmaar.

In the darkness they glowed with an eerie white mist, and amidst their conflicting, ear deafening muffled voices, I heard laughter, cackling, but more horrible and ear piercing than anything I’ve heard before. Soon, the sound of the cackling amplified around the room, getting louder and louder, accompanying their muffled voices as the ghostly heads continued to surround me in my room.

“STOP! STOP IT!” I shrieked as reached for my hair and tried to pull them out in frustration. That did nothing. Nothing at all. I then proceeded to wipe my face with the sleeve of my pajamas, and my stomach lurked as I saw what I had wiped off my face.

Paint. The color of my skin in paint form, along with sweat. Horrified, I immediately jumped off my bed and searched for the light switch. In my panic, and with the cackling ghostly heads still floating around, I couldn’t it. I just punched the wall and slapped around in vain. Even though I knew where the light switch was, I couldn’t find it, and the maddening atmosphere persists.

I slid my back down the wall as I continued to stare in horror, the expressions of the floating heads in my room were purely horrific. They all had their tongues sticking out, eyes bulging wide, and maniacal smiles covering their face. They were mocking me as they continued to cackle.

“NOOO! STOP IT! STOP IT!” I shrieked at the top of my lungs, and surprisingly, it worked. The heads stopped hovering the room at once, and all three of them turned to face me. Their maniacal expressions had stopped and they were looking at me as if in confusion.

They all let out one more eerie cry in unison before vanishing away, bursting into clouds of smoke, and that moment, the lights suddenly came on.

I breathed heavily and gasped for air as I looked around the room, making sure they were truly gone. “That was just a nightmare.” I assured myself in my head as I pressed both of my palms on my sweaty forehead. I was so relieved that when checked my palms thereafter, they were sweaty, and not covered in paint.

“That was just a horrible, lucid nightmare.” I whispered to myself, once again reassuring my own exhausted mind as I pulled myself up and reached for the bathroom door, on the other side of the room.

I splashed some cold water on my face and looked in the mirror. I felt the refreshing cold water splash on my weary face, but unfortunately for me, that soon changed.

At first I closed my eyes and just let the cold water cool my anxiety down and make my ever thudding heart relax, in hopes that it will make me forget what I just experienced, however, I soon felt that something was odd about the water. First the temperature, it became warm after around the fourth splash, and as I continued to splash even more, the water felt thick, and uncomfortable. Upon opening my eyes, my stomach lurched and I was close to throwing up.

It wasn’t water that’s coming out of my faucet anymore, it was a thick red liquid, and as I looked up to look in the mirror above the sink, my eyes bulged in horror that the whole thing was already covering my face.

I wasn’t sure whether the red liquid was blood or paint, since it had the smell of the former, yet the consistency of the latter. I immediately turned the faucet off and wiped my face with the towel next to me, rubbing it as hard as I could.

“This is just not happening ... am I still in the dream?” I thought as I began to feel nauseous and dizzy. My heartbeat, once again, raced faster, but this time faster than ever before. It felt like my head was going to explode and my heart was going to pop out of my chest. I closed my eyes as hard as I could and with a sob I lowered my head down and pressed my forehead on the edge of the sink.

“Why god? Why must this happen to me?” I thought and just then, the faucet suddenly burst. I jumped back and nearly fell over in surprise. I slowly backed up against the walls of the bathroom as I stared in horror at the faucet that was continously spewing out the red liquid in a violent manner, splashing it all over the sink and everything around it. Above it, the mirror slowly started to fog up, and almost in a sudden motion, a sound of someone slapping it was heard. I flinched as the mirror shook, but when I opened my eyes again, a bloody palm print was already printed on it.

I shivered in terror as my legs began to fail me. Once again, I felt myself slide down a wall of my own house in terror. My whole body was shaking, my eyes were bulging, and my mouth was gaping open, but I couldn’t let out a sound.

Suddenly, another sound of someone slapping the mirror was heard, and at that moment, I fell over and crumpled down on the ground in terror. Someone was in the house with me, someone not of this world, and all I could do was whimper on my bathroom floor, begging it would all go away, while at the same time praying that was happening to me was just a nightmare.

That wasn’t the case, and suddenly, accompanying the sound of the faucet and my own whimpering, the sound of a soft laughter was heard. It wasn’t the maniacal, devilish voice that I heard earlier, but rather the eerie soft voice of a little girl, could’ve been okay if there was actually one in the bathroom.

Barely two seconds later, yet another sound of someone slapping the mirror was heard, and at that moment, the light in my bathroom suddenly went off.

 Once again I was surrounded in darkness, although not for long. It lasted only a few seconds before the lights came back on. However, I was still far from relieved, and as I slowly looked up from where I was, on the bathroom floor, I saw that the mirror had disappeared, and what replaced it was the painting. The detailed, mysterious realistic portrait of myself that I had hung in my living room just hours prior, though not exactly in the same condition. Its expression was different from when I first bought it. It no longer had a calm expression that I usually wore, but rather ... disturbing and grotesque. The eyes were bulging open and so was the mouth. The features of the face were also wrinkled as if extremely terrified. It reminded me of the painting ‘The Scream’ by Edvard Munch.

I blinked a few times and rubbed eyes hard, making sure that it wasn’t just a hallucination. Confusion and bewilderment washed over me as I slowly stood up, while still pressing my back against the bathroom wall.

The painting didn’t go away. It really was hanging there, right above the sink that was still spewing red liquid continuosly and violently.

“How ... this is not right ... this has got to be a dream. A nightmare and nothing more.” I thought, desperately trying to calm myself and my ever-beating heart. Slowly I inched my way closer to the sink, reaching out my hand to touch the painting, but just as I was about to, just as the tip of my right index finger was about to feel to texture of the paint, the lights went off again, and for the few seconds that the darkness lasted, once again I heard the unnerving soft laughter of the young girl I heard earlier.

When the lights came back on, the painting was no longer there, and the faucet had stopped spewing the red liquid, and the mess it had created, was gone.

My eyes twitched and my jaw dropped open in front of my own reflection on the mirror above the sink that had returned. Paralyzed for a few seconds I was, before I pinched my own arm so hard that my skin nearly bled. What resulted after was pain. At that moment I knew I wasn’t dreaming.

“I’m going mad ...” I breathed slowly as I turned around and headed for the door back to my room.

As I sat down on the edge of my bed, wishing that whatever was over me would just go away, while I rested my elbows on my lap and my head on my hands, I suddenly heard something from outside. From the living room downstairs. It was the sound of glass shattering, followed by rustling noises.

“Someone had broken into the house.” I thought, and with no second guesses, having had enough stress put on my poor soul that very night, I reached for the bottom drawer on the table to my bedside, from there I grabbed a gun. A small derringer pistol.

“Who’s there!?” I asked, trying to ignore my own fear and sound intimidating, though I still found that my voice cracked.

I knocked open the door leading the corridor, and very slowly with the gun in hand, I crept along the walls, keeping my eye around the corner the whole time. Sweat was pouring down my face like never before, and my hands were shaking. I tried to go down the stairs as quietly as I could, and as I reached the bottom staircase, I peered into the living room, anticipating a burglar, but yet ... there was not a soul there. None of the windows had been broken, there was nothing, nothing there that shouldn’t be there. And the painting, the painting was still hanging where it should be.

Still suspicious, with the gun still in hand, I walked into the living room. There was silence, but as I crept closer into the dark room illuminated only by the moonlight shining through the curtains, I noticed yet another strange thing about that very painting. It had yet another expression.

My steps I even counted as I wearily walked towards the portrait of myself, albeit with the most horrifying expression I had ever seen. Horrifying, to say the least. On that portrait, my eyes were bulging like they were before when I saw the portrait in the bathroom, however, this time around, blood was dripping down from it. Paint of the exact same hue as the liquid that I saw my faucet spew out moments prior. The pupils, they were dilated, and looked as if they were staring out into the distance, gazing at something malevolent, while the mouth was also gaping open, wider than I ever knew my mouth could even get. The suit I was wearing was also stained in red.

I reached out for the painting with my right hand, testing whether or not the paint was still wet. It wasn’t. The paint was dry like it had been like that for a long time.

Suddenly feeling very exhausted, I sat down on the chair in front of the dead fireplace and slipped my gun into the pocket of my pajama. I rubbed my forehead while doubts of my own sanity began taking its toll. I couldn’t take it, I had to call someone. I had to talk to a living human being.

I quickly got up and walked to the telephone on the table not so far from the fireplace, and dialed the number of my friend and fellow art curator. “Come on Jill ... pick up.” I whispered anxiously while waiting for her to pick up. It wasn’t really that long, but it felt like forever before someone finally picked up. Unfortunately it wasn’t Jill who did.

“Good evening Mr. Schmitt.” Said the voice on the other line, a droning voice I sadly recognize all too well.

“Y-you ... are you Baron Ulmaar ...” I stuttered as I struggled to keep the phone in my trembling hand.

“I’m most flattered you remembered my name, kind Mr. Schmitt.” Replied Baron. “Well ... did you enjoy my gift?”

“W-what do you mean? H-how ... h-how are you on the l-line?” I asked in a trembly voice.

“You know what I mean ... that portrait hanging above your fireplace. I gave it to you for the cheap price of one hundred dollars, don’t you remember?” Answered Baron on the other line as he chuckled. “Hahaha ... and I was worried you would’ve recognized me in that old man disguise. I guess I did a rather good job, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I ... I ...” I couldn’t say word. My throat was choking with fear, and I felt like my whole body was turning to jello.

“If only you had accepted to display your painting in my museum, all of this wouldn’t have happened, Mr. Schmitt.” Mocked Baron on the other line following a deep sigh. “Well, I have one final gift for you. I hope you’ll enjoy the rest of the night. The night of ... madness. Good night, curator.” As he hung up, the silhouette of the street outside my house suddenly turned pitched black, and the shimmering, silvery moonlight that was passing through the curtain suddenly turned red, illuminating the whole room in an ominous crimson glow.

I was frozen where I stood with the still beeping phone in my hand for a while. There was silence, and the only things I could hear were my own heartbeats, and the beeping of the phone, which died soon after.

Very slowly I turned my head to look at the window, still covered with the white curtain, with the eerie crimson ray of light passing through it, and after dropping the phone to floor I walked closer, and closer, until I was right in front of the curtain.

I didn’t say a word, and I didn’t make a sound. Strangely, there was no more thoughts running through my mind. It was empty, for the very first time in that whole entire night.

After a second of hestitation I opened the curtain, and the view that greeted me didn’t really surprise. I had it coming after all that had happened to me that night.

The landscape right outside my window was exactly like Mr. Baron Ulmaar’s painting, The Night of Madness. The vast grasslands, the jagged mountains in the distance, and the bloody moon hanging high above, they were all there, not in painting form, but right before my own eyes.

There were no more houses, no more street lamps, no more cars, and no more street outside. Just the grasslands and jagged mountains. My neck and eyes twitched before I looked up and saw that the crimson moon was indeed dripping blood on the top of one of the jagged mountains in the horizon.

 “The night of madness .. the night of madness ...” I whispered and repeated as I slowly turned around and walked to my fireplace and sat down on the couch in front of it. My heartbeats had strangely returned to normal by the time I did, but only my eyes were bulging wide and my mouth wouldn’t stop chanting, “The night of madness ...”

My eyes and neck twitched a couple more times as I took one final look at the painting hanging above. Once again the expression had changed. My eyes were no longer crying blood, and my mouth was no longer gaping open. They were flat, and showed no signs of life whatsoever. Like a dummy.

Once again I repeated, “The night of madness ...” Before pulling out the derringer gun from my pocket and sticking it into my mouth.

As I closed my eyes, I saw it, the painting morphing for one final time. The dead, expressionless eyes of mine sharpened and squinted, and the flat, pursed lips curled into the most despicable smile. A smile I recognized from before, the smile of the painter, Baron Ulmaar. That was the last thing I saw, his expression on my face, and the last thing I heard in my head ...

“Good night, curator.”