The Gallery

I've had the opportunity to witness the work of the best painters the world has ever known - from the landscapes masterfully drawn by the hands of the Andshaft, the Mad, to the impeccable portraits made by Ortreu. But I tell you, no man has ever been able to replicate the sick style of Heimlik, a fellow I met during my stay in a village south of Bellinghampton before the fateful fire that had engulfed an inn there. I shudder to remember the events of those days, but I cannot fail to notice the curious face that fell upon you; so, even if I am afflicted with nausea or other ailments, I will do my best to recount in detail the horror I experienced. It all started on a cold July night, if I remember it well. The icy breeze blew at my back as I found myself at the gates of the village after a grueling journey on horseback that lasted about three days and three nights. I was greeted by a strange-looking fellow, a little short and with a pointy nose and covered from head to toe in gray robes that must have protected him from the agonizing cold. I was taken to the residence of Baron Edel, who invited me to attend a beautiful art exhibition that would take place the next day. The cordiality with which I was received by the Baron did not prevent me from paying attention to the details and noticing that something made him uneasy: it was his daughter, who had disappeared about two days ago without leaving any trace. At this point, there wasn't much hope that the young woman would be found, but the Baron stood firm and hopeful, hoping that his daughter would return safely. The young woman painted one of the most beautiful paintings I have ever had the pleasure of seeing in my life, which portrayed one of the woods that surround the village. The choice of colors and soft brushstrokes brought the painting to life; it was as if the birdsong and the soft breeze of a sunny morning would come through the windows at any moment and break the cold atmosphere of the night. Undoubtedly, that would be one of the works in the exhibition the following day. The Baron allowed me to stay overnight in the room that had belonged to his beloved daughter and where the painting was displayed in front of one of the windows. The bed was incredibly soft, as were the sheets. For a moment, I could even forget how cold it was outside. The windows stood closed, but it was possible to see through the glass a strange light emanating from a fenestra in the house ahead. It was past midnight, but I had the impression that a man was watching me. I went down the stairs that led to the upper floor of the Baron's house and, armed with a lantern, started walking towards the neighbor's house. The windows in the house indicated that the lights were on, but the host did not respond to my call when I knocked on the door. I returned to the Baron's residence and tried to sleep again, but I couldn't help but take my eyes off the silhouette that lurked in the other house. The next morning, all preparations were complete. The Baron's mansion was gradually filled by the most talented painters ever known, all of such diverse origins and styles. To my surprise, even Andshaft, the Mad, made an appearance at the event with his curious style – and i'm not only talking about his paintings . The last of the painters to arrive was a guy I'd never heard of, but who I can't forget today, as much as I want to. Heimlik was his name, and he brought with him three canvases covered with white cloth that inspired the curiosity of everyone present there. The exhibition soon began, the artists gradually exhibiting their works. Andshaft had been the first and Heimlik the last. At first, just a coincidence. The exhibition went on, and I had the pleasure of witnessing in technical detail that was unknown to me until then. But what everyone present wanted to see were the paintings that were hidden under the cloths Heimlik carried with him. After a few hours had passed, his turn had finally come. Curiosity and delight gave way to revulsion and terror when the first two canvases were unveiled to the public. All the portraits of Heimlik that occupied the gallery shared a sinister resemblance to each other: the credible appearance of the terrified faces of those men and women displayed in the paintings gave them a terrifying tone – it was as if they were the last records one had of all those faces. There was still one picture left to be exhibited by the insane painter. The Baron's reaction to seeing with his own eyes the hideous work that stood before him cleared my mind of any remaining doubts about the painter and his work; for the girl exposed there, bathed in her own blood and locked in a dark room, my God, must be the Baron's lost daughter.