Poe's Nightmares

The Gallery Of Wychwoods Horrors

"Inspiration..." Wychwood breathed. "It comes to me in their terror. Each scream is a brushstroke, each tear adds a shade of sublime despair."

"But why? What do you achieve?" Edward's voice trembled.

Wychwood smiled, slow and predatory. "I capture them, Mr. Mallory. Not just their bodies, but their essence. Their terror becomes mine, their agony feeds me...it sustains my art."

Edward recoiled. He saw it then, the flicker in Wychwood's eyes. This was no longer a human predator, but something darker, something that thrived on suffering. Yet, he couldn't stop listening. There was a morbid fascination weaving itself around him, a compulsion to understand the very heart of darkness.

Days became weeks. Each visit to the cell felt like a descent into a private hell. Wychwood painted vivid horrors, tales that should have made Edward flee, yet bound him tighter. Then, one night, came the revelation.

"You see, Mr. Mallory, every masterpiece needs a purpose," Wychwood said, his voice low. "Each of my sculptures, my 'canvases' as you call them, is a note. A single, exquisite note in a symphony that only I can hear."

****
Edward stumbled out of Bedlam that night, the world tilting around him. Wychwood's words echoed – a symphony, a purpose? It was madness. Yet, the unease festering within him had a new, disturbing edge.

The fog was thicker than ever, transforming London into a spectral cityscape. He hurried home, but the sanctuary of his study offered little comfort. The shadows seemed to writhe, their movement echoing Wychwood's descriptions of flesh contorting in agony. A painting, a simple still life of a bowl of fruit, suddenly appeared grotesque, the apples twisted like grimacing skulls. He tore it from the wall, the canvas shrieking under his touch.

"Nerves," he muttered, downing a glass of brandy. But the alcohol did nothing to quell the rising panic.

Sleep, when it came, was a waking nightmare. He was Wychwood, his hands slick with blood, his ears filled with the cries of the dying. He'd wake in a cold sweat, heart pounding, gasping for breath that tasted of copper. Each morning, the lines between dream and reality blurred further. Had he really been out late the previous night, the fog muffling his footsteps? Was that blood beneath his fingernails, or merely the remnants of a nightmare?

He stopped visiting Wychwood, yet the terror followed him. A vase shattered on its own, shards flying like malevolent shrapnel. His books rearranged themselves into cryptic patterns he couldn't decipher. The portrait of his deceased mother, normally so serene, seemed to leer at him, the eyes filled with accusation.

One evening, returning home, he found his front door ajar. A chill gripped him – had he forgotten to lock it? Inside, everything appeared normal, yet that icy certainty of being watched lingered.

"Who's there?" His voice cracked, betraying his fear.

Silence stretched thin, then a chilling whisper brushed his ear. It was Wychwood's voice, yet somehow wrong, filled with a sibilant hunger. "They are beautiful, Edward. Your screams, your fear... exquisite notes."

Edward spun around, eyes wide with horror. No one stood there, just emptiness and the deepening shadows.

Desperation drove him back to Bedlam. This had surpassed simple madness. Could there be some truth in Wychwood's ramblings about purpose, about feeding on terror? Was the madman somehow projecting his own evil into Edward's world?

"It's not me, Mr. Mallory," Wychwood insisted, an amused glint in his eyes. "But perhaps you should be asking who is pulling the strings. You are an artist with your words, are you not? Every story needs its architect, no?"