Perception

Thriller Stories | Apr 21, 2013 | 8 min read
64 Votes, average: 4 out of 5
Art is the expression of one's thoughts and feelings on a piece of paper, canvas, wall of even a serviette. The way a brush flows over a surface tells a lot about the message being conveyed. You can also read what he or she is trying to accomplish. Artists are strangers amongst us; they walk around, seeing everything as a painting or a drawing, imagining how they would look like when on a surface. The one thing you'll never know is how they achieve the effects you awe at…
I was a third year Fine Art student at a local university in my neighborhood. I was a fan of realism as opposed to my colleagues, who favored expression and abstracted reality. My reason was simple; the sheer beauty of something is shown as it is, not as how someone else perceives it. This argument had raged on amongst us students and teachers alike, as to who was right and wrong. So, to prove my point, I embarked on a research trip to the deSeint Mansion, which was known widely for its Gothic style of design, humongous and well kept garden and for having only one inhabitant, Lucia deSeint. She was the sole heir to the entire family's wealth and was a collector of world art. Her opinion greatly mattered to me.
I used the bus uptown and walked on a separate and desolate path lined with very tall evergreen trees that served as a welcome mat to the mansion. Rarely would I travel to these parts alone; in fact it was never, but I had to prove a point.
The aura surrounding the place was that of fright, mixed with excitement with just a hint of danger. No electricity to compliment its old style, sculptures of gargoyles and dragons at the gate, around the gardens as fountains and as pillars to the mansion and a meticulous garden with no attendants to it. The pathway was made of marble lined with concrete at the pavement. The desired result was to give you the lonely feeling with your image on the marble path being the only person you came with.
The door was already open by the time I got there, revealing a brightly lit interior with a high ceiling, painted of course. My mouth dropped open in the cliché ‘oh my goodness' feeling. Everything in the house screamed wealth, from the polished mahogany staircase to the green marble flower vases, even to the golden door knobs that were fixed on every door. The chandelier was candle lit, to my disbelief, further confirming the town rumors that the place had no electricity. But how on earth was it lit?
"Magnificent, yes?" a feminine voice spoke, startling me a bit. I turned to see a shadow emerge from the upper floor. The light revealed a pale skinned, dark haired lady with striking features and a beautiful face with brilliant green eyes staring right at me. I was stunned by her radiance, yet intimidated by her look of power and control. I wanted to introduce myself, but the words were literally stuck in my throat. She walked slowly, almost seductively, in her black and white dress that swept the ground she passed. All this time, her eyes and mine never moved from each others' gaze.
"Ms deSeint, I presume," I started, offering my hand.
"Lucia. The Miss tag is too much," she said in a Russian accent, shaking my hand. I did little to hide my fascination with her, and I think she affirmed that with the erotic one-sided smile she gave me.
"I'm sorry about just dropping by, but I was wondering if you could help me with a little project of mine that involves your fine art collection."
"Is that all that I'm known for amongst people?"
"No, not at all."
"Well then, what else do you know of me?" she asked, creating a breathing distance between us. It had suddenly become really hot, so I stepped back and answered.
"Most people know this house as haunted, others call it cursed; some think you're an old lady with claws for nails, but generally, not much is known about you."
"I asked what you know of me, not others," she confirmed. I was taken aback by this, struggling to even keep my composure. I searched for the words to speak, but ‘it' stopped me. This feeling of powerlessness that I got as soon as I met her. I shook my head, finally. Laughing a bit, she gestured me to follow her through a dimly lit hallway and into a gallery, where I almost screamed in delight at the amount of famous paintings she had, ranging from the Last Supper by Da Vinci to the Creation of Man by Michelangelo.
I couldn't help but broadly smile at her in appreciation, as she had fulfilled every aspiring artist's dream of seeing the greatest works of art in existence.
"You haven't told me your name," she said.
"I'm sorry. It's Michael."
"Well, Michael, what did you want my help with?"
"Oh yes…I wanted your opinion on the concept of realism versus expression in painting. I personally favor the former, so if you could start with that please."
"Well, so do I. I love to paint things as they are, and strive to make them as photographic as possible. Expressing this is how I achieve my realistic details, not painting however I want." I smiled at the thought of us having similar taste, and she smiled back.
"Please look around," she continued, as she went to a corner of the room. I gleefully did so, taking notes as well. I noticed that she had her own personal collection, which was unbelievably realistic. Almost lifelike. I looked closer at one of them, entitled ‘My Family', that showed an old man and woman seated side by side, with three people standing at the back. I recognized her as the young girl in the middle of an older one and a man to her left and right respectively. I was skeptical. I had seen impressive work over the years, but not like this one. I couldn't believe it. Every little detail was considered, including each of their eyes. I stared into the old man's blue eyes for a while, and I felt I was staring at someone. He looked sad, almost at the brink of tears. So did the woman, and the two elderly siblings, but not Lucia. She was happy, almost overjoyed. In fact, she was the only one smiling.
"What do you think?" she asked me, scaring me more than before and forcing me to turn. She clearly had no problem with personal space, since she was but a step away from me.
"They are…um, wonderful. Really wonderful," I answered, hoping she wouldn't detect the skepticism in my voice.
"Then why don't you look convinced?"
Damn it, she's good, I thought. I pointed to the family portrait and asked blatantly.
"How did you do this?" She stared at the painting for a while, a serious mood complimenting the silence in the vicinity.
"Every artist has their secret. If I told you mine, then there would be no difference between my work and yours, correct?"
I nodded in agreement and dropped the topic. I went on looking around, amazement turned to utter disbelief at what I was seeing. So real they were, every single one of them. Then it came again; that powerlessness and sinking of spirit I felt when I was around her. My vision was blurred, walking was slowed down significantly and strength faded. Unable to lift my sketchpad, it dropped to the floor, and so did I. It took about a second or two to feel better and recover. I got up, picked the pad, and just as I looked up, Lucia stood directly in front of me, her paper firmly in hand.
"Are you alright?" she asked, seeming highly concerned. I nodded. She touched my face, feeling my temperature to confirm I was telling the truth.
"I think I have all I need. Thank you Lucia," I said and started heading out, before she held my hand and stopped me.
"Have I answered all of your questions, Michael?"
"Yes."
"Good, Thank you for stopping by and gracing me with your presence. I'll see you soon."
Doubtful, I thought as she headed back upstairs, leaving me in the gallery to find my way out. I took one final round to confirm my notes, but didn't stop at the family portrait. Something about it was just off. I didn't even look at it as I did the others, but quickly glanced at it as I left the room. It was either just me, or I didn't look at it well enough, but I thought I saw the Lucia in the painting staring right at me…
It was beginning to get dark, so I rushed to the bus stop and was lucky enough to get one heading into town. Thankfully there was a bit of traffic, so I had time to go over my notes. I felt eerie just holding that book. All the notes I took on all the paintings had one thing in common-they had some element that was almost too real to believe. I searched for her online, but was unlucky not to find anything about her or her family. I was so engrossed that I almost missed my stop at my hostel just outside the campus.
Not wanting to share this information with my class just yet, I went over it again and again in my room, trying to figure things out. I continued looking online for her while going through my book, hoping to find some answers…. and I did. It was a website that didn't seem to get any visitors and was on the verge of collapsing, but was dedicated to the deSeint family. Just as I started reading it, off went the lights. My heart beat faster and cold sweat started forming on my forehead; I didn't like the dark very much. I wanted to get a lamp, but something told me to keep reading… so I did, and when I finished, I was definitely afraid. Very afraid of what I had stumbled upon, what I had gotten myself into and with no idea of how to get myself out. I dropped the phone on the table and stepped back, cupping my mouth in shock. I couldn't move, breathing was a problem, heart beat erratically.
Then, the phone beeped, indicating low battery, and before I could react, it went off, leaving me in darkness. All alone. Not enough words could describe my fear at that moment.
Then I saw it. A faint white at the corner of my room. I walked to it, recognized it as a canvas and reached to touch….but it stopped me. That feeling. It was more intense now, numbing my movement and killing my voice completely. I fell to the floor, unable to move or speak, but feeling every bit of the fear of what was about to befall me. Trembling….asthmatic breathing….uncontrollable heart rate….screaming in my head, unable to do so. Her hand felt my face, soothing me, feeling my face and body. Every touch diminished my strength, unconsciousness and possibly death looming over me. My eyes are the only thing that can move, and what I last see is her face, smiling at me. The last thing I hear is "This is the secret"….

I can't move from my position. I smile broadly at the others, but feel nothing. I look at the others as they look at me. The family is far ahead, as they have been for hundreds of years. I live in the deSeint mansion, and will probably do so forever and ever. Lucia painted me posing by a tree just outside her house, and that's how I'll be; just as she did to her family…

Art is the expression of one's thoughts and feelings on a piece of paper, canvas, wall of even a serviette. The way a brush flows over a surface tells a lot about the message being conveyed. You can also read what he or she is trying to accomplish. Artists are strangers amongst us; they walk around, seeing everything as a painting or a drawing, imagining how they would look like when on a surface. Why do you awe at the painting you see, asking how they did it? Now you know….
…we give our all to our art.
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Reviews

K. K. Ameyo Apr 28, 2013

Thank you very much.

L.A. Camp Apr 28, 2013

I like this story and like the original idea of a different kind of horror. Good work.

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