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Gallery of the Midnight Heart By: Sarah Wilson

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Gallery of the Midnight Heart
By: Sarah Wilson


The building looked like a panther: sleek, hungry, waiting. Moonlight silvered smooth black marble that rose to the rooftop, unbroken by windows. Selena approached with caution, certain the walls were only façade; any second they would part to reveal jaws lined with razor-edged teeth.

An ancient metal sign stood guard above the entrance. Written in old fashioned script was Keptar Ejfel Sziv: Gallery of the Midnight Heart. Drawing a deep breath, Selena stepped through the door.

Into the mouth of the beast . . . where no one greeted her. She fought to swallow a lump in her throat; the same persistent lump she’d battled for three weeks since receiving the gallery owner’s invitation. Embossed parchment with calligraphic penmanship – strange what one little piece of paper could do. She felt the adrenaline, tasted the metallic tang of fear.

Selena dealt in several mediums. Oil on canvas, stained glass; all mirrors of her dreams, drawn from some dark place inside her she never dared contemplate. Now she would realize a different kind of dream. Within the hour, her first art exhibition would begin.

She stepped into the large room. An antique table waited nearby, elegant with fine linen and chilled champagne. Taking a fluted glass, she poured it half full of liquid courage. Dove gray walls, charcoal carpet, nothing distracted from the artwork displayed. Images surrounded her in the semidarkness, disquieting her with uneasy familiarity. Surrealistic wolves sang under a midnight sky to rhythms wrought in stained glass. Painted lovers danced, cavorting through mist and blood. And there, haunting her, the seeming innocence of a church captured on canvas, painted from memory but never seen. Portraits of people never met, edged with ferocity she could only imagine. Remnants of another world.

Echoes of her dreams.

The voice came from the shadow between two pools of focused light. A male voice, it held a similar arrogance as the invitation to show her work. “Your art pleases me. Welcome to my gallery.”

“Thank you. Am I early? Or is everyone else late?”

“No one else is coming.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I invited no one else.”

“Is this some kind of sick practical joke? Because if it is –“

“A woman who embraces these torrid themes of the supernatural--I wanted to meet you alone. Tell me, why does an angel of light create images of such malevolence?”

“I don’t know where the images come from. They just are.”

“Perhaps a demon has touched you,” he said. “One who comes to you at midnight, when the powers of evil are at their peak. He caresses you. Makes your heart shudder with emotions you dare not name.”

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About the Author

Sarah Wilson's three novels, "Blood Atonement," "Sacrificial Lamb" and "Trust the Night" have all won honors in the Oklahoma Writers' Federation, Inc. Horror Novel category and some of her poetry and short stories have appeared in the e-magazine, 'Dark Moon Rising' She is currently working on another novel about vampires and slavery in old St. Augustine.
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