Day at the Fair

During his day, Mr. Nielsen occasionally gets the chance to walk the gallery floors. He might be going through the exhibits because it’s the quicker way to another behind-the-scenes area, or simply enjoying people watching on his break. No matter the reason, every day, he peruses through the massive art museum that employs him as a custodian, and every day, he stops by Exhibit Room 412 on the fourth floor.

Most days when Mr. Nielsen walks to 412, a tight knot forms in his stomach. It’s a sort of anticipation that hasn’t quite grown into dread or anxiety yet, but might given the right circumstances. As he enters, he doesn’t bother to look around the room with its minimalistic architecture, off-white walls, and brown laminate floors meant to show off the several pieces of old art in the room. His eyes go straight to their target, and his mood for the day is decided.

On one of the center walls hangs alone a massive painting named ‘Day at the Fair’. Attributed as belonging to Pieter Bruegel the Elder, a famous Dutch painter of the Renaissance, Mr. Nielsen knows from whispers behind the scenes that this is only what is told to the public; no one is actually sure of the painting’s origin. What is apparent either way is that it is a stunning work of oil on canvas depicting a large crowd gathered in a European village of some kind, coming together for some sort of fair or game day. There are hundreds of individual figures in the photo, each performing some different, probably hard to paint action, and the details on many of the people and buildings are quite astounding even to an untrained eye.

It is this painting that Mr. Nielsen seeks when he enters 412 on his daily walk around the gallery. On this day, there is a tour guide speaking to a mid-sized post-lunch crowd about ‘Day At the Fair’. It’s not unusual to see sizeable crowds at the painting; the strange effect it has over people has almost reached a point of myth. Dozens of reviews, thought pieces, and even chapters of books are dedicated to what it was about the painting that makes it so compelling. The tour guide is talking about this very subject as Mr. Nielsen approaches the back of the group.

“Some swear that it is because the painting looks different every time they observe it. Some say the faces change, or the colors, just ever so slightly in a way that makes the canvas fresh every time.”

The knot in Mr. Nielsen’s stomach tightens.

Mr. Nielsen has noticed her staring at the painting for five days in a row now, and he cannot help but watch her stare. His breaks have become longer since he noticed her on the second day; he was desperate on the third to make sure she would not come back, but much to his chagrin, there she was a half hour before closing time.

She can’t be more than twelve or thirteen; although she was tall, much taller than a young child, she hasn’t lost the round girlish features of youth. She looks strikingly like his own daughter did at that age, with dark hair and bright, clear eyes. Eyes that remain fixed for increasing amounts of time each day on the painting.

On the fifth day, Mr. Nielsen decides to approach her.

It is one in the afternoon on a weekday in fall when he approaches her, a time when a girl her age should be in school. He comes to stand next to her among a few other patrons, begrudgingly staring at the painting for a few minutes to not appear suspicious. When he feels it will not be strange, he leans over to her.

“Absolutely beautiful, isn’t it?” His words hold little conviction, coming out more hollow than he intends.

She simply nods.

“What’s your favorite part?”

This question seems to break the girl from the trance. She blinks a few times, then slowly turns to Mr. Nielsen. “Huh?”

“What do you like about it?”

“I… I don’t know,” she says slowly, and a disconcerted confusion begins to wash over her face. She glances between Mr. Nielsen and the painting a few times, the furrow in her brow growing with each second. “What time is it?”

“One thirty.”

She blinks a few more times. “Oh. Oh. I, uh, I should probably get out of here,” she says, then looks around helplessly for a second.

Mr. Nielsen offers her a kind smile. “I work here, I would be happy to show you the exit. What was your name?”

“Hannah,” she offers hesitantly.

Mr. Nielsen extends an arm. “This way, Hannah. Let’s get you on your way home.”

She walks beside him as if half awake, stumbling a few times and with a sluggish gait. The furrowed brown and confused expression do not leave her face the whole time they walk together.

Once at the door, Mr. Nielsen turns to Hannah and offers her a kind smile. “You should be getting home now.”

“I… I should go to school,” Hannah says, the daze still clearly muddling her mind.

Mr. Nielsen shakes his head. “Go home, child. Get some rest. Say you were feeling very ill.”

Hannah nods slowly, turning to stare out at the busy street. “Yeah. Yeah, sleep sounds nice right now.”

“It does. Do you remember how to get home?”

Hannah seems startled by the question for a moment, but it brings back more clarity to her eyes than she had before.

“Yeah, of course,” she says, a dose of pre-teen sass in her tone, which causes Mr. Nielsen to breathe a sigh of relief.

“Of course. Have a good day, Hannah.”

“Uh, yeah. You too, sir.”

Ash she turns to leave, Mr. Nielsen reaches to grab her shoulder, and thinking better of it, clears his throat instead. She looks back at him incredulously.

“Perhaps you should not come back here, Hannah. I think it best if you do not return to this museum, ever.”

The girl’s posture goes rigid after he says this, alarm etching across every part of her face.

“Uh, okay. Whatever. Bye,” she manages to mumble before scurrying away. She looks over her shoulder twice, presumably to make sure the strange man with the cryptic message is not following, and then with a brisk walk disappears into the midday crowds.

Mr. Nielsen finds extra excuses to walk through the gallery the next day, even going so far as to sneak away when it isn’t his break. Not once does he see Hannah, which eases the knot in his stomach. It doesn’t mean she isn’t there, but it is good enough for now.

His momentary relief shatters the next day, however, when a bit after midday, he sees her there again on one of his many trips through 412. He stares at her in abject horror, dread tightening his chest and freezing his limbs. As she stares at the painting, he cannot help but have flashes to similar poses his daughter had made at that age; her shoulders scrunched slightly in that bad preteen posture way, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, her foot swinging back and forth to scuff the floor.

Without realizing he is doing it, Mr. Nielsen moves forward through the crowd towards Hannah, gently pushing patrons aside at first, then shoving more aggressively as he approaches. When he comes up beside her, he puts his hands on her shoulders, turning her toward him. He searches her face desperately for any sign of recognition. She stares at him with a glassy, blank expression.

“Hannah,” he whispers harshly. “I told you to stay away.”

“Wh-what?” she begins, her voice slurred ever so slightly.

Mr. Nielsen shakes her in a panic. “Go. Go away from here and don’t come back.”

Though his voice does not rise above a whisper, other patrons nearby begin to notice, begin to whisper.

Hannah’s face twists in confusion. “What are talking about? Who are you?”

At these words, more eyes turn toward them, but Mr. Nielsen hardly notices.

You got lost here the other day. I asked you not to come back. It’s for your own safety, it’s for your own-“

Hannah jerks free of him suddenly, rage darkening her features. “Get away from me! I don’t know you!”

Most of the surrounding patrons are now staring, and a man who had been admiring ‘Day At the Fair’ drags his eyes from the painting long enough to notice. The man roughly pulls Mr. Nielsen away from Hannah. The woman with him goes to her side, whispers comforts to the shaken girl.

A security guard Mr. Nielsen knows as an acquaintance approaches, asking in his typical flat, tired tone, “What seems to be the problem?”

“This man is harassing this young girl,” the gruff patron says, not letting go of Mr. Nielsen’s shoulders.

The guard - Mr. Nielsen is sure that his first name is Andrew - turns his eyes on Mr. Nielsen in recognition, a brief look of confusion passing his face. Mr. Nielsen has tried hard to protect his reputation, and while regarded as a bit eccentric, has never gotten into much trouble.

“I wasn’t trying to cause a scene,” Mr. Nielsen says quietly. “I’m sorry, I’ll go. I won’t cause trouble.”

“Yeah, how bout you come with me, Mr. Nielsen,” Andrew says cautiously, reaching out to grab Mr. Nielsen’s arm gently and release him from the grip of the patron.

Mr. Nielsen reluctantly allows himself to be led away, but manages a couple of glances back at a confused and angry Hannah being comforted by the woman.

As he exits the room, he can hear her voice rising so slightly. “No, I’m okay, I swear; I just want to look at it!”

His bosses are not pleased, as he knew they wouldn’t be. A fact not in his favor is that it isn’t the first time Mr. Nielsen had strange behavior toward a patron. In his favor is that it has been a long time since the last incident, and his bosses are wiling to take that into consideration, along with his profuse apology.

We will move you back to the night shift again, for a while. Some time away from the patrons until this dies down.

Mr. Nielsen has no choice but to agree.

He returns in two days for his night shift, and as soon as he enters the gallery floor to clean, he can feel the energy in the air. He knows what is coming, the reason he has tried desperately to stay off the night shift for a long time.

The rooms are dimly lit for him at nights, just enough to see, causing the world to be in a perpetual strange twilight. He cleans slowly, biding his time, taking extra care with every room as long as it gives him a few extra minutes. He knows it is inevitable, though. Eventually, he must enter 412, and he must confront the painting.

The atmosphere in the room is oppressive as he finally enters, unable to stay away for any more time. He approaches the painting as slowly as he can, shuffling his feet. At about ten feet away, the unbearable pressure in the room seems to shove him forward. He stumbles, barely catching himself, staying doubled over in front of the painting to slow his labored breathing.

After a few minutes, Mr. Nielsen looks up to face it. He has never been able to describe accurately the energy he feels coming from the painting in these moments. He is not sure if there is a word in the English language that will properly describe it. Menacing. Wicked. Sinister. Evil. None quite match what he knows it is.

Tears slowly start their trickle down his cheeks as he faces the painting. He can see what it wants in his mind’s eye: dark hair, light eyes, girlish features not quite those of a teenager.

Weakly, he shakes his head. In response, the intense pressure in the room becomes almost unbearable. He almost crumples to the floor under its power.

“Please,” he begs in barely a whisper. “I can’t do this anymore. Please. Pick someone else.”

Mr. Nielsen is forced to his knees. A cry of agony rips from his throat. The tears are coming quick now.

“No!! Please!!” he bellows, despite the weight of the room crushing in on him.

Then it shows him. It shows him what he has always suspected but has never confirmed. Images of his own daughter flash through his mind. The painting shows her in the present day, now in her twenties, in the apartment she currently lives in. Mr. Nielsen cannot even scream, now. He cannot beg.

He cannot do anything except submit.

The tears create small puddles on the ground as the oppressiveness of the room lifts, the atmosphere in the room returning to a dreadful neutral as if nothing had even happened. He must do now what he has always done.

The next night, Mr. Nielsen waits by one of the side doors. At around two in the morning, a soft knock comes from the other side.

Mr. Nielsen opens the door to see Hannah standing outside. She doesn’t see him as she walks in, her face completely stone like, her eyes glazed over, pupils blown wide. She shuffles like a zombie through the museum, with Mr. Nielsen following helplessly behind.

The walk to Exhibit Room 412 always drags on, though at this point in the ritual, Mr. Nielsen has become accustomed to numbing himself. He makes sure that the zombified victim walks the correct way, gently encouraging them along as they pause.

This time, before she enters, he turns her to face him. She gives no hint that there is any recognition.

“I just wanted to say…” he whispers, his throat dry, forcing him to pause and clear it. “I’m so sorry.”

He lets go. Hannah enters the room.

The eerie twilight glow is all that emits from the room as Mr. Nielsen starts his walk away. He watched what happens once, and swore he could never do it again after that. He had daily nightmares for years. Sometimes, he still does.

He feels his heart split as he hears the screams of terror from the room.

Two weeks later, they allow Mr. Nielsen to return to a couple of day shifts. Until now, he has avoided looking at the painting as much as possible, avoided the room entirely when he could. The dim light of night made it easier not to look.

On his second day back, he cannot help it. He goes to ‘Day at the Fair’ on a break and searches the faces on the painting until he finds the one he is looking for. Sure enough, there she is among a group of young girls, her features flawless. Light eyes, dark hair, a girlish round face that hasn’t quite reached maturity.

As he stares at the face, unable to look away, his lower lip begins to quiver. After a moment, a nearby patron gently touches his shoulder. He looks at her, trying quickly to hide the anguish and horror he is sure is present on his face. The patron draws her hand back quickly.

“Are you alright, sir?”

Mr. Nielsen can only swallow. “It’s the painting, I…”

She takes a deep breath, relief apparent on her face, as she turns back to the painting. Her own expression begins to match one he has seen hundreds of times, and he is helpless to stop it, helpless to say anything more.

“Oh, yes,” she says, and then in a breathless murmur, “It really is quite exquisite, isn’t it?”