Midnight in the Gallery

Warning: Mention of blood

The streets were empty save for a lone black van parked several blocks away from the art gallery, hidden under nearby trees and far away from security cameras. Inside the barely lit building were two security guards switching positions for the change of shift, one locking the entrance behind him while the other began to sit in a chair facing the first of dozens of screens streaming the silence inside and out. The one who just arrived noted the camera facing the parking lot as his coworker got into his car and drove away.

Five, four, three, two, one…

The security guard sent a text to a number in their contacts. Within seconds he received a response. With a nod to no one, he turned his attention to the computer on his left. He typed on the keyboard, causing the images on the screens to flicker for just a moment before returning to what appeared to be the same recording of an empty gallery. The loop would go unnoticed except by a keen eye, something the owner wouldn’t spare a dime for.

Another text. Another few seconds to respond.

The security guard walked over to the back exit, unlocking the door for the group of figures clothed in black. It was best not to speak, not to make noise, until they were inside. Little sound is important to being forgotten, ignored by anyone who could look out a window or take a night walk to clear their head.

The second the door locked behind them, one of the figures, a man in his mid-twenties with a light shadow of a beard, let his eyes wander onto the pieces on display.

“Can you imagine what someone could do with the amount of money one of these costs? Pay for lower class kids to go to college, feed the homeless, pay off someone’s medical debt. Instead, it’s being used for showing off expensive trinkets to the public.”

“Connor,” replied a woman with ink black hair cut short to avoid leaving DNA, “now isn’t the time for morals. Besides, if you had that much money, you’d be sipping cocktails on a beach, not helping the less fortunate.”

Connor shrugged. “You’re right. I’ll probably donate a little of my share somewhere, but not right away.”

The security guard, their accomplice, rolled his eyes. “Can’t we finish the heist before we talk about who uses their money for what? I have a job to do, and if the owner calls, I need to at least act like my training is used for protecting the art.”

They had been working at the art gallery for the specific purpose of learning the ins and outs of the gallery: the blind spots of the security cameras, when the shifts changed, and what pieces were going to be moved for the next event.

The group all scatter to their assigned positions; their targets marked on individual maps that would be burned once the job is done. Connor located the electric grid, Mike the former heavyweight contestant waited by a large painting of a woman decked in furs, and Jenna the painter texted Ray their getaway driver to park near the back exit so they could transfer the paintings. In the back of the van were their forgeries, painstakingly crafted to perfection. No one save for an art historian consumed with knowledge of the era would notice a difference in the paintings on display tonight and the ones to be taken down in the morning.

Connor worked on the keypad and wires until the red lights indicating the sensors were online stopped glowing. He gave Mike the ok to move the painting once he was sure the security wouldn’t restart. It was the first of the high-end targets they planned to fence, frame and all. Best not to damage the canvas, and Jenna has crafted replicas of the frames for the fakes.

Their phones off, they communicated through radio. Jenna examined the smaller pieces she was assigned, noting every detail in case of a trap. She was only here once before, back when she was young and full of life, dreaming of when she would have her own art admired. She shook her head of the memories, returning her attention to the image of a glass vase filled with forget-me-nots painted with oils. She prided herself on her replication skills as she switched the original with her version. If the switch is discovered, the main suspect will be the rich man who last housed them.

Each mark she checked before moving to the van held no secrets from her, yet by the fourth painting her heart nearly burst from her chest even as her blood-filled veins became rivers of ice.

She was beside The Doors: ones of heavy steel covered in chains and several locks, each requiring its own key. There have been rumors of what was behind those doors, each one more ridiculous than the last. Stolen treasures from a cursed expedition, a portrait holding the soul of its subject, an insane child of the owner he was too ashamed of to place in an institution, or anything meant to incite fear or curiosity in the listener.

Jenna could still remember the version of the urban legend told to her by a fellow artist:

Years ago, a world-renowned artist was hosting at the art gallery, displaying their latest works which included what they claimed was their magnum opus. Said piece was hidden away to only to be revealed at the stroke of midnight. Yet at that moment, the doors were locked from the other side, and the artist was gone. The guests could hear screaming from behind the doors, causing the police to be called. By the time they arrived, the screams had stopped, and a large pool of blood seeped from underneath the doors. There was a standoff between the authorities and whoever still lived, and after hours of waiting, the doors were unlocked. The artist was discovered bathed in crimson along with his latest muse and a body so broken the gender could not be identified. The piece is said to remain where it once waited to be revered by all, now cursed by the blood that was shed, or perhaps it was the curse itself that caused the murders.

The radio at her hip cracked to life, a call from one of the others. Hearing the voice on the other line she sighed in annoyance.

“What is it Connor?”

“Just checking in. It’s been quiet.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“For this line of work, it’s either a miracle or a trap.”

“I’ll take the miracle.”

“Whatever you say. Where are you now?”

“The super-secret locked doors that may or may not be stained with the blood of the innocent on the other side.”

“Oh, that one. Always wanted to know what’s in there.”

Him and several others. Bored teenagers had tried to enter, but the owner made sure the security in both machine and man would catch anyone trespassing. He had never met Connor, or knew how easily a man in debt could turn a blind eye.

“What do you think is really in there?” Connor continued. “Stolen paintings? Private collection? Wait, I got it: it’s the owner’s own art pieces, and he’s waiting for the right opportunity to reveal them to the world.”

“Which means they’re terrible, but since he’s got money, they will sell if he spins the right tale to investors.”

“You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“You also think you’re an idiot, Connor?”

“Why don’t we break in? We’re already here stealing, what’s a few more?”

Jenna shuddered in her black attire. She could tell him of her fears, but the only reason they were acquainted as opposed to her closeness with Mike and Ray was for this night, this theft. He would laugh at her, tell her she’s paranoid. Instead, she took a breath before replying.

“We don’t have replicas of whatever’s in there,” she admonished. “The point of this heist is to leave no trace, and we can’t do that if we break in.”

“Then the break-in could be a nice cover-up for the stolen paintings, move suspicion off the bigger heist.”

“Then what about the security guard? If we don’t stick to the plan, he’ll be blamed, and don’t you think he’ll try to get a lighter sentence by throwing us under the bus?”

A heavy thud echoed through the gallery. Mike apologized for startling them; he just dropped the painting he was carrying. Jenna shook her head while walking to her next target. Their ally in the security room kept their attention on their cup of coffee and the football game they missed. Mike took the copy of the painting he dropped and placed it where the original was displayed, moving to the next one right after. Ray kept his eyes on the parking lot in case a stray life came into view.

Neither of them noticed Connor holding a set of lockpicking tools, stopping in front of the off-limits doors. He was careful not to make any loud sounds as he worked his magic on the padlocks, holding the chains just so as he removed them. When the pieces of metal were all in a pile by the doors, he only needed to use some pressure to open them. Checking his surroundings and finding his companions gone, he closed the doors behind him.

The space was covered in darkness, a mystery waiting to be uncovered. Connor’s body buzzed with excitement, the thrill of the game. He placed a hand against the wall in search of a light switch, his other hand resting on the flashlight at his waist. He found it and with a single flick it illuminated the once vibrant room where people would admire past and present pieces of art.

The crime scene, if there ever was one, had been cleaned to perfection. Not a single drop of supposed blood in the cracks of the tile, no damage to the pillars keeping the building from collapsing, and no painted lines on the floor indicating there was once a corpse. The only sign there was once life inside this room was the white cloth covering something that took up half the far wall.

“Kind of expected more,” he said to himself as he walked towards what he assumed was a canvas. An artist’s last piece, worth a fortune in the right hands. Jenna worried too much, probably because she was an artist herself. They could easily place the blame on the security guard, no problem. No one would know about the forged works until they were all out of the country.

He removed the cloth like a groom lifting the veil of his bride.

If there was a scream, no one could hear it.

By the time Connor’s absence was noticed they only had two more pieces to transfer. Ray checked his watch, expecting them to be on the road by then. Mike was starting to grow tired and his muscles were aching. Jenna was at the electric panel when she started to wonder where he was. They needed to reinstate the security measures, and he was the only one who could set up a delayed activation for after they left.

“Connor, where are you?” she spoke into her radio. The only response she received was the static of an ignored line.

“What’s going on?” she heard Mike ask, a painting under his arm as he used his free hand to cover his yawn.

“Connor’s gone. Crap, I knew we couldn’t trust him.”

“Let me put this in the van and I’ll go look for him.”

“Thanks Mike. Don’t be too rough on him, we can’t leave evidence behind.”

“Will do Jenna.”

Jenna stood beside their last painting for Mike to return. After three minutes her feet were tapping from anxious energy. A sign from her radio raised her hopes until she heard Ray’s voice.

“What’s going on? We’re behind schedule, and the shift change could be at any minute.”

“Mike went to look for Connor, have you heard from either of them?”

“Seriously? You don’t think we’ve been double-crossed?”

“Not by Mike, but who knows what Connor could have done. If you don’t hear from me in five, head to the base. I’ll call once I find out what’s going on.”

“Are you packing heat?”

“No, but I know how to take care of myself.”

Jenna turned her phone back on only to text the security guard a few words that wouldn’t look suspicious out of context before wandering the gallery for the others. The fake paintings were in their proper areas, they left no fingerprints, there were no footprints, nothing seemed out of place, save for the open circuit panel.

Her heart sank when she saw the pile of chains.

Crap, crap,, crap!

The security guard almost missed the van speeding out of the parking lot on the real cameras streaming from their laptop. His attention on the football game kept him from noticing the disappearances, but a player injury returned his focus to his task. Checking his watch he wondered why they left so late, and in such a hurry, until he caught how the once barricaded doors moved as if by an invisible force.

Abandoning his post he made his way to the forbidden room, muttering to himself about how sloppy his accomplices were and now how he had to clean up their mess, expecting a higher cut of the money for the trouble.

All he can see inside the once locked room is complete darkness and total silence. His flashlight revealed only the bare floor and no sign of life. If he were a superstitious man he would have returned the chains and locks to their proper place, instead he entered the room he was told never to open under any circumstances.

He didn’t hear the doors closing, didn’t notice the coming darkness, until he saw what his fate would be in the forms beside the painting. His legs failed him, his escape stolen from his desperate fingers as the metal slabs were shut.

Jenna could barely breathe during the drive to the hideout. Ray glanced back at her, wanting to ask why she jumped into the back of the van like the reaper was at her heels, shouting at him to drive, just drive. He wanted to ask where the others were, instead turning up the radio as her breathing slowed and her eyes closed to sleep. He didn’t need to ask, or maybe he didn’t want to know.

There were nights when Jenna dreamed about what happened, back when she was young, naïve, and wanted to be a recognized artist. He was her mentor, and she was his student, then his muse. Nothing ever crossed the line: there were no lingering touches, no nights spent with just the two of them, no whispered promises of the future, nothing to indicate his twisting thoughts for her. He kept her out of the media, not wanting anyone to even know who she was until the reveal of the painting.

He was happily married, she had a long-distance boyfriend who flew to see the exhibition, the one where she was the subject of her mentor’s greatest work. She wanted him to be the first person to see it, before everyone else. He tasted like champagne, her body warm and alive with excitement for their future.

Her mentor brought his wife to the room as midnight was about to strike. They saw them, a young couple in love like they once were. Nothing wrong with that, right?

She didn’t see the glass in his hand or its breaking, just the blood coming from broken skin before she screamed.

He was only concerned with harming, hurting, not paying attention to where she hid in the shadows, crying into her shawl to keep him from remembering her presence. He was whispering afterwards, but she couldn’t hear the words. She didn’t move when his body collapsed on the stained floor and the doors opened. Everyone was in a panic at the sight, leaving her exit unnoticed, unknown.

As she dreamed, she imagined how best to set the whole place ablaze.