The house had been reopened as a museum dedicated to the artist who had lived there in the early 1800's. Her name was plastered all over the surrounding city as their main attraction, little known as she was in the art world. Her claim to fame was a portrait of the Earl of Mulgrave dated 1812 that hung in London's National Portrait gallery, utterly dwarfed by the surrounding paintings of bigger and bolder members of that era of society.
It was a fairly small house for its time, every available surface painted in a pink so pale it was practically white, as was her way of working with colour. That aside it was also surprisingly minimalist for the time - nothing ostentatious, no gold drenched surfaces or gilded anything, just the barest of rooms. It reminded visitors of being inside an egg, hollow yet overwhelmingly cramped.
In the uppermost floor there was a hallway no more than twenty-six centimetres across, leading the historians to believe the artist herself had hidden something of immense value down there away from a society that went through a distinct phase of large skirts and distinctive silhouettes that would never have fitted through the walkway in any decent manner of dress.
It was roped off most days, save for the week when several slimmer members of the National Trust attempted to navigate it for the sake of curiosity and historical knowledge. As the hallway progressed it shrunk and shrunk until it was no wider than eighteen centimetres, leaving all but one person behind to wallow in their frustration and unsated intrigue.
The young historian found themself feeling lost in the sharp turns and claustrophobic pastel walls that felt impossibly tall as they continued deeper into the unexplored uppermost rooms of the house. They slipped into the first open door they found, having bypassed three locked ones already, and had to retrain themself from gagging as the stench of decayed meat and dead foliage met their senses.
The artist had owned several cats and two bears, allegedly, well allegedly no more as they inched closer to the pile of matted fur and bones that had been suspended from the ceiling by a thick chain. From the size it had been little more than a cub which was certainly news for the historical society, something that would surely bring the artist's name right into public light, albeit in a negative light.
After making copious notes and taking as many photos as they could, they left to carry on down the hallway and away from the, still potent, stench. The next door opened into a room that had previously only been seen from satellite images and by the company that cleaned all the glass of the house, including this greenhouse styled studio. Cloth-wrapped canvases were stacked high all around, making it either the ultimate treasure trove for any aspiring art historian or simply a storage room. Still the old canvases could potentially be sold, which was of some comfort.
As they began to delicately unwrap the closest canvas they caught a movement from the corner of the room as a piece of low hanging cloth fluttered in a room that hadn't felt the wind for almost two hundred years. Something felt too... off about it and so they backed out and headed back to their group, not looking behind them and trying to ignore the sounds of faint snuffling breath, hoping it was just their imagination.
Turn after turn for what felt like hours, they squeezed their way back to safety as hot air puffed inches away from the back of their neck all the way. Rounding the final corner they caught their colleagues eyes and saw them widen in sheer terror as they began to scream at the young historian to move quickly, just run, for the love of God get out, what the hell is that thing, why aren't you going faster dammit??
Gasping in relief they fell out into the wide room, staggering away from the narrow hallway and turning back just in time to make out a looming tower of black matted fur, hunched over with bulbous milky grey eyes staring out over a gaping maw filled with rotting yellow teeth. It made no attempt to move further, panting for a few minutes almost in contemplation before slowly and deliberately backing away down the hall, eyes staring out unseeingly into the terrified faces that couldn't help but stare back. They had found her second bear.
It was a fairly small house for its time, every available surface painted in a pink so pale it was practically white, as was her way of working with colour. That aside it was also surprisingly minimalist for the time - nothing ostentatious, no gold drenched surfaces or gilded anything, just the barest of rooms. It reminded visitors of being inside an egg, hollow yet overwhelmingly cramped.
In the uppermost floor there was a hallway no more than twenty-six centimetres across, leading the historians to believe the artist herself had hidden something of immense value down there away from a society that went through a distinct phase of large skirts and distinctive silhouettes that would never have fitted through the walkway in any decent manner of dress.
It was roped off most days, save for the week when several slimmer members of the National Trust attempted to navigate it for the sake of curiosity and historical knowledge. As the hallway progressed it shrunk and shrunk until it was no wider than eighteen centimetres, leaving all but one person behind to wallow in their frustration and unsated intrigue.
The young historian found themself feeling lost in the sharp turns and claustrophobic pastel walls that felt impossibly tall as they continued deeper into the unexplored uppermost rooms of the house. They slipped into the first open door they found, having bypassed three locked ones already, and had to retrain themself from gagging as the stench of decayed meat and dead foliage met their senses.
The artist had owned several cats and two bears, allegedly, well allegedly no more as they inched closer to the pile of matted fur and bones that had been suspended from the ceiling by a thick chain. From the size it had been little more than a cub which was certainly news for the historical society, something that would surely bring the artist's name right into public light, albeit in a negative light.
After making copious notes and taking as many photos as they could, they left to carry on down the hallway and away from the, still potent, stench. The next door opened into a room that had previously only been seen from satellite images and by the company that cleaned all the glass of the house, including this greenhouse styled studio. Cloth-wrapped canvases were stacked high all around, making it either the ultimate treasure trove for any aspiring art historian or simply a storage room. Still the old canvases could potentially be sold, which was of some comfort.
As they began to delicately unwrap the closest canvas they caught a movement from the corner of the room as a piece of low hanging cloth fluttered in a room that hadn't felt the wind for almost two hundred years. Something felt too... off about it and so they backed out and headed back to their group, not looking behind them and trying to ignore the sounds of faint snuffling breath, hoping it was just their imagination.
Turn after turn for what felt like hours, they squeezed their way back to safety as hot air puffed inches away from the back of their neck all the way. Rounding the final corner they caught their colleagues eyes and saw them widen in sheer terror as they began to scream at the young historian to move quickly, just run, for the love of God get out, what the hell is that thing, why aren't you going faster dammit??
Gasping in relief they fell out into the wide room, staggering away from the narrow hallway and turning back just in time to make out a looming tower of black matted fur, hunched over with bulbous milky grey eyes staring out over a gaping maw filled with rotting yellow teeth. It made no attempt to move further, panting for a few minutes almost in contemplation before slowly and deliberately backing away down the hall, eyes staring out unseeingly into the terrified faces that couldn't help but stare back. They had found her second bear.
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