The Long Hour Before Light

By Ronald Joseph Scala

Dare to venture into darkness. Dare to step into the unknown.

 

If you have the courage, you will find horrors beyond your imagination. In this nightmare world you will witness punishment doled out from the grave, and an art gallery whose painted horrors call out to you.

 

You will meet Old Gods who crave human flesh and a succubus witch in a fairytale of lust and degradation. You will visit terrifying forests where the greenery hungers and an old barn where those friendly by day become monsters at night.

 

Dare to read The Long Hour Before Light.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: Oct 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9780973726152

Book preview

A close up of a sign Description automatically generated

The Long Hour Before Light

RONALD JOSEPH SCALA

CHAMPAGNE BOOK GROUP

The Long Hour Before Light

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Published by Champagne Book Group

2373 NE Evergreen Avenue, Albany OR 97321 U.S.A.

~~~

First Edition 2020

eISBN: 978-0-9737261-5-2

Copyright © 2020 Ronald Joseph Scala All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Robyn Hart

Interior Designs by Various

Champagne Book Group supports copyright which encourages creativity and diverse voices, creates a rich culture, and promotes free speech. Thank you by complying by not scanning, uploading, and distributing this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher. Your purchase of an authorized electronic edition supports the author’s rights and hard work and allows Champagne Book Group to continue to bring readers fiction at its finest.

www.champagnebooks.com

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PART ONE

Past, Future, and the Elsewhere

It is hard to sneak a look at God’s cards, but that he would play dice with the Universe is something I cannot

believe, for a single moment.

~Albert Einstein

The Gallery on Coventry

The Gallery on Coventry

Mason Carlson waited in the doorway of Karl’s Rare Prints on Ellsworth Avenue. It was nearing four o’clock and the sun, now down behind the storefronts, rapidly lost its daily battle to the night. It was a week before daylight savings and the weather felt more like late February than late April.

Mason pulled his collar up to keep the cold wind and rain off his neck. He despised cold weather, but it wasn’t personal. He despised most things. He was twenty-four and a graduate of Carnegie Mellon University with a degree in Visual Arts.

Both of his parents were lawyers and had funded his education and his current lifestyle. He wanted for nothing since his parents paid his rent, utilities and mailed a generous stipend of five hundred dollars each month. But the fact he had to rely on being kept soured his already surly disposition.

He was employed part time at the Carnegie Museum of Art in the print store and despised the people, the museum, and job. He held life in disdain because he was unable to find work as a gallery manager or art agent here on Ellsworth, here where all the true cutting edge art was.

His dream was to have the power to make or break an artist or piece by his opinion alone, to have his judgment sought by art column writers like Robert Stiles, to have every new showing measure its sign of worth by his requested presence.

Mason waited for Miriam. At four, she would be off work from her sales job in an antique store around the corner on Walnut Lane. Like Mason, Miriam held a degree from CMU, hers in Fine Arts. And like Mason, she aspired to be in the gallery circle where the art elite traveled. But both were currently outsiders to the world they coveted.

Miriam and Mason were hardly involved, but on occasion they slept together. This would usually be the utilitarian end to a long house party where they drank, smoked, and snorted too much. They spoke freely to one another about other prospective mates and, if the word applied to either of them, they were probably best friends.

At last he saw her. She approached from across the street and, seeing Mason, jogged over to him.

What a shit day, she said as she crushed out her cigarette.

Yeah, me too.

What do you have planned tonight?

Nothing, really. I might hit the Japanese showing again. I liked some of the real stuff. Most of it was mod rip-off, but some of it was good.

I want to stop at my flat first. I’m sick of these work clothes, she said.

They walked two blocks farther and turned on Stratford Place. The incessant drizzle and cold fog made them hurry. Miriam had a second story studio apartment three houses up Stratford. It was an efficiency with a real artist window slanted toward the southern sky. She dabbled in acrylics and oils but hadn’t submitted anything for sale or show.

Miriam changed quickly, ready to go out in ten minutes. They exited the flat and turned toward Ellsworth.

The Shadyside galleries have some new exhibits. Let’s check out some of the showings, Miriam said. I think it might be okay. Anyway, we probably will see a few high profiles there.

Shadyside, home to more traditional galleries and the art museum, was seven blocks uptown and would require a short bus ride.

First some coffee. I’m freezing my nuts off in this fucking spring weather.

They made their way along Ellsworth Avenue toward Montana Joe’s coffee shop. It was a chain but had good beans, as Mason would say.

It was an off-hour for coffee shops so they had the pick of the seating. Mason walked to the counter and ordered two small lattes. After paying he carried both cups to where Miriam waited at a window booth looking out over Ellsworth.

Mason confessed, I’m not sure I’m up for Shadyside. I always feel inferior when I go there. Like I need a tux or something to fit in. Let’s hit some places around here. What’s new beside the Japan Exhibit?

At the store today I overheard a couple of artsy-fartsys. They were talking about a weird gallery on Coventry. I think we should check it out, Miriam said.

Never heard of anything on Coventry. Are you sure?

That’s what they said. Something about original oils and black-and-whites. But get this. The woman said the place was cursed. That you could lose your soul inside.

Yeah, right. Get me some of what they were smoking.

"I’m sure you’re right, but I think they believed it. You should have seen her face when she spoke to him about it. Then she said that even if there were original McEwens or Adams for free she wouldn’t set foot inside the place again. She was actually shaking when she said it."

No shit? I’ve got to see this place.

Ellsworth Avenue ran east west in the heart of Point Breeze. For four blocks from Harvard Street to Stanford, it housed the bulk of the art galleries of the city and good many antique shops, many set up in converted mansions. Running north and south from the art district were high priced apartments and flats that catered to the artsy crowd and urban elite.

Very few shops or galleries graced these side streets and neither Mason nor Miriam had ever heard of a gallery on Coventry. In fact, Coventry was two blocks east of Harvard, beyond the main art district, where Ellsworth gave way to apartments and a few variety stores. It was considered a lesser quality area to do business or live.

After finishing their lattes and warming up considerably, Mason and Miriam left the café and walked east toward Coventry. With evening’s approach, what little warmth there had been in the day quickly drained away. Mason shivered as he rolled up his collar.

On winter days he had always worn a crushed wool scarf. He longed for it now. Even his fingers were getting numb. In the open, as they crossed the street at Harvard, which marked the eastern boundary of the art district, the wind picked up.

Fuck. It’s cold. ’His hands dug deep into his coat pockets.

Miriam said nothing but she pasted her arms to her sides, holding in the warmth of her body and bracing herself against the wind.

Past the crossroad the wind continued as they moved east on Ellsworth toward Coventry. Tears welled in Mason’s eyes from the blast of wind they encountered at the next crossroad, at Michigan. Glancing up into the darkening sky, he saw clouds racing past a half-moon.

When forced to pull his head back down to protect his exposed neck, he noticed small sleet pellets bouncing on the sidewalk. Fuck.

Ordinarily, he would not have braved a journey in such ghastly weather but Mason was intrigued by Marian’s description, given her by the old couple, of a cursed art gallery. This block held primarily apartments, but they did pass a shoe repair shop and the Bi Rite Drug Store.

Mason slowed, longing to go inside for a reprieve from the cold, but it was across the street and Miriam was already half a yard length beyond him. "Fuck!

At Coventry they stopped. Which way? Mason had his face buried in the upturned collar.

I’m not sure. I never asked where it was on Coventry. Somehow I assumed it was up this way, but I have no idea why. She motioned with her head to the left—north.

The wind was peppering them with rain and sleet in the open crossroad so Mason opted out of a discussion and debate. All right, let’s go. They started north on Coventry.

Miriam quickly caught up and they walked side-by-side in silence. It was much darker on this sidewalk. It was now twilight and the street lamps were on, as well as porch lights and soft lights from inside many of the apartments they passed.

But the approaching darkness seemed to beat back the light. An icy fog rose from the street, and Mason could see no more than ten feet into it. A shiver of premonition ran up his spine adding to the shivers already there from the cold. At Oakwood Avenue, which ran parallel to Ellsworth one block north, they stopped again.

Are you sure it’s this way? Mason hopped lightly to circulate the blood in his numbing toes.

No. But let’s keep going a while more.

At the north end, the sidewalk continued up Coventry. The buildings on this block were older and darker, the streetlights dimmer. The trees were taller and cast longer, deeper shadows. Rain splashed in the deep puddles formed in the uneven sidewalk.

As they continued on, Mason noticed the small yards, walls and fences were universally in disrepair. Everything was noticeably different, aged and less tended. He shook this off and continued.

Three quarters of the way up the block Miriam pointed out a small sign. Wait.

It was down a short walk leading away from the sidewalk, hanging out away from a side-facing doorway. The sign, a wood plank with handwritten script, read "Pritchard Fine Arts."

Mason turned onto the walkway. It’s about fucking time. I’m freezing my ass off and soaked to the bone. This better be worth it.

A dim porch light was set in the recessed doorway. The door looked like an ordinary house door except it had a brass knocker in the shape of a Victorian lion and on the knob hung a handwritten sign that read OPEN.

They tried but it was locked. Mason lifted the knocker and let it drop. In less than ten seconds, the door opened inward. A tall, gaunt man stood in the doorway, dressed in an old black suit jacket with long tails and a vested shirt and tie. His hair was long as if he had missed his last three salon appointments. His face was parched and leathery with the bones straining below the shallow dry skin.

He received them with a brief glance and a gesture of the hand. His fingers were long and bony, but the motion was slow and smooth as they closed one at a time in a signal of beckoning. Please come in, he said. The words were more breathed than spoken as he backed inward.

Mason and Miriam followed, rain dripping onto the dusty threshold from their coats. Warm, musty air welcomed them as they entered the threshold into a small dimly lit room. The wood plank floor, dull and dirty with age, creaked as they walked. Dusty blinds and yellowed curtain swags decorated the windows. The small room housed an old wood desk on which were a scroll lamp, a leather-cornered blotter, and a wire paper rack. Accompanying the desk was a worn leather armchair and a tall coat tree.

Miriam spoke first. We heard this was an art gallery. We would like to view your showings.

Of course. Your coats?

We’re fine, replied Miriam.

"Yes. Some of the works are cold," was his response. He turned and walked toward the back of the room.

Mason and Miriam followed. This was apparently an anteroom because the figure, with Mason and Miriam in tow, continued through a doorway into a short, dark hall and exited into a larger room.

The larger showroom was in the same state of neglect as the anteroom, but there were two rows of art stands displaying numerous canvasses on both sides, and a display hung along each wall. The first two canvasses on the right were not hung but leaning against the wall. They were blank and unpainted. There were a few blank canvasses leaning along the left wall and more stacked by an exit doorway.

Are you in the market to procure something, or are you merely here to…appreciate?

We’ll let you know, snapped Mason.

Of course. I will be in the office should you need my assistance.

Wait. What show is this? Where are these works from?

"We hold a collection by various artists; most of whose work is unknown to the mainstream. We specialize in different artists and their creations, as you will see. Take care in your selections." With that he turned and flowed out of the gallery.

When he was gone Mason whispered, What an odd crow. ‘Take care in your selection.’ What’s that supposed to mean? And this place. My college flat was cleaner than this. Let’s get out of here.

Mason, we’re here now. Let’s take a look. At least we can stay long enough to get warm and dry.

Yeah, okay. Let’s split up and get this over with. Sarcasm came naturally to him. Mason began his stroll to the right, Miriam to the left.

The artwork was different to say the least. After viewing several canvasses, Mason became engaged with the pieces. Most were oils and a general theme began to emerge. These were dark creations, glimpses of tormented minds and hideous deeds.

The pieces were different in style and composition, but each was related in premise. There was a print portraying a witch-burning, circa 17th century. It depicted a young woman staked within a pyre and surrounded by villagers, so real it could have been a photo. The heat and pain of the fire washed over Mason, forcing him to step back and at once he knew that she was innocent. Who was she? The lettered label read Juris Prudence.

He moved on. Another showed the interior of a barn partially lit from outside. On the hay bales, barely visible inside, were severed heads and limbs of different animals. Patterns of blood marked the hay. A scent of decay, was that real? Or just in his mind? Was this a demon blood cult? The panting was named The Beckoning.

Mason completed the tour along the right wall and began to walk up the first aisle. At the second painting he stopped. It was an ominous work depicting a glade at dawn, shrouded in fog or mist. It was clearly winter or early spring because the trees were all bare of leaves. The trunks were slim and dark, the air dull gray. In the mist crouched a creature, a predator. Its form, all but shadow and silhouette, suggested human. Yet, the threat of an animal was also present. It’s large and forbidding form spoke to the menace emanating toward its prey, also shrouded in the mist, barely visible. The hunter had stalked the prey and was close now, in the act of ambush.

Staring, Mason now felt as though he was part of the scene. The prick of alarm felt by a hunted animal when it senses nearby danger embraced him. The feeling of being watched, being stalked now clutched him. Mason shivered, not from the cold, for he was sweating, but from horror. The title on the painting read Wolf’s Bane.

His fear carried over to the next painting, another grim and dour scene named Pillars of Hate. Its power overwhelmed Mason as if a cold blast of air rushed from the canvas. It showed a bombed-out city block. It could have been any city from any war. Berlin, Saigon, Dresden, or Stalingrad. The buildings were almost complete rubble. Even though it was not a black-and-white, the colors were bled out so only dull browns augmented the infinite shades of gray.

A lone woman wearing the tattered rags of a refugee knelt in the street among the boulders and blocks. In her arms, eyes closed and limp in death, was a child. Her agony and anguish poured into Mason..

Ohhhh… The sound was low and drawn out. Mason realized it was he who uttered it.

The next oil, titled Despair, was the last in this aisle. It was a disturbing and dark canvas depicting a woman seated at a vanity mirror. The lights shined around the mirror but all around her was dark. Her back was to the viewer, but her reflection was visible. Before her were fine jewelry, brushes, and make-up befitting a prominent woman. But the face in the mirror emanated shame, torment, and pain. Her mouth was partially open as if about to moan or scream. This was the face of a woman whose life had unraveled, who was near to the precipice. She was someone who had done things unforgivable, experienced things unspeakable.

These thoughts and emotions flowed from the face into Mason as he gazed, unable to break away. Ohhhh… again came from his lips.

Mason forced himself to look away, and then step back from the miserable thing. Pain for the unfortunate creature lingered. His shirt was soaked in sweat, and he labored to take in breath. His knees were weak and unable to hold his weight and he stumbled to the wall where at last he was able to find purchase on something sturdier than his failing legs. Away from these powerful images, against the wall and out of their view, Mason was able to regain both strength and concentration.

This was a compelling collection. The sheer power these works held over the viewer exhilarated him. He would be the envy of the Point Breeze elite when he claimed credit as its first viewer and discoverer. He was now determined to get Miriam and leave at once. He would call Robert Stiles and insist Stiles include a piece about Pritchard’s Gallery in his column and credit Mason Carlson as its young discoverer. When the others experienced the power of these works, they would finally recognize his opinion, his word, as holding worth and value.

Miriam? he offered in a low voice as he rounded the first aisle and looked down the middle row.

She wasn’t there. He stepped farther to view the row between the far wall, with its mounted paintings and the second art stand. No Miriam. Exasperated, Mason walked back to the alley he just viewed. Still no Miriam.

Miriam? louder this time. No answer.

But, he felt something. As if she was calling out to him, only not spoken, but in his mind. Mason quickly walked down the first aisle purposely not looking too long at any of the paintings he previously viewed, then up and down the other two rows.

Mason returned, puzzled, to the row where he began. The second from the last display spot caught his glimpse and he froze. It had formerly been a blank canvas, unmounted and resting on the floor. It was still on the floor leaning against the wall but it was no longer blank. Fresh paint glistened.

The portrayal was surreal in scope. The background was a landscape in colors of orchid, rose, and gray like a bland Salvador Dali and was blurred beyond positive recognition. But the foreground was in sharp focus. It was the face of a woman in utter terror, her hands held up inches from her face. Her mouth was in