Page 6 of The Art of Vanishing

Claire

I had just told my imaginary friend I thought he was handsome and I was humiliated, even though I was only talking to myself. He wasn’t even real! I mean, he was real in the sense that he was in a painting sitting there in front of me. But he wasn’t a living, breathing, talking person. Except…

I’d been in the museum for about a month now, five days a week, sometimes more frequently when they needed additional coverage after special events.

I’d gotten better at my job and more comfortable marching through these halls on my own.

And I’d soaked in as much of the art as I possibly could, studying the hundreds of paintings I was surrounded by in every free moment I could grab.

The walls were so heavy with art that there was always something new catching my eye, something I hadn’t taken in the day before.

As I looked at these paintings night after night, something unbelievable crossed my mind.

Was it just me or were they maybe moving?

Shifting around in their frames? It was hard to tell when I was looking directly at them; it felt like we were playing a game of Red Light, Green Light and they froze every time I turned around.

I could have sworn I’d seen subjects in one frame on a Thursday night and in another painting, in another gallery completely, on Friday.

Was I imagining things? Quite possibly. Or I could just be wrong.

There must be thousands of paintings in this place; there was no way I was correctly remembering who was supposed to be in which frame.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about it, couldn’t stop my brain from going back there, from watching the walls.

I could have sworn they were thinking, maybe even whispering, though I couldn’t hear what they were saying.

And that one guy, the guy in my gallery, the one I’d taken to talking to when things were a little boring—he looked at me like he knew I knew he was looking.

It was silly. It was just art, I kept telling myself.

I was still getting used to seeing so much of it.

I checked the time on my phone; it was definitely time to call it a night.

It must be the adrenaline, the adjustment to the night shift, the thrill of finally getting to do something all my own.

A little more sleep and I was sure I’d regain my senses, though I doubted the magic of walking those halls at night would ever fade.

But if I was right, if they were alive in some way—what if he’d heard me tonight? Oh god.