He’s doing it again. Oh God, he’s actually doing it again. He’s got another one. Another “Bride”. Christ…
Okay, look, I stayed quiet about it last time, in the hopes of covering my ass, as well as hoping that I was just off my damn rocker at the time. But not anymore! If what I’ve just read is true, then I have to say something.
So, it was last year that my city’s art museum, “Lifetime Illusions”, held its fourteenth annual “Life-bound” contest; in which artists, both professional and amateur, would come and show off their best work. It’d be held in the actual gallery, and the winner would be picked based on the piece with the most votes from the attending audience. The winner would receive $500 cash prize and have their piece put on display in the studio. As well as this, winners of the competition also had the chance at being scouted for interviews for inclusion in magazines (“Cosmopolitan”, “People”, and possibly even “TIME”).
The challenge was for artists to create pieces that “exposed the inner soul in a lifelike way”, as they always said it in the flyers. In other words, the idea was to make something that expressed the way you truly felt, express some sort of deep thought or emotion, but make it resemble something from real life. Basically, a contest of symbolism, you know; hence the name, “Life-bound”.
Funny enough, believe it or not, it started just as a simple P.R. move as a way of gaining attention to the museum back when it first opened. They didn’t actually expect it to become a hit. I guess, though, they kinda have him to thank for that, too.
Kurtis Joseph Winslow, one of the greatest expressionistic artists I’ve ever known, and probably the greatest artist in my town — if not the planet. And possibly, the most deranged man I’ve ever met. Ever since the fourth or fifth contest, Winslow has held the monicker for “#1 life-bound illusionist”. Honestly, people like me who aren’t obsessed with trying to wrestle the title away from him, just came to these things to see exactly what Winslow was gonna try and wow us with this time.
It’s no doubt the reason that the studio’s been a year-round tourist hotspot, too. I can’t tell you how many social media posts I’ll read in the weeks leading up to the event, and then afterwards, talking about “what’ll Winslow have this time?” All of this is for good reason, too.
See, at least until last year, neither I or anyone else could tell you how he’d do it; but he could create literally the most lifelike looking sculptures out of wax. He’d always have them wearing weird clothes and positioned in some sort of wacky pose, to give it that “imaginative” or “eccentric” feel that the contest warranted. But damn it if they weren’t still the most lifelike sculptures you’d ever seen!
Every one of them looked like, at any moment, it would actually come to life. Hell, I remember hearing about audience members making rumors that they’d actually see the sculptures breathing! Every detail, from the pores on their skin, to the way veins would protrude from certain areas on the bodies, such as from the wrists, all of it; perfectly replicated.
His first one, I remember, was of a young boy, dressed in a tie-dye t-shirt and parachute pants with a ball cap on backwards, bowing his head like he was onstage. Looking back, it wasn’t as detailed as the ones he came out with in later competitions, not quite as realistic. Still, though, it was enough to woo the crowd at the time and earn him his first “life-bound illusionist” award. From there, they’d always evolve, each one coming out with more and more detail.
Well, last year was when he uncovered his latest, and by far his most unparalleled (to put it mildly) piece; “The Bride”. It stood around five feet in height, give or take a few inches, and was covered in a Snow White wedding dress, complete with earrings and a diamond-studded locket around her neck. The quirk with this one, to me anyways, was just how sad or frightened she looked.
The crowd was thrown into an uproar as soon as it was uncovered. The entire studio was raucous with shrieks and “oohs and ahhhs”. I remember thinking just how beautiful she looked (a thought that sickens me now that much more).
I was mesmerized by her smooth, rounded face, yet curious as to the reason it looked so mournful. So sullen. ”What’s her story”, I thought, looking into her lifeless eyes. ”What was Winslow’s inspiration for this piece?”
These, and the general “How in the name of God does he keep outdoing himself like this?”, were the main questions that buzzed in my mind, as well, I’m sure, as many of the others that saw it that day. Obviously, all the other contestants didn’t have as much as a single prayer of winning that year. Winslow was announced the “#1 Life-bound Illusionist of 2021”, and was called to take the stand for his grand speech; talking about how honored he was and about his “artistic drive” and whatnot.
This year was different, however. Instead of his usual speech about “his wonderland”; as he used to always call it (“the little land in my head which my creations live and thrive”, according to him), this time, he was much more reserved, cold and empty in a way. His face was sunken and seemingly miserable, almost as much as the sculpture itself. “This is my Bride”, he said in a voice that was deep, yet broken. “She knew how to love, but not how to stay. Her heart was golden, but not pure. It loved to wander, her heart, and one day wandered too far. It fell, far down into a place that was not her home.”
He stopped for a moment and shuddered. We watched him wipe his eyes before saying, “Now, here she is. Forever frozen where she stands.” With that, he then turned and stomped off toward the back of the studio without another word. He didn’t even take his prize money. He just left, almost like he was in some hurry to get out of there.
We were, among other things, completely dumbfounded by this. What had him so upset or unsettled? I’ve heard before that sometimes an artist might get so emotionally invested in their work that it may disturb even them, especially with a bleak or grim sort of theme like this one. But still, it just felt off.
Either way, after that, the event was ended and most of the crowd began to go home. A few though, myself included, decided to stay a bit longer to observe the new exhibit. Like I said, mysterious and somber nature aside, this piece was absolutely gorgeous.
I remember walking up to it, wondering exactly what one of these sculptures would feel like. Would it just feel like regular wax, or would it maybe feel like actual flesh? Admittedly, I was actually a bit scared of touching it; fearing I might somehow ruin it by either smudging the paint he used or that it might be so fragile that even one light tap might cause a part of it to break away — maybe even both.
Slowly, I reached out and just ever so lightly ran the tips of my fingers across the figure’s face. Doing this, I found that, in a way, both of my guesses as to what it felt like were correct. It felt like actual skin, while at the same time feeling very stiff and wax-like. Pressing my fingers a bit harder, I found that it also felt cold, as if it’d been sitting in a refrigerator or something.
I found this odd. Why was she so cold, so stiff? I started to wonder if maybe this figure wasn’t made from wax at all. I started trying to think of other materials that could’ve possibly been used to make this figure that would’ve made it still look and feel so lifelike. Unfortunately, I was left clueless. ”What did he make this from?”
I was about to walk away, giving up on the mystery, when I noticed that some of the paint had indeed rubbed off on my fingers. Though, I wouldn’t have called it “paint”, so much as the simple makeup foundation women might use to powder in their faces. It was thick and peach colored. Nervously, I looked back and saw streaks of white across the length of her face where my fingers had been.
Looking around, I was thankful to find that everyone had left by then and hadn’t seen me deface the sculpture. I resolved to come back the next day with some of my wife’s makeup, given that seemed to be what was covering it in the first place, and see if I couldn’t try to “fix it”. Wouldn’t be a perfect fix, but maybe at least enough to make it not quite so obvious.
The next day, I was on my way to “Lifetime Illusions” with the makeup kit when I saw that there was a crowd gathered around it. Among this crowd, was a small blockade of police cruisers at the entrance. I got out and made my way over to the crowd. Everyone seemed to be in an uproar.
I feebly attempted at first to wade through the crowd before giving up about midway in. I reached out to a man in front of me and tapped his shoulder, shouting “What’s going on?”
“Someone broke in last night”, he shouted in reply.
My eyes went wide. “What?!”
“Yeah, someone broke in. Trashed the place.”
“Anyone see who?” He shook his head. “They take anything?” He shook his head again, this time shrugging.
I craned my neck up to see above the crowd into the studio. From where I was, I could see that he was right; the place had been vandalized. Though, I noticed, oddly, that it was only one area that seemed to be trashed: Winslow’s gallery.
I found this more puzzling than shocking. I mean, obviously there were those that were jealous of his success, but to go to such extremes just to get back at him? Something felt odd about this, but I wasn’t sure what at the time.
This was reinforced when the next thing I’d notice was that there was one exhibit missing, His crown jewel; His “Bride”. Again, this could’ve been the act of a jealous competitor (or perhaps staged to LOOK that way). But then, why only take that one?
After a while, the crowd was disbanded and people began going their separate ways. Except for me. I stayed behind, looking into the empty, taped off studio. Seeing one of the officers coming out, I asked him if anything else had been stolen or damaged, something that wasn’t one of Winslow’s.
“Not from the looks of it”, he replied, looking back toward the studio. “No sir, looks like someone was hard pressed to get back at Ol’ Winslow.”
“Because of the competition? Isn’t that a little extreme?”
He chuckled. “Could be. Hell, I’ve seen people do crazier shit for less. But I doubt it.”
“What do you mean?”
He sighed, “Well, I can’t divulge details, but it looks like someone might’ve had a bit of a personal beef with Winslow. Something that had to do with someone the perp knew who had personal ties with him.”
I frowned. I chanced asking him what he meant by “someone with personal ties to Winslow”, to which he gave me the look that said “I ain’t sayin’ anymore than that”. With no other alternative of what to do next, I decided to head back home myself.
As could’ve been expected, word spread quickly about the studio being broke into. Most of the social media posts rumored that it was that it was, as speculated before, a jealous competitor. Others simply brushed it off as the work of bandits; that Winslow’s latest work, being prize-worthy, might’ve been worth a fortune to some (though that still didn’t explain why his other sculptures were destroyed).
Personally, I found both of these to be wrong. If this were just a heist or an act of aggression towards Winslow, then why was the rest of the studio, aside from Winslow’s gallery, still in perfect shape. From what I’d seen, there hadn’t even been a forced entry, either. That meant whoever did it must’ve had access to the studio, either with a key or was still inside, after it closed for the night. But who?
Who, aside from the head of the studio himself, Mr. Morton, would’ve had access to the museum after closing? If it was him, why would he have trashed his own museum? ”Then again”, I thought, ”The officer DID say that it was someone who had personal ties with Winslow… COULD he have had some grudge with him?”
It didn’t seem likely — not at first. I mean, Winslow was essentially his cash cow. His golden goose, constantly giving golden egg after golden egg every year for the past nine or ten years. Like I said before, it’s not really an exaggeration to say that people flocked to the studio just to see Winslow’s work.
Then, however, I did a little more digging into the history of the place. Doing this, I found that Mr. Morton had a daughter, Persephone. According to an old article, it was said that, about two and a half to three years back, she went missing. Authorities searched for almost a year and a half before giving up. To that day, no one had ever seen or heard from her.
It was said that, though, that she had been seeing somebody at the time she’d disappeared, an amateur artist (who wasn’t named in the article) from the next city over. Of course, this anonymous artist was prime suspect number one, but found nothing to implicate him. Apparently though, during questioning, he revealed to detectives that, in the month leading up to her disappearance, he and Persephone had been receiving letters in the mail from another man she claimed to have been stalking her.
But when asked who this man was, he had no answers. With no other leads or suspects, the trail went cold. It was when I saw the picture listed of Persephone, however, that I broke into goosebumps. It was a photo of her, Mr. Morton, and another man in a suit who I presumed might’ve been the “anonymous artist”, taking a photo in front of “Lifetime Illusions”.
In the picture, she looked to be about average height; about five or so feet, brunette, with a smooth, young, rounded face. It wasn’t long before my brain was making familiar connections. Persephone, the young, beautiful young girl in this picture, looked identical to Winslow’s “Bride”. An exact match, in fact.
”Could that be why Mr. Morton vandalized the studio?” The more I mulled it over, the more that conclusion made sense. Perhaps he found it in bad taste or a painful reminder of his long-lost daughter, so he decided to get rid of it. That also possibly could’ve explained the destruction of the other sculptures; maybe as a way of getting back at Winslow for “disrespecting him” or whatever.
The only thing to me that still wasn’t adding up, though, was why Winslow seemed so attached to it. Why he even modeled it after Persephone in the first place. How would he have even known of Persephone anyway?
”What was his inspiration?”
Finally, I had the sense to realize that there was really only one way to answer that question, along with the other ones for that matter; to ask Winslow directly. Fortunately for me, it wasn’t all that hard for me to find an opportunity for that. A simple search on Facebook and about five minutes of scrolling later; I found a post listing the location he was using as his personal studio.
The next day, after I got off work, I decided to go and take the opportunity. The drive was a bit of a tedious one, given that I had to drive down a prolonged 45 minute road before then having to backtrack through roads I wasn’t much at all familiar with. Eventually, though, I found it. It was located along the outer edge of the city, secluded, standing almost completely alone and surrounded by trees.
I remember feeling a bit confused, as well as unnerved, when I saw it. It didn’t look at all like an art studio. Between its relatively short height and small width, to the rusted and dingy looking shutters that made up its foundation; it looked more like an old shack in the woods, rather than the headquarters for an esteemed artist like Winslow.
The isolation among the deserted, quiet woods did no favors to make it appear any less ominous, either. I started to feel like maybe it wasn’t a good idea coming here. Part of me wondered if Winslow would even be there. Another part of me wondered if anybody had ever been there.
”Is this even the place?”
A quick glance at the post confirmed I was immediately at the right address. I hesitated before trying to get out. Looking again, I saw that there was a light on in one of the windows. *”Well, somebody’s home”, I thought, finally getting out of the car and making my way to the “studio”. I guess because of how anxious I was, both from the unnerving nature of the place, as well as the excitement of dumping all of my questions out on Winslow, my pace was slow moving towards it.
I knocked hesitantly. At first, there was only silence. “Hello”, called out, “Mr. Winslow?”
For about another minute, there was nothing. It was as I was turning to leave, however, that I heard the door creak loudly open. “Who are you?”
He stood in the doorway, staring intently at me. “Oh, forgive me”, I said apologetically, “I don’t mean to trespass. I’m just a great fan of your work and I saw that this was where your studio was. I was wondering if I might be able to take a look behind the scenes.”
He continued staring at me. I took out a pen and paper and told him that I was taking notes for an article for an art magazine (which of course wasn’t true at all). “A journalist, eh”, he said, a smile parting the right corner of his lip. “I’ll admit, normally I’d require appointments for interviews. But I suppose, what with you going through the trouble of tracking my studio down like this, I could make an exception this once.”
He stepped to one side and gestured, inviting me in. Admittedly, I was hesitant. Like I said, something didn’t feel right to me. “Well”, he urged, “You gonna come in?”
Finally, I made my way to and inside of the studio. Though, I’d have to use the term “studio” very loosely. For one thing, it was every bit as small and cramped inside as it looked on the outside. It was all basically one giant room. Secondly, the place was littered with hardware tools and plastic molds, as well as a few miscellaneous mannequin limbs that I figured were used as models. In short, it looked more like a junky tool shed instead of an art studio.
“Welcome to my Wonderland. This is where my creations are born, and where they thrive.” He smiled when he said this, gesturing to all the clutter. He then walked over to a small bench at the far end of the room. On it was an array of brushes, chisels, and composite sketches.
“This is what I call “The Womb”, he said cheerfully, “Because this is where all of them start out. Where their life in my glorious world starts, much like how we started from our mother’s womb. Hence the name.”
He then led me around in, what was essentially, just a giant circle around the space. As he led me around, he would point to various spots in the room; telling me their different names and the apparent roles they’d play in his “Wonderland”. Some of it was the usual symbolism jargon you’d hear artists use when describing the ways things would work when creating their art (like the analogy he made with the work table being the “womb”).
Others, though, were more abstract. Instead of attaching some symbolic analogy to them, some of the spaces, he claimed were actual lands or worlds that existed solely for the “Wonderland”. An example of this was one area where a few of the plastic doll heads were arranged in a circle, with a few of the loose plastic arms stood up in front of each head, palms tied together. He called this “The Church.”
“This is where my creations meet for prayer. Every Sunday, with biweekly Wednesday mass also being observed for communion and even the occasional baptism.” I said nothing, simply pretending to write in the notebook. In truth, though, this unnerved me a bit.
Look, I understand, “artistic visions and all”, but something about the scene displayed just put me off. Whether it was just the rather morbid looking display of the dismembered heads gathered in “prayer”, or the way Winslow described it, making it all seem normal in a way, like that was something anyone would see in a regular day, I can’t tell you.
As we continued, I also started noticing some of his photos and drawings tacked haphazardly to the wall. Though I didn’t get a good look at what any of them were, I saw that the further we ventured toward the far end, the more of them I’d find tacked to the floor instead of the walls until, finally, there was a spot on the floor that appeared to just be covered with them. It was just one big pile of photos and drawings with two lit candles sitting to its left and right.
“What’s this space called”, I asked him (albeit nervously). I half-expected him to joke and call that his “photography studio” or something. Instead, his face sunk, his skin noticeably turning white as a sheet.
He swallowed hard before saying, his voice cracking, “That isn’t part of Wonderland.” I saw him shudder and his lip began quivering. His whole body was shaking, like at any moment, he might explode. “That… that is a shrine. A shattered dream.”
“I-I’m sorry”, I said timidly. “I wasn’t trying to—“
He held his hand up, silencing me. “Please, just don’t.” An awkward silence spread through the room for a good five minutes. During that time, Winslow’s gaze was fixed completely on the area, his eyes wide and starting to tear up. Finally, he took a shuddering breath and softly said, “If it’s all the same to you, I’d appreciate it if I could be left in peace now. You may show yourself out.”
I apologized again before walking quickly out of the studio and back to my car. It was nighttime, making the surrounding area all the creepier. I peeled out and made a beeline back for my house.
All through the night, I was tossing and turning with what I’d seen. Most prevalent was the constant question of what that “shrine” was and why Winslow was so broke up about it. More importantly, what were all the photos in the pile of exactly? ”What did he mean by “shattered dream?”
That led me to remember again when he first unveiled the “Bride” back at the gallery. The way he seemed so sad, so broken, about something. ”Why was he so attached to that one”, I wondered again.
”What was his inspiration?”
No matter how hard I tried, nothing was gonna take my mind off this until my questions were answered. I was gonna have to pay another visit to the studio. Unfortunately, Because of work, I had to make my trip there late at night afterwards. Thankfully, I still had the directions from last time on my phone, so it wasn’t as much a hassle this time around to get there.
It was nighttime when I pulled up in front of the studio again. Just like before, the night sky made the area far more eerie and everything was dead quiet. This time, there weren’t any lights on in the building. ”Is Winslow still here? Am I too late?”
I got out of my car and made my way to the front door and knocked. “Hello”, I called out. “Winslow?”
Silence. I tried knocking a few more times before looking through the window. Inside was dark, nothing was visible except for the tiny glow of two candles near the far end of the studio. I realized that it was was the “shrine”. ”How are they still lit if he’s not around?”, I wondered.
I tried shouting again, this time through the window. Still, there was nothing from the inside. Admittedly, I don’t know exactly what I was expecting to happen when I did it, but I decided to try turning the knob of the door. Sure enough, though, it was actually unlocked.
“Hello? Mr. Winslow, are you there?” The room remained silent as I stepped in and began groping for a light switch. It took me a minute, but I was eventually able to find it and flick it on. My jaw immediately fell like a rock when The room lit up.
Just like the gallery at “Lifetime Illusions”, the room was completely wrecked. Not to say that it was that clean before, but now it looked like the goddamn Tasmanian Devil went berserk in there. Everywhere, across the floor, walls, and even the ceiling, plastic doll parts, shredded paper, and paint were splattered all over.
”What the hell happened in here?!” I started wondering if Mr. Morton had found this place as well and decided to pay a visit, vandalizing it like with the gallery back at “Lifetime”. But if that was the case, then where is Winslow? Had he already called the police?
Then I spotted something; a piece of notebook paper, taped to the far wall, hanging above the “shrine”. Going over to look, I saw that it was a note of some kind. I had to strain my eyes to read the chicken-scratch handwriting.
”I can’t escape my aches. My heart yearns. It does now, as it did then, years before. My dreams were shattered then. My world is nothing without her; without my bride. She is everything and I wish now only to live in my world, my Wonderland, with her, forever.” —— W.
Attached to the back was one of the photos; taken presumably from the, now desolated “shrine”. It was torn in half, with the picture being of a young woman, average height, with brunette hair. ”She looks familiar”, I thought as I looked closer. ”Where have I seen her before?”
Then it clicked. It was the same picture of Persephone from the online article; standing in front of the museum. However, the half containing the other man was missing, ripped away from the other half. On the back of this was the words “My greatest dream; you and I, Persephone, together, forever…. —— W.”
I cocked my eyebrows and my eyes went wide, shocked and confused. ”Winslow?” Looking down at the pile, the “shrine”, I saw that there were more of them. Hundreds of them, in fact. All of them; photos of Persephone.
They looked to have been taken at a distance. She was doing something different in every photo; from checking out at a grocery store, to eating at the café located in the downtown area of the city, to even just a shot of her walking down the street. Each one, though, she never acknowledged the camera either. In other words, she had absolutely no idea she was being watched.
”What in the holy hell was Winslow doing stalking Persephone”, I wondered, continuing to sift through the pile. As I did, I saw that more of them had some kind of message scrawled sloppily on the back. One of them, and possibly the most disturbing (and just downright sickening), was one written on the back of a shot of Persephone sleeping.
”She’s so peaceful as she sleeps. Her face is smooth, her breaths steady, and her breasts are soft and soothing. Long how I ached to lay with her. Now, I can. Forever.”
My stomach churned. What the fuck was this place? I felt like I was reading the diary of a serial killer — a feeling that brought me no solace in my vindication for.
Then, I looked down at the “shrine” and noticed something that made my heart go ballistic. In the middle, I saw that the area of the floor covered by the pile of photos was different from the rest of the room. Dark polished and seeming slightly uneven with the rest of the floor. Moving the rest of them off to the side, this part of the floor was revealed to not be a floor at all. It was a trap door!
I hesitated for a moment. My body was shaking now, my head sweating bullets from the anxiety. ”What could be down there?!”
Finally, I gripped the handle and began trying to pry the door open. Probably because of how old the wood was, coupled with the overall poor condition of the rest of the place, but it took a bit of effort to jerk it loose from the floor. Finally, though, I managed to get it open and looked inside.
Instantly, both my heart and blood froze. There, inside about an eight foot long, sixty-four inch wide hole in the ground, was Winslow, sleeping like he was a vampire or something. Beside him, clutched tightly in his arms, was his greatest creation; his “Bride”.
The makeup on her face had by then begun to fade, leaving sickening looking grayish white spots on her face, including the streaks across her face from two days ago. As well as this, I could also see where parts of her lips were turning gray and even starting to wither away and she was now missing her left eye. I almost retched when I saw insects begin crawling out of the empty eye socket.
I was frozen. I didn’t know what to do. I mean, I wanted to book it the hell outta there, screaming like a nutcase, but I just couldn’t! It was like something was keeping me there, forcing me to watch.
This trance was broken, however, when I saw Winslow’s eyes suddenly snap open to stare straight at me. That’s when I ran out of there, almost crashing straight through the door, and into my car before peeling out of there. I guess I can count my lucky stars that, I guess with it being almost 3 A.M., the roads were completely deserted because I had to have been going at least 80 on 60 all the way back to my house.
The whole time, too, I was constantly looking in my rear view, half expecting to see Winslow coming after me. When I did make it to my house, I scurried inside like a mouse and immediately locked all my doors and drew the curtains. After that, I grabbed my Louisville slugger and basically stood at the door all night, waiting for someone to try and come for me by breaking down my door.
Of course, that didn’t happen. Despite this, I still felt uncomfortable going outside come daytime the next day. In fact, the next two days were spent like this; me holed up in my house, afraid of going outside and encountering Winslow.
Finally, after running across a post on his Facebook that he had moved to a new studio out of town after his apparently been broke into and burned down, I felt like everything had essentially blown over. It wasn’t long after that, funny enough, I actually managed to forget most of what happened. That night began to sort of just feel like a bad dream.
Like I said, this kept me from trying to go to the police about what I saw. For one thing, yes, I was afraid of retaliation from Winslow; but more than this, I barely believed I was actually seeing what I had seen that night. Not to mention, even if I could’ve convinced the police of what I saw, I knew the question would’ve came up as to why I was there, uninvited, in the first place. ”Plus, the evidence is all gone now, anyways, so why even bother?”
Well, here we are, a year later, and I’ve just read the update on his page. ”My dream lives on with a new addition, my newest heart’s desire.” Below was a picture of him standing next to a new sculpture, holding it close and smiling. It was another “Bride”!
It looked younger than the old one, and somehow, even more real! This one also looked sad or frightened. Under this was the date and time for the next “Life-Bound” contest at the museum, which is tomorrow.
I’m putting this out here now in hopes that someone brave can get the word out and this insanity can end. Who this new “Bride” is, and what he did to her, I don’t know. But this, I’m 100% certain of; Kurt Winslow is a madman, and his “Bride”, his greatest dream, is also one of mine and the world’s greatest nightmares.