Chapter 4: Cursed Canvas

Chelsea Piers, 3:08 PM

The day after Mrs. Lainer's body disappeared from the morgue, Wayne saw an intriguing ad in the Daily News classifieds: "Young Artist Wanted, Room and Board Provided, $20 per week." The contact address was none other than the Greenwich Village apartment of one Abel—who had received a recent warning from the Health Department about a rat infestation.

"Art truly can conquer death," Wayne muttered, tossing the paper to Veronica, who was grooming Monica. The black cat, upon hearing the sound, suddenly arched its back, fur standing on end. Its greenish-yellow eyes reflected the black, sticky substance leaking from the ad.

William, munching on a licorice candy, leaned over. "That salary could get you a bodybuilder in Coney Island."

"Pack up your gear." Veronica slid a Ruger pistol into her boot with ease. "We need to visit this... art patron."

As the taxi sped down Wall Street, Wayne noticed that all the bronze bull sculptures had been draped in black cloth—a rare sight that typically only occurred when the stock market had plummeted. When the car stopped in front of a weathered brownstone, Monica suddenly let out a screech, her claws scratching the leather seat, leaving a scar that looked like the FedEx logo.

From the third-floor window, an eerie cobalt blue smoke billowed out, carrying the distinct smell of embalming fluid from Baltimore's funeral homes. As William swung a fire axe into the door, Wayne's pocket watch started spinning wildly, the hands turning counterclockwise in a frenzied motion.

Abel was curled up within a Picasso-inspired crimson graffiti, his left hand gripping a half-bone brush. When Veronica recited a forbidden incantation in German, a triangular mark on the back of Abel's hand suddenly snapped open into a blood-red eye—the "Eye of Death" Wayne had seen on the corpse of a dockworker.

"Who branded you?" Veronica demanded, shoving mushroom powder into Abel's throat. The glowing fungus, harvested from Chernobyl's forests, would allow the eater to see pathways to the afterlife.

Abel let out a hollow laugh, echoing like a subway tunnel in Manhattan. "She waits for you at the dock... all the sacrifices..."

The entire wall of paintings suddenly began to writhe. Monica, in a leap, pounced on one titled Dockside Sunset. The canvas tore apart, and Wayne saw his sister, Gwen, standing on the deck of a cargo ship, wearing the plaid skirt she had vanished in three years ago. Behind her, armed guards with gas masks stood watch.

"Gwen!" Wayne lunged for the canvas, but William yanked him back to reality. Monica, meanwhile, was tearing at the silver cross hanging on Wayne's chest, where the inscription read, "Gwen Wayne—1935." The cross now exuded a black, tar-like substance.

Abel's skin began to peel away in map-like patterns, revealing a glowing skeleton underneath. Without hesitation, Veronica fired, shattering his kneecap. "Which warehouse at the docks?"

"12... 12..." Abel laughed in agony as he dissolved into a radioactive puddle, the paintings on the wall simultaneously revealing the steel door to Warehouse 12. Pale arms, tangled in ship anchor chains, reached out from the crack in the door.

On the return trip, Wayne noticed his pocket watch had stopped at 3:15—exactly the time Gwen had disappeared three years ago. When he mentioned it to Veronica, the German noblewoman was loading silver bullets, etched with ancient runes, into her magazine.

"This isn't a coincidence," she said, slipping Gwen's photo back into his Bible. "Can't you smell it? The death scent growing stronger on you."

Late that night, at the South Street Seaport, the iron gate to Warehouse 12 had a sign that read "Federal Reserve Bank Temporary Vault." As William used stolen union papers to divert the guards, Wayne noticed that every patrolman's belt buckle was marked with the inverted triangle symbol.

Inside the warehouse, wooden crates emblazoned with the swastika symbol were stacked high. At the center, a bronze cauldron bubbled with liquid, in which eyes with toothed suction cups floated. When Veronica smashed open one of the crates with the butt of her gun, a heap of golden skulls spilled out—each skull had a bullet hole in its forehead.

Monica leapt onto Wayne's shoulder, clawing at the back of his neck. The sharp pain triggered a vision: Dr. Lainer, in a gas mask, was showing a patient file to a soldier. The photo in the file was unmistakable—it was Gwen, in a straitjacket, dated April 1935.

Gunfire interrupted the vision. Veronica was exchanging fire with three cloaked figures. Their Ruger pistols fired bullets that twisted into miniature octopus shapes mid-air. When Wayne's Colt revolver accidentally misfired, the bullet followed its target and shattered the cauldron.

Fluorescent, viscous liquid poured out, and as it touched the golden skulls, the entire warehouse was filled with the sound of a baby's wail, like an air raid siren. The silver cross on Wayne's chest suddenly grew unbearably hot, guiding him toward a steel cabinet labeled "Subject 1935-04."

When the cabinet door opened, Wayne saw the skeletal remains of Gwen, dressed in her plaid skirt, connected to a series of electrodes. The skull, with its top cracked open, had a number etched onto it—matching the one in the photo he carried.