Gallery Of Ghosts (Eli The Artist, #1) by Present Ngobeni

Author:Present Ngobeni
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ariisil MEDIA
Published: 2025-08-07T00:00:00+00:00

Eli stood and moved to the mirror.

He tilted his head, adjusting the mask he had fashioned—a blank face of plaster, emotionless and white. He wore it only when he worked closest to his subjects, a ritual that made him more than himself.

“Every gallery needs a martyr,” he murmured through the mask. “Even if the martyr doesn’t know it.”

His lips curved upward as he placed the revolver in a velvet-lined case. Tomorrow night, Detective Pierce would add his silence to the spiral.

And Rivas would understand how even the strongest could be broken into art.Detective Ronald Pierce’s apartment smelled of stale whiskey and dust, the kind of scent that clung to a man who had given more of himself to the badge than he ever got back.

Eli stood silently in the doorway, watching the old cop doze in his chair, an empty bottle dangling from his fingers.

He looked smaller than his reputation, hunched, worn down, a man who had long ago given up on being saved.

Perfect.

Eli moved with the quiet grace of ritual, slipping the chloroform rag over Pierce’s face. The man stirred briefly, a muffled protest escaping, before collapsing into deep, forced slumber.

The staging began.

He carried Pierce gently to the desk in the corner, a shrine of cluttered papers, unpaid bills, and faded photographs. Eli set him upright in the chair, head bowed forward as though in prayer.

On the desk, Eli placed the forged note — the edges torn just enough to appear au- thentic. The words were simple, almost pitiful in their confession:

I can’t keep failing. I see their faces when I close my eyes. Maybe I’ll see peace now.

Eli pressed the pen into Pierce’s limp hand, guiding the last shaky signature before letting it fall.

Then came the revolver. He curled Pierce’s fingers around the grip, adjusting the angle until it looked natural, inevitable. The barrel rested against the temple, cold metal waiting to whisper its final word.

He stepped back, studying. It was close — but not enough. Art required more.

Eli dipped a brush into the small vial of blood he carried and leaned over the wall beside the desk. With steady strokes, he painted a spiral, each curve flowing into the next. The crimson shimmered under the faint lamp, a silent vortex pulling the scene inward.

When the spiral was complete, he set the brush aside, his gloved fingers trembling with quiet ecstasy.

It was time.

He pressed the gun firmly against Pierce’s temple and pulled the trigger.

The sound was deafening, sharp enough to rattle the framed photographs on the wall. Blood splattered outward, dark and rich, arcing across the spiral Eli had painted. The pattern became complete, the red merging into his design.

He stepped back, chest heaving.

Detective Ronald Pierce sat slumped at his desk, revolver in hand, head bowed be- neath the spiral of blood.

A martyr.

A confession.

A frame.

Eli covered his mouth as laughter threatened to escape, the thrill of creation puls-

ing through his veins.

“Beautiful,” he whispered.

He left silently, locking the door behind him.

By the time the neighbors heard the shot, the artist was already gone.

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