MASTERPIECE CREEPYPASTA

masterpiece creepypasta

This is my masterpiece creepypasta. I don’t refer to it as masterpiece itself, but it’s about the masterpiece painting. That’s why I called it masterpiece creepypasta.

Life of an artist is hard. You keep struggling all the time. No one knows you and no one wants to know. It’s a constant fight for recognition and success. But this profession has its bright side too. Once you get famous, you don’t need to do much to earn a lot of money. You can produce just some mediocre art, and they all will praise your work as something special. But there has to be that one masterpiece, that one thing which will get you to the top. And about that is this story.

Five years ago I was this artist no one knew. By day I was working at a convenience store, but during evenings and nights, I was creating paintings. Then I lived in Romania, and as Romania is a quite poor country, people there weren’t interested that much in art. I could sell my paintings only to tourists which came to see the oldtown of Bucharest. Sometimes I earned quite a lot, but sometimes, especially during the winters when there weren’t that many tourists, I couldn’t sell anything. It wasn’t possible to quit my day job, but I was clutching to the path of an artist with all my might and willpower.

I was living in a small mansard apartment. Just like in the movies about starving artists. I wasn’t exactly starving, but you get the idea. All around my apartment there were all scattered kinds of paints, my dirty laundry stirred up with unfinished paintings and spoiled food. If you met me now, you wouldn’t be able to imagine this because now I’m quite pedantic actually, but by then I would say I was possessed by art itself. In the middle of my small room stood easel. It was like some kind of statue of a deity. Oblique sunrays illuminating it from the roof window.

The only way for me to make a breakthrough was to get noticed in some art exhibition where many young artists were competing for recognition. That was exactly the thing I was doing each time something was happening in Bucharest.

There was an exhibition coming up so I decided to make a painting for it. Only one entry was allowed for each artist. That meant that I had to make something really spectacular, something that would evoke emotions. Happiness, serenity, fear or something else, that didn’t matter as long the feeling was strong enough. I chose the last, as the feeling of uneasiness was woven through all my life. You see, I came from a poor family and always had to think about surviving the day. There had been better times and there had been worse times, but this instability had never left me.

I was thinking for a while what kind of scene should I use for the painting. Of course, happenings of my own life didn’t have strong enough emotions no matter how painful or hard they might have been for me. That’s when an idea struck me. I could use a scene from my country’s history. Vlad the Impaler and his doings was a perfect hit. The person so cruel that famous tale about graf Dracula had emerged from this historical figure.

Vlad the Impaler pierced his enemies on stakes and put them all around his country to infuse fear in the Turkish invaders. His cruelty and doings had been so terrible that countless stories emerged, and today it’s impossible to tell what had been true and what not.

The subject of my painting though wasn’t Vlad the Impaler himself, but some person killed and put on the stake. I wanted to show fear, misery, and desperation in his dead, glassy eyes looking into the void over Vlad’s land. This idea was very good and I started my work.

I thought that painting would have more impact if the poor man were real size, so I put my easel away from the middle of the room and got a big canvas which I propped against some boxes. It stood right on the floor. For me, it was good enough. I started painting.

The exhibition was just right around the corner. I got only four days left. It was unfortunate that I had found out about it so late. I was working almost non-stop. These four nights was all filled with my painting. I barely slept at all, and it affected my job. On the third day manager at the convenience store called me in.

”Hello, Please sit down,” he pointed out to the chair opposite his desk, ”I would like to talk to you about your performance,” he said.

”Yes..” I could just murmur something by then, that’s how tired I was.

”You see, there are some problems I would like to discuss. You always seem to come last when it regards your achievements at work. Although our store doesn’t use mandatory work schedules, we monitor the work you do. You obey all the orders, but there seems to be a lack of motivation. Also, your co-workers…”

I just snoozed off then. All this talk was too boring for me. I couldn’t take it after three unslept nights. That is how I lost my job. However, I didn’t care about it so much. The exhibition was going to happen on Saturday. That day was Friday and I still got one night. All I could think of was my precious painting.

I remember delivering my painting to the art museum just in time. One minute later and they wouldn’t have accepted it.

After that, I felt a wave of relaxation. It was like handing in the paper of some super important exam. I felt a real relief. There was nothing more I could do. I’d done everything. The painting was a masterpiece. My best work by far. When it still had been in my room, I had felt the great uneasiness being around it. The fear and despair of the torture victim on the stake seemed to seep off the painting into my room. I hoped that this feeling would also fill the hearts of everyone who would see the painting in the exhibition.

Before the exhibition started, I propped my back against the wall and sagged on the floor. I took a little nap before the visitors would come in.

At the time when the event was happening, I was stumbling all around like a zombie. I inspected all the other paintings, but there weren’t any which could stand even close to mine. At least that’s what I thought. The price of my painting was 100 000 dollars. All the other paintings were much cheaper, but If you wanted to make a breakthrough, you had to do something extraordinary. Something press would talk about afterwards. If my painting sold for this price, that would be a fuss great enough to become famous.

Fortunately for me, some important looking people were gathering around my painting. I could hear them talk about the price. They seemed to be concerned that all the other paintings there were much cheaper, but that wasn’t the actual thing bothering them. The price itself was a trifle as I could understand. The main thing bothering them was the incomprehension if this painting really was extraordinary.

A tall man with a bald scalp joined their group. He was in his forties. His eyes had a sharp look and he had a firm expression on his face. It was underlined by thin, pale lips. I immediately recognized him. He was a rather famous art critique.
I thought that finally things were starting to go my way. This man would probably explain them all why the painting was great and extraordinary. I was listening what the man said.

”What seems to be a problem here?” he asked at first.

”We all are quite surprised by this piece. It seems somehow… how to say it… hm… even great. But the artist is some nobody I’ve never heard about. Also, the price seems kinda off. What are your thoughts?”

The critique was inspecting the painting for some time and then he said, ”The color of blood. It’s off. The blood has to be much darker. The author probably hasn’t seen a lot of blood in his life. Also, the paint used seems to be a cheap one. There is nothing that special about this piece.”

When I heard that, I felt devastated. I’d been working so hard on this piece, I’d sacrificed even my job for it, and still, it wasn’t good enough. “There is nothing that special about this piece,” these words were ringing in my head over and over again.

The men around the painting dispersed pretty quickly after that. During the rest of the exhibition, no more people were gathering around it. Of course, no one bought the painting.

When the exhibition ended, I went to the bar located over the street. I needed to drink. I ordered some cheap vodka, and then I ordered more of it. More and more. I drank myself to the state, I didn’t remember the following night.

The next morning, I came around at my mansard apartment on the sofa absolutely naked. It was strange, but everything else seemed as usual, even my painting was there, although I didn’t remember taking it back home.

It was very warm in the room. Good for me that the last night I’d been able to burn the fireplace. By the temperature in the room, I could tell that I’d done a great deal of burning. Actually, it was my only heating. My apartment in this old building didn’t have modern means of heating. Only other possible option was an electrical heater, but to use that would be too expensive.

I went to the gas stove and baked myself some eggs. Although I didn’t want to, I had to eat something. It was good that in the fridge there was some beer. My head was absolutely empty and still spun a bit, but in a way, I felt relieved. No more painting for some time.

When the eggs were ready, I took the whole pan with me, plopped on the sofa and started eating. The painting was right in front of me. At first, when I woke up, I hadn’t noticed it, but now it seemed somehow off. It was different.

The man impaled on the stake wasn’t the same one I’d painted before. Now he had a bald scalp and pale, thin lips. I’d changed this man to the art critique. I probably had done this in the drunken state I’d been then. But that wasn’t all the change. Also, the blood, flowing from his body, now had dark, crimson hue. It was almost black and in a much larger amount than in my original work. Hard to imagine, but the painting now was a lot darker and more unsettling than it had been before.

Actually, I wasn’t surprised by these changes. I’d gotten out my anger and feelings and perpetuated them in this art. It was all normal for an artist. However, the painting itself now was so freaky that even I didn’t want to look at it all day. I took the painting away from the center of my room and propped it facing the wall. By then I didn’t know that it would stand like that for a whole year.

After the exhibition, I didn’t have a job for some time. I spent my days scrutinizing the job ads on the internet and newspapers. I wasn’t painting anything. When I found a job, I started to paint again, but I was more careful and tried not to indulge myself too much into the art. I didn’t want to lose my job again. Nothing important and worth mentioning happened during this year. I participated in some exhibitions, sold some paintings, but nothing major, life-changing took place.

When the same exhibition came where I’d participated a year ago with my Vlad’s painting, I remembered about it. The painting was still standing facing the wall, and a bunch of other paintings were in front, blocking it. I decided to take it out and cleared the way.

When I looked upon it after all this time, it really struck me how good it was. Only after some time has passed an artist can evaluate his own work. When you are working on the thing, you are too invested to objectively perceive it. The painting was amazing, no doubt about it.

I applied again for the same exhibition. Evil joy raised up in me when I thought that the asshole art critique probably would see it. Interesting, how would he feel?

So, I applied with the same painting, and this piece sold for 150 000 dollars. After this event, my career propelled up with incredible speed. I quit my job and started to paint pieces for rich people. Order came after order. Now I’m rich myself. I live in California and sell paintings for a lot more than 150 000 dollars. But the story is about that one painting. Isn’t it?

Yesterday I had a very strange and disturbing dream. My hands were all bloody in this dream. All I could see were just my hands, holding the brush. I looked upon them as some kind of miracle. The thick, crimson liquid was dripping from them. But that wasn’t all, there was something in the background too. It became clearer and clearer until I could recognize that it was my painting with the man impaled on the stake. In the dream, the blood from the painting was flowing out on the ground. Everything was bloody. ”Bloody hell,” I thought to myself. Then I woke up.

It could have been just a dream, but it wasn’t. It stirred up something in my subconsciousness. Something very dark and deadly. I remembered the night after the art critique had criticized my painting. I obviously had been very angry and devastated. Together with the vodka and unslept nights this had made into something else.

When I took my painting out of the exhibition after drinking in the bar, I saw the same art critique still in the building. It was already late, and it was an unfortunate coincidence that he was there. I waited for him outside, and when he appeared, I followed him through the nightly streets of Bucharest.

It was the middle of the winter, and the weather was very cold. A fierce wind was blowing, but there was no snow. It was one of those days when there is really nothing to do outside. I pulled my hat over ears.

Unfortunately for him, the art critique took a corner on some dark, narrow alley with no street lights. I attacked him there. I didn’t have any weapon with me, so I used the painting. It was put into the wooden frame for the exhibition. I rammed his head from the back with the sharp corner of it. Of course, it wasn’t enough for him to even lose consciousness. He just turned around surprised about what was happening. Then I slammed the same corner into his eye.

He fell down, screamed and covered the injured eye with his hands. I continued what I had started. Hits came over his head. Over and over again, until he didn’t move and didn’t breath either.

The fabric cover over the painting was all bloody. I took the painting out and noticed that the blood had gotten on it. In my madness, I thought that it would be good to take advantage of the situation and use the blood. I had a couple of brushes in my pocket, so I started painting.

The color of blood. It’s off. The blood has to be much darker. The author probably hasn’t seen a lot of blood in his life. Also, the paint used seems to be a cheap one. There is nothing that special about this piece.” these were his words about my art.

Don’t worry, dear asshole, now I’m discovering the true color of blood. I’m improving myself as you wanted, and also, I’m using the most expensive of paints possible. The authentic thing I would say, he, he, he…” I was talking with him in my head.

But there simply wasn’t enough blood from his head injuries. It couldn’t satisfy my blood lust of that night. That’s when I noticed a trash bin he had turned over when I hit him. There was a rusty jigsaw fallen out of it. I started to saw. His arms, his legs, his torso. Blood was splashing all around. My hands were all bloody. The art of terror and madness was being created.

After I’d done painting, I tossed his body parts into the sewer and went home. I took the painting out of the cover and put it in the middle of the room in its usual place. It was good, it was much better, but still not completed. There was that last thing.

I had something round wrapped into my jacket with me. I took it out and placed the art critiques head on the table behind the painting. All my paints were now available, and I changed the head of the man in the painting. When I finished, he had the art critiques terror-ridden face. But this time the terror was real. It wasn’t thought up somewhere in my head. It was just the representation of reality. Much more fearsome in its cruelty.

I was exhausted from all this madness. When I finally finished my painting, I threw the head into the fireplace. I got naked and threw all my bloody clothes with it. Then I poured diluent on the stuff in the fireplace and started the fire. When the fire was getting weaker, I poured more diluent. I had to burn the skull completely. I smashed it with an iron stick. When it all was into small pieces, and I couldn’t recognize that it had been a head, I finally stopped. I just fell into the sofa and turned off.

In the next day, I couldn’t remember anything that had happened. Also, I had been very careful with the elimination of any proof. I didn’t have any idea what I’d done and that there were small pieces of burned human bone and skin in the fireplace. I forgot about it all until now. The police too couldn’t figure out what had happened with this man because they never even came looking for evidence. But it would have been easy for them to prove that I was guilty. The DNA of the poor critique was all over my painting.

Now, I’m sitting at my garden desk and looking at the green hills of California. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear the chirping of birds. There is no wind, it’s sunny and the day is very nice. All around me prevails serenity. Now it’s hard to imagine the horrors of the past. The things I’ve done to achieve this peace.

Even for me, it’s hard to accept that it was me who did all these things, but I remember them all too well now. However, in a way, it makes sense to me. I always wanted to be great, but I didn’t know how to achieve greatness. Apparently, my subconsciousness did know and it acted accordingly. I would like to imagine that it wasn’t me, that some demon had possessed me, but that simply wouldn’t be true. I don’t believe in demons because I know that it was all me. But it’s okay. Everything in life has its price, and if you think otherwise you are simply delusional. So, great art took a great sacrifice. That’s all to it. Don’t you agree?

Thank you for reading my masterpiece creepypasta! If you liked this story please share on social media. You can find more stories HERE.

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