Creepy - Day 37 - The Gallery of Henry Beauchamp

Episode Date: December 28, 2017

The saying goes, I don't know art, but I know what I like. Well, how much do you like the art of Henri Beauchamp? Do you really want to see the world as he saw it?***Note: Narrator's pronunciation of the artist's name is intentional***Please consider supporting the podcast at Patreon.com/Creepypod or creepypod.com/support***Music composed by Steve Blizin***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Before we get to today's episode, I'm happy to announce something really cool happening with a podcast that means so much to me. The No Sleep Podcast. The announcement's official. When No Sleep goes on their 2018 tour, Creepa will be opening for them on March 7th at their stop in Minneapolis, Minnesota. If you'd like a chance to see the first ever live creepy presentation, not to mention the brilliant live performances of the No Sleep players, you can get tickets at the no sleeppodcast.com slash tour. Even if you can't make it to Minneapolis, I can't emphasize enough how much you should check out a show near you.

That's the no sleeppodcast.com slash tour. This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastures and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents

The Bad Days Day 37 The Gallery of Henri Beauchamp. If you go into this one tiny, dingy one-story bar in Paris, and the right bartender is behind the counter that night. You might be able to see a very exclusive gallery show of the lost works of one Henry Beauchamp, but to get in, you have to prove your devotee of the artist. You'll be asked, the name clear and perfect English.

What would you like to partake of this glorious night? Answer, absence, no matter what. Any other drink from whiskey to water will kill you as you sleep. The next question will regard the type, and you must answer one of two things. The stuff that man himself could not bear to take? Or, the good stuff, the best stuff. If you ask for any other absence in any other way, he'll be plagued by nightmares for 13 days. each night's dream will be more horrible than the last until upon the 13th dream your nightmare will follow you

every moment of your waking and sleeping life don't try and cheat the bar keep the door locked behind you you have to drink what he gives you doom or not that such a powerful man granted the audience should be enough. Besides, I've heard that the dying complimented his drinks in their death throes. If you make it that far before sealing your fate, the bartender will say, Be sure you handle this with care. This is the finest I have. From here, you may do one of two things. Say word for word. I overestimated my fortitude, and I bid you good eve. If the barkeep nods, you may leave the door you entered, unharmed, and with nothing gained

and nothing lost, except the time you spent inside. Or you can go on. You'll be given a glass with a seven-sided rim, with each side twisting ever so delicately around the basin until forming a sleek and simple handle. You'll also receive a very, very, very special absence spoon. in the shape of a key. The holes at the key's top serve as a draining point for the alcohol to pour over the sugar cube. And, of course, an unmarked bottle, stripped long ago of its label,

scraps of paper sticking to its sides, covered in a rot to the decades past. The spoon is completely flat, but is two distinct sides, one with a groove along the shaft of the key and one without. Turn the shaft down so its grooves will be face down. If you tempt this face up, your absence will taste foul, your nose will burn, and your eyes will shrivel in their sockets with unspeakable horrors not of this world. Now, if your spoon is the right way up, begin preparing the absinthe as one would. Put the sugar on the spoon and pour the alcohol over it so it gains its color and special qualities. Say cheers to your friend, the bar keep and bottoms up.

If you don't, the absence will burn every inert it touches with the power and pain of sulfuric acid. If you've done it right, the already dim lights will go off, and darkness will consume the bar. Don't be afraid. The darkness is the cue that you've been approved for the exhibit. Wait out the darkness and keep you. Keep silent as the dead, unless the bartender decide to make you so. Eventually, not too long, two or three minutes. A green floodlight will shine brightly on the door on the far wall of the bar.

The bar will be bathed in green, and not just from the floodlight. Little luminescent spheres will gently drift through the room, and the bartender will no longer be there, nor any other unassuming patron inside before. There's no danger by this point. Consider it a safe point. If you didn't finish the absinthe, you don't have to, but you might need the alcohol. Either way, take the spoon and put it in the keyhole

of the green light portal's doorknob. It will fit perfectly, and reach the end of the keyhole with a resounding click. Inside, it's a small elevator, with the most beautiful woman any mortal eyes can imagine, bathed in the green glow in such an angle that the light refracts beyond her in the shape of wings. The green fair yourself will ask you, going up? And considering all the trouble you went through, it would only make sense to say yes. Now, you have one more hurdle to clear.

She will ask you as you cross the line from the bottom. bar to the compartment. How would you compare Polkamp's surrealism to that of, say, René Marguerite? For your reply, you must say, I've come to see more than art tonight. If you don't, the green floodlight will blow out, the doors will slam shut and the elevator will plummet through a seemingly infinite blackness. Before a red light glows brighter as the elevator nears the very depths of hell. Now, if your elevator begins to go up, the green light will also fade, but in its place will be the cool glow of the moon.

But before you even recognize it, the elevator will reach the top of its, well, let's call it a shaft to not get too intricate. Now, I'm not as sure about this as the rest, but I've heard. that if the green fairy kisses you on the cheek as she leaves the elevator, you will always be blessed with a creative inspiration, a permanent, ever-changing muse. You can't ask her, you can't kiss her. She has to do it of her own volition.

If not, well, nothing. But no reason to do it anyway in anger, the woman who's responsible for keeping the bow camp painting safe for so many years, You will enter from the elevator, a turn of the century parlor, with a large poster of Henry Beaum camp on the left side of the opposite wall. On the right is the door. Taking the time to read the poster is a fairly good idea as it explains the very significance of Mansour Beaumpeau. You see, he was a struggling surrealist in the 1920s, how he was making art to try and be free of all premeditation. and managed to do so.

You see, after one night in a tiny dingy one-story bar in Paris, he began to paint patterns. First it was geometric patterns, then complete fractials, then images that would be in the newspaper the next day, then next week. Then from 50 years ago, 100 years in the future, 200 years in the past. Then, on his last night,

night of life. He kidnapped three young girls from their homes at night, murdered them, and painted his finest masterpieces in reds and yellows with the blood and bile of virgins. He committed suicide immediately after painting exactly 13 of these. These are behind the door. The first six, from the left, show from left or right. The genesis of the universe, The only true passage of God is viewable to the eyes of man, the true image of Jesus Christ, the sprawling clouds of heaven, every pope from the first to faces not yet recognizable, and a portrait of Jesus' appearance in his second coming. The other six, on the right, show from right to left, the catechism of the universe.

The only true besage of Satan is viewable to the eyes of man, the true image of Judas, the sprawling flames of hell. Every human embodied demon from the first it faces not yet recognizable, and the portrait of the Antichrist in his second coming. Now, 6 and 6 makes 12, but what of the 13th? The 13th painting is turned around on its wall pen, the image facing the wall. The space around it is roped up at a very wide diameter, and under the flipped image is a sign in three languages. The top is in the scriptures of the seraphim, the bottom in the ruins of the highest demonic orders, and in the middle, in Roman letters. do not touch like the kiss.

I can't say this part with as much certainty, but all the same. I heard that somehow, as he died, Beauchamp flayed his skin, his organs, his very soul into some sort of collage. How he took his dead body and created such a horrific masterpiece I could never say. nor would I ever dare to. So, if you make it, maybe you can flip the canvas over and tell me some time. You can tell me about it over a drink.

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