Strolling along the path of display booths cluttered about the street at the Art Fair, glancing into each tent was quickly becoming an exercise in futility as his eyes pressed on in search of just the perfect gift. Could it be an intricately designed work of glass exhibiting an imaginative and fancy look? Much too fragile. Elaborate woodcarvings polished up to a splinter free finish? Not today. The large, original, colorful and breathtaking monuments of yard art caught his gaze, but were much too expensive, and the countless helpings of beads and jewelry were not doing the trick either, as he stepped into a tent that differed very much from the others.

Seated in a director’s style seat was the owner of the tent, watching the guest with a peculiar gawk, as the shopper rummaged through the items on display. Feeling the awkward tension mounting between him and the owner, David Cullen opted to break the strange silence. “Hey,” he remarked, greeting the man almost forcefully in an effort to get him to speak. David was far from the most outgoing individual around, but he was feeling like a prom king walking amidst a community of introverted artists.

“You know, my wife is into some of this creepy looking stuff. She’s really big on scary movies, and has found herself a hobby collecting rather ghoulish and macabre souvenirs,” declares David while picking up and examining a gargoyle figurine. “Really need something to blow her socks off, to surprise her.”

“Mother’s Day present?” asks the display owner.

“No, she’s not a mother,” replies David. “She’d be with me here today but she’s a Florist, and is extremely busy this weekend, as you might imagine. This is just my way of being a good husband, seeing as how she’s no doubt growing jealous picking and packing flowers for other women all week. What’s this you’ve got here?” asks David, retrieving a painting from the back of the store.

“You’ve got quite an eye for art there my friend. That painting is over one hundred years old it is,” explains the owner.

“Pretty rare eh? Why are you selling it then?” asks an intrigued David.

“Moving in with my son, I’ve had to sell a lot of stuff. Wouldn’t you say that it creates a perfectly macabre atmosphere? It surely presents a spooky vibe with its delicate balance of colors in the proper proportion in conjunction with the overall fine display of craftsmanship, I’m sure your wife would really love it,” explains the owner.

“How much are you looking to get for this?” asks David.

“Tell you what, you seem like a good guy who really loves his wife...” replies the owner.

“Here it comes,” laughs David, awaiting an outrageous price quote.

“She’s yours for a dollar. You see, my wife passed away a few years ago. If this will make you and the lady happy, I want you to have it. After all, life is short,” explains the owner.

Gazing down David examines the eerie painting, enclosed inside a bronze colored frame rests a portrait of two children roughly ten years of age dressed in Victorian era clothing, holding hands, with eyes peering upwards facing the viewer while their heads are tilted downwards, standing in front of a background colored with a dull and mundane shade of green, as if depicting a deadened sky in contrast to the life-giving blue one we’re all accustomed to. Wearing a long flowing white dress tight around the waist with grey ribbons and a dead lily flower descending from her blonde hair stands a girl, accompanied by a dark haired boy likewise dressed in period attire, outfitted in a formal black coat along with matching trousers and shoes. The skin upon the face of each child is wrinkled and almost decrepit, as if the two are old souls far older in spirit than their general appearance would indicate. Most striking of all were the eyes of each child, painted in a bright yellow color that made it look as though they were glowing, both in terms of magnitude and intensity.

“I’m no connoisseur of art, but this thing really gives me the creeps! It’s almost disturbing, but I must say that you’ve made me an offer I can’t refuse. Thank you very much, and condolences to you about your wife,” replies David, purchasing the painting and providing the owner with twenty dollars...

 

2: Prologue

Enter a small painting of high quality craftsmanship, with traditional dimensions measuring a size of two feet in length by four feet in height, with a couple of inches in width. Meanwhile the nonstandard dimensions are most immeasurable, as this particular painting seems to have a spirit all its own that measures off the charts. A painting of two young children dressed in the proper wardrobe of another time, each manifesting a menacing look of foreboding dread in their lifeless eyes, a look that our artist friend has labeled as “spooky”, and that Mr. David Cullen has described as “creepy” and “disturbing,” all three interpretations of this illustration are as accurate as any. This piece of art was indeed created roughly one hundred years ago, painted by an unknown author, and adding further secret to the mystery is the identity of the children. Were they were based on any real children from the time, perhaps the son and daughter of the artist? They could very well be children that may never have lived at all.

While this is a very special painting, you won’t find another copy of it on display in the Louvre, or in any other great museum for that matter. Aside from possessing a refined sophistication, this painting also comes equipped with a power that tends to keep it restricted from the limelight, keeping it hidden in the artistic underground. Mr. Cullen would have to scour the corners of the globe in order to dig up a similar painting, but as he is about to learn, the power of this piece of art is hardly worth its peril. It may very well be the painting of his wife’s dreams, but the real nightmare is just beginning...

3: Chapter 2

Arriving back home, slipping gracefully and quietly inside the door, David’s presence is detected immediately by the couple’s fluffy golden retriever. “Rory, come here boy, told you I wouldn’t be gone for that long,” declares David, as the dog continues barking and wagging his tail, while remaining at a distance. “Rory, stay! Good boy,” jokes David as his wife makes her way down the stairs.

Into the kitchen walks Martha Cullen, a thirty-two year old petite woman with dark eyes and curly shoulder length hair. A well-read and free spirited florist, horror is her favorite genre, and as her husband has alluded to she has developed a hobby of collecting artwork, specifically macabre memorabilia. In fact, she has boldly and brazenly stated her bravery time and time again, as David has been unable to scare her--although that is about to change.

Speaking of her husband, David Cullen is two years her junior, a slender figure with thick glasses and an occasionally thick skull to boot when it comes to the realm of common sense. An architect by trade, David is a man of T-squares and triangulations, a meek and mild introvert short on personality in contrast to the extroverted shine of his wife, a showcasing of how sometimes opposites do attract.

“Granted you may technically be excluded from that holiday tomorrow, but the hell with all of your customers. I happened to pick you up a little piece to add to your collection,” explains David, presenting the painting to her.

“My goodness, where did you get this?” she asks, as her eyes take in their first sight of the unusual painting, making contact with the lifeless yellow eyes of the children holding hands. She would never admit it, but as her brain wrapped itself around its first impression of the painting, it sent a shiver down her spine, her instincts tingling at the sight of it.

“Dayberry Art Fair. Just as I was about to give up I came across a tent and saw this, figured it’d make a great addition to your collection,” answers David.

“Piece to my collection, this little doozy is worthy of being the centerpiece,” she declares, walking towards the fireplace and setting it atop the mantle, alongside the other pieces of her collection, some less morbid than others. “To think that I was expecting a cheap plastic gargoyle figurine, you’ve come a long way David, and even though this delightful snippet of horror is creepy it still doesn’t scare me,” boasts Martha.

“Uh huh,” grunts David.

“You can really appreciate the work that the artist has put into this painting, the details in the dress and clothing, most of all the tense and grim mood exhibited by their facial expressions, and that’s before getting to those glowing eyes that seem to beam a chilling light into the room,” explains Martha, examining the painting carefully.

“You sound just like the artist that sold it to me. Come here and relax, there are no more sales to be made today, work is done for the weekend,” casually boasts David.

Making her way into the kitchen in the middle of the night to guzzle down a sip or two of water to quench her thirst, Martha finds Rory in the living room, staring up at the painting. “Rory, come here!” she orders in a loud whisper, as the dog shifts focus between his owner and the painting as if confused. Slightly unnerved at his behavior but thinking nothing else of it, she returns to bed...

The following morning the two head down the stairs together, finding Rory sitting with his focus locked in on the painting.

“Looks like you’re not the only one around here that loves the painting,” boasts David, pouring himself a bowl of cereal.

“He was doing this in the middle of the night last night, I was thirsty and came down for a glass of water, and here he was. Very strange, even for him, it were as if he was hypnotized by it and was in some sort of trance,” reveals Martha.

“I’ll break that this instant,” declares David, shaking a bag of dog treats, snapping Rory out of the spell as he scurries frantically into the kitchen. “That black magic of yours is no match for these.”

While washing dishes after breakfast, Martha glances out the window at the sunny day outside, finding that her neighbors have company as a young boy dressed in church clothes is careening back and forth on the swing set. “That’s strange. The Carson’s car isn’t in the driveway, must be a neighborhood kid”, Martha says aloud, finding her husband unresponsive after falling asleep on a chair. Shaking her head in a lighthearted manner of frustration, she takes in a deep sip of coffee before returning to the kitchen.

Turning her attention back out the window, the actions of the child on the swing draws her attention immediately. Squinting in bewilderment, Martha watches the unusual ascending and descending motions of the boy, swinging slowly in a fluid motion with his legs dangling in place, free of any pumping or thrusting of momentum. The bafflement of Martha instantaneously turns to shock as the boy stops in the air mid swing, the chain fastened seat suspended in place, defying gravity. Slowly turning around towards the direction of Martha is the boy, aware that he is being watched. Instinctually ducking behind the kitchen cabinet, she hides momentarily to avoid detection, casually glancing back outside moments later only to find that the boy has disappeared and all that remains is a swing slowly swaying its way to a halt.

“Those church clothes of his, that hair, looked awfully familiar, where have I seen that style before?” she said aloud, before glaring up for a moment at the painting, where the four eyes stare back down at her.

“Rory, come on, it’s time for your last walk of the night. You can look at your friends when you get home. He’s been doing that all day!” exclaims David to his wife that night.

“I’m not sure he’s fond of those kids, I think our dog is afraid of it. He won’t go in that room, all he’ll do is stare up at that painting from a distance,” explains Martha to her husband.

“It is a creepy painting, he’s probably not sure whether those people are real or not. To tell you the truth I’m not so certain myself, as I haven’t been able to shake the feeling of being watched since I brought it home,” reveals David, hooking Rory up to the leash and walking him outside, leaving Martha all alone with the painting. As the unsettling sensation sends another chill coursing down her spine, she elects to head upstairs and ready herself for bed.

4: Chapter 3

The penetrating light of the new day came early, and in no time at all Martha found herself alone once again save for the springy green grass beneath her feet and the friendly caress of the wind blowing through the trees. It was much too nice a day for a drive, leading the eco-friendly woman to jump at the chance to embark upon a leisurely stroll through the neighborhood and to the relatively new home of a family member. To get there she had to pass through the old sections, eventually finding row after row of familiar looking addresses before coming to a stop upon arriving at her destination.

Uncertain of how long she had been outside, her thoughts began to wander, retracing her steps only to find herself looping around in a circle, for the dilution of time was of no help in providing any answers, all that she knew was that she was where she needed to be. It was a place she had been to many times before, a solemn place of rest, of reflection, and despite the well wishing of others, of remorse.

Leaning over unable to resist the urge, she begins reading painful letters etched into the slab of cobblestone, letters that may spell out “Rose,” although in a temporary state of dyslexia experienced by Martha they seem to spell out “untimely” and “forever.” The customary arrival of tears were late that day, perhaps she was growing accustomed to her ritual of extending an arm and dropping a handful of fresh cut roses as a peace offering. Once meticulously attending to the display of her gift, abiding by a protocol of etiquette, she know longer feels the necessity of doing so given the winds and the rains and the various forms erosion and precipitation of the Earth, an attribute of this world much more common than most would care to admit. A falling tear leaving an icy trail of coldness and sadness in its wake, she closed her eyes in an attempt to clasp hold of the remaining droplets while letting go of the thorny flowery namesake and watching the small bundle of roses scatter to the monument below, a monument in tribute of a soul that had been lost, not abandoned, and Martha was intent on making sure that point of emphasis would always be remembered.

Before long the ferocity of the winds rose and the mercury dropped, as a great gust roared through the trees, bringing with it a cold front as the sun became prisoner of the clouds, black clouds that swallowed up the world below. Through the dimming light of overpowering darkness Martha glanced at the ground, finding no trace of the roses that had been blown away in the wind. A voice beckoned out from behind, letting her know that she was no longer alone, although she remained so as far as the living were concerned.  

A ghastly vision is awaiting Martha as she turns to face the voice, finding a face reflecting off of a tombstone, a face with blackened flesh rotting off of the bones, dead eyes that remained close and a mouth that was the polar opposite, showing off a collection of missing teeth and declaring some choice words. “Welcome Home, Martha Cullen, you will be here with us in the grave soon!” it spewed in somewhat broken and mangled vocabulary evincing a tenuous grasp upon the English language.

Spinning around to run down the aisle, another face arrives on a large tombstone, assembled from a floating smoky mass like a puzzle piece coming together, this one looking much like the preceding vision only it contained disgusting sample of grungy, mangled hair covering up much of the face. “The one you have abandoned, she is not alone! There is plenty of room for you here!” shouted the harrowing voice as Martha tripped over a small cross.

Crying out for help as she rose to her feet, she finds herself face to face with a new spirit, only this one is able to open its eyes, eyes containing an assortment of black that has no earthly business in the ocular arrangement of any man, living or dead. “There is no more help! You are lost and God has abandoned you!” shouts the man with a disturbing laugh as she races away from the graves.

No matter where she turned she could not seem to get out of the cemetery, and whenever she thought she had escaped from them, a new face would appear. The last one she could recall in detail was the face of a woman, very old, with thin strands of hair protruding over the bones of her face, her skin having eroded away. “You’ll be seeing me in the night, you’ll be seeing all of us in the night!” the voice shouted as Martha desperately continued her escape.     

Pelting her with the heinous threats and warnings of their words, she did all she could to block out the images of the corpses with their mangy hair and rotted skin, some more pronounced than others, depending on their date of death most likely. The deathly collage of faces was composed of wispy images that were floating yet seemed locked in place amongst the graves. At long last she departed from the gates although she remained able to hear the voices calling, taunting her from afar, their words carried about on the winds which had become their messenger, calculated words spoken not from the spirit of any human, but from something else given their diction and demeanor, for the callous depravity of those words and actions were accented in the monstrous tone of the demonic.

“Hey!” a new voice called out as Martha’s attempt of a scream went as far as a car thirsting for an ounce of gasoline, her heart firing rapidly as a face emerged from the darkness. As her eyes focused, the nightmarish landscape of surrealism had faded from view, as the familiar look of David examines her, patting her head and rubbing her cheeks in a manner that may have seemed childish from a distance, but was nothing shy of an earnest attempt at consoling his frightened wife.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. You had a bad dream from the sounds of it. You were trembling pretty badly and talking in your sleep, must have been a real doozy?” asks David as she gathers herself.

“Can you get me a glass of water?” asks Martha as David climbs off the bed and heads to the kitchen. Frightened to remain alone in bed, she is more frightened at the prospect of being alone with the painting in the dark, the last thing she wants to see following such an ordeal.

“I’m sure that last night was just a one time deal. Then again, maybe the mighty have fallen and I’ve finally succeeded in scaring you?” jokes David as the two go to sleep the following evening, with David comically referencing her uneasiness, seeing as how she had prided herself on being braver than him for years and claimed a lack of fear regarding anything.

“The dream last night was about Rose!” shouts Martha, not in the mood for any games or tomfoolery. “Goodnight!”

“I’m sorry,” remarks David after a long pause, his words slicing through the darkness go unanswered, as the two fall asleep.

5: Chapter 4

“What do you want leave me alone! Let me get back to sleep,” utters Martha under her breath, resisting the tug of David and upset at being awoken in the middle of the night. Glancing over her shoulder, she finds him snoring loudly, still deeply asleep. “Rory, let go boy,” she says aloud, expecting to find the dog tugging at her nightgown, and finding something else entirely. Softly tickling and gently pulling at her hand and sleeve is a giggling young girl, approximately ten years of age with long blonde hair including the outline of what appears to be a flower, a girl that scampers out of the room followed closely behind by her long flowing white dress along with her echoing laughter.

At least this dream is more lighthearted than the preceding episode last night, Martha thinks to herself, still half asleep and unable to comprehend the magnitude of what is transpiring before her. The rumble of snoring beside her and a pinch of her cheek would remove all doubts as reality dawned upon her in the ensuing seconds. “David!” screams Martha, kicking up the blankets and her husband in the process, who swears in his sleep and gathers his glasses in order to get a better look at his terrified wife, finding her eyes as wide as saucers.

“What? You kicked me right in the spine! You have another nightmare?” he utters angrily under his breath.

“No! This was not a dream, I just saw something!” she cries.

“You saw what?” he replies.

“The girl!” shouts Martha.

“What girl?” he replies.

“The one from that painting! She was just here, touching me while I slept! She had the same hairstyle and that old fashioned dress!” explains Martha.

“Do you know how ridiculous you sound? It was a dream, go back to sleep,” replies David, as Martha switches on the lamp.

“Please David, you have to trust me on this one. You were snoring, I looked down at the side of the bed and saw her touching me, she must be in the house still,” explains Martha as David buries his head into the pillow.

“Fine, I’ll search the house for an intruder. It was probably Rory; he’s been acting funny lately. He’s not the only one,” utters David under his breath, throwing off the covers and walking through the house.

Could it have been a dream? No I saw it, I know that I did, David was snoring, it wasn’t like it was last night,” Martha begins desperately assuring herself, sliding underneath the covers.

“The coast is clear. The doors windows are all locked, and there is no man, woman, or child hiding inside the house. Not a creature is stirring, not even Rory, who somehow was able to sleep through this disturbance,” explains David upon his return.

“It just seemed so real,” exclaims Martha.

“Honey, it was just a dream, that is the only logical explanation here. You had one at night. As much as you hate to hear it, maybe you can give your horror movie club a rest, at least until you and I can make it through the night?” asks David, convinced that the problem lies not in the house but in her head, resuming his broken cycle of sleep. Reluctant to turn off the lights, unsure of what was waiting for her or what would be waiting for her, the pattern of Martha’s cycle of sleep would remain broken for another hour or two as she remained lying in wait for anything.

Filling out tedious orders in the backroom of her shop the following evening, the minutes of the clock dragged along slowly before the eight o’clock hour finally arrived. “I’m going to go lock up,” declares Martha to her co-worker as she arrives in the backroom to gather her things. Sliding the locks into place, a familiar laugh breaks the tranquility in the floral shop as a wave of dread pours over Martha. Swallowing the thick lump wedged in her throat, she works up the courage to speak up. “Who’s here?” she calls out, glancing around the contours of the small shop and finding nothing. “Must be my imagination,” she utters underneath her breath with a laugh, just as the giggling noise picks up once again.

Detecting the location of the sound, the unmistakable noise of childish exuberance, Martha begins pacing in the direction of the laughter, shuddering at the thought of what is awaiting her, and very cognizant of the fact that she is not immersed in a dream. A crashing sound invades her eardrums, as she turns around in fright only to discover that she has knocked over a display case in the deep focus of her mounting anxiety. Placing a hand over her chest to gather herself, the familiar chuckle reveals itself yet again from behind. Expecting something else to come at her from either side, from above or from behind, she marches on. Hiding on the floor behind an assortment of roses, as fate would have it, a young girl with blonde hair is seated. Do I run, do I confront it, what do I do, these were among the sample of some of the dozens of thoughts racing through the mind of Martha at this instant, interrupted by the shrill scream of the child. “Boo!” declares the child, startling Martha so badly that she practically jumps five feet backwards, stumbling into another display as dozens of flowers fall upon her, much like the grave she had littered with roses. Scared half to death, she wonders if the other half is about to descend upon her.

“Kristen! What are you doing? Apologize to Mrs. Cullen this instant!” barks the co-worker to her young daughter.

“Sorry Mrs. Cullen, I really scared you though didn’t I!” chirps the child, as Martha fails to speak a word.

“Martha I’m sorry, she did this to her father last night, scared him half to death, it’s just a phase that she’s going through. Are you okay? You did seem a little off today now that I think about it,” asks the co-worker.

“Me? Sure, I’m fine. Just need a good nights sleep, that’s all,” replies Martha in a reassuring manner, and meaning not a word of it aside from the bit pertaining to sleep.

6: Chapter 5

A few days pass and as unlikely as it seemed, things were returning to normal for Martha, the surging tension was dissipating as she was once again enjoying sleep filled nights free of interruption or dreams, at least as far as the frightening ones were concerned. Instead of making more out of the incidents than necessary, she opts to play it all down, attempting to rationalize the dreams as nothing more than outlying nightmares, an exercise becoming exceedingly easier with each passing day as her refusal to admit her fear resembled more of a declaration of truth as opposed to a fledgling lie.

Arriving home from work before her husband, Martha calls out to Rory, finding him affixed to his new favorite spot and staring up again once more at the painting. “What is it, boy? What is it with that painting?” she declares, walking to the mantle and clutching the portrait in her hands, avoiding eye contact with the children as Rory whimpers as if fearful. “I think I’ve had just enough of this wretched caricature,” she proclaims aloud, clutching the artwork that has worn out its welcome and making her way into a supply closet in the garage, as Rory scurries away from the direction of the painting.

Holding the handle of a paint can in one hand and the painting and a brush in the other, Martha drops all three objects to the floor of the garage, sliding off the lid the can, dousing the brush in a thick glob of white paint, splattering it across the eerie portrait in frustration, feverishly covering each sliver and nook of color until the entirety is plastered under a pool of white. “There,” she declares as Rory comes into the garage in ascertain what is going on. “They can leave us alone now Rory and go play in the snow,” she remarks to her dog, feeling overcome with a welcomed sensation of warmth and satisfaction. “Go for a walk? She asks Rory, feeling as much excitement as the canine after stuffing the defaced painting underneath a shelving unit before leaving the garage.

“Martha!” shouts David from the living room the following morning as Martha races down the stairs.

“What?” she asks, before gasping in horror as David points towards the mantle, where the painting has returned to its regular location, placing her hand over her mouth and shaking her head.

“Your painting is leaking something,” declares David, befuddled at the oozing painting and the mess of wet white paint collecting on the mantle, much of it dripping into a puddle on the carpet below. Martha? Why are they wearing different clothes?”

Taking a few steps into the living room for a closer examination, the sinking heart and perplexed mind of Martha find themselves at a loss for words gazing up at the stunning peculiarity. The Victorian Era had come and gone, and it appeared as though the children were now abreast of the changes. The long white flowing dress of the girl in the painting has been replaced, as a sparkling new blue dress was in its place, although the dead lily flower still remained perched in her hair and drooping down her face. The dark, deathly tint of black worn by the boy has likewise been exchanged, swapped for a loose fitting, shirt and shorts combination shaded in a hearty splash of red. A few white blotches of white paint could be found on the clothing and body of each child, now dressed in a more casual and contemporary style as if attempting to blend in.   One other aspect was different as the eyes of each child, which had been previously covered in a glossy golden shine were now as wide open as the corresponding eyes of Martha, only these bulging eyes were coated not in sadness and fear but of anger and hatred, emotions highlighted by the subtle yet blood red veins peppering the perimeters of the deviant twin stares.

“Did you bring this back into the house from the garage?” asks Martha with a shaky voice.

“Garage? No, what do you mean?” asks David, as Martha glances back up at the painting, the unsettling vibe emitted from the painting gone, and an overpowering disturbing sensation of dread now residing in its place.

“Enough is enough! There is something seriously wrong with this painting David. Since we’ve had it I’ve experienced the most terrifying nightmare of my entire life. I saw him on the neighbor’s swing set, and then she visited me in the night,” explains Martha pointing up at each child. “Rory is afraid of the painting, and animals are always the first ones to know given that they have heightened sensitivity. This is the final straw, I painted it white the other day and threw it in the garage, and now we find it back atop the mantle on its own? With the children painted in different clothes?” shouts Martha, firmly grasping the painting and tucking it into a garbage bag. Carrying it towards the back door en route to the street, the painting proceeds to rip through the bag, crashing to the floor and splattering some wet paint about that had remained behind.

“Lets calm down, okay? There is nothing unusual about this painting aside from it being a creepy little configuration of colors and textures. It can’t hurt you. They can’t hurt you, whoever those kids were they’re long dead by now. If anything I suppose they’re watching over us, kids aren’t evil Martha,” reasons David.

“Do you really fail to see it? This is not just a regular painting, it’s haunted, or charmed, or enchanted, or cursed, I don’t know how or why and I don’t care, I just want it out of this house and out of our lives!” shouts Martha.

“You sound like you’re a character in one of your movies, do you see how ridiculously sounding this all is, a haunted painting? When you slathered on that coat of paint and stuffed it away you must have loosed up a second painting underneath, I don’t know,” explains David.

“Now who sounds ridiculous? Just who did you buy this from in the first place?” demands Martha.

“Some regular artist or collector, or, I don’t know. Seemed normal enough. Told him that you were into this sort of scary detail and he jumped at the chance to offer it to me for next to no charge,” replies David, slowing down the words of his response upon reflecting of the former owner’s intentions.

“There you go. You know those people at those Art Fairs are always inflating the price. Why would somebody pawn off a well made century old painting to someone on the cheap?” demands Martha.

“Okay, you’ve made your point clear, and I have no other explanation for the change in clothes, yes it does boggle the mind. I have no issues if you’d like to get rid of it, lets just calm down,” requests David, tenderly embracing his wife with a kiss on the forehead and rub of the back.

7: Chapter 6

Preparing to host an elaborate dinner party that evening with friends, Martha finds herself gravitating her thoughts quickly to the arrangement, eager to help take her mind off of the unexplained events of earlier. Meticulously dressing up the dining room table with a dashing array of freshly cut flowers, antique candles and fine china, she continues setting the perfect scene while David showers to get read for their guests. While returning to the kitchen to retrieve dishes, the soft persistent splash of the shower upstairs no longer finds itself paired with her humming as the lone sounds ringing about the house, as a different and distinct tone of humming can be heard permeating from beneath the cabinets.

Approaching the source of the sound in a gingerly fashion, a dark spot of hair is the first sight visible upon craning her neck over the cabinets. Sitting Indian style on the floor is a child playing with unseen objects, whether they are invisible or imagined remains in doubt at the moment. Approximately ten years of age and adorned in red clothes with a splotch of white paint on the sleeve and another blemish of it in his hair, Martha reluctantly investigates as the boy stops playing, suddenly frozen in his features much like the child on the swing.

Too frightened to move Martha looks on as the boy slowly begins turning around, just as he had done outside, and like it or not the jury inside the brain of the woman unanimously inferred beyond a reasonable doubt that this was the boy from the painting, only now the only question remaining was the verdict to be rendered from whatever was sitting before her. Plucking up a handheld mirror from the ground, the boy peers into the shiny glass in order to discover the contents of the figure standing behind him, spotting the woman, Martha keenly aware of this fact as she can see her reflection in the small toy mirror. Oddly enough she cannot see the reflection of the child, defying any and all physical reason as she works up the courage to alter the angle of her view, it was almost as if the child was lacking in reflection.

Turning completely around to reveal the mystery of his face and eyes that had been shielded from view and forbidden and excluded from the mirror, Martha’s eyes flash twice as wide and with ten times the volume of fear as they have at any prior moment as the truth discloses itself to her. Instinctually stumbling backwards in terror, unable to release the carbon dioxide from her lungs in order to absorb fresh oxygen, reaching out to clutch anything as she attempts to maintain her failing balance, Martha crashes to the ground maintaining eye contact with the unwelcomed party, the agonizing sight presented before her chilling her blood and rendering her paralyzed in fear and unable to blink for the entire duration of the horrifying encounter.

Shrieking an ear-splitting, bloodcurdling scream loud enough to wake up the dead, much less drown out the shower water, David scuttles out of the bathroom, wrapping himself in a tower and rushing down the stairs. “Martha? What happened? What’s wrong?” he cries out, finding his exasperated wife frantically shaking on the kitchen floor. “Dear, what is it? What was it?” he asks, as Martha collects herself enough to be able to speak, mumbling over the first several words before opening her mouth and shooting an explosion of words akin to popping off the cork of a wine bottle or cracking open shaken bottle of pop or another carbonated beverage.

“Evil, it’s an evil painting, the thing, it...” she rambles on incoherently.

“It’s okay, calm down, it can’t hurt you now,” reassures David.

“The painting...it stared at me, it was here in the kitchen, the boy. Those menacing eyes glaring at me and I froze. It wasn’t bad, it wasn’t angry—it was evil. I wasn’t scared, I was petrified, those eyes peered deep into mine and I felt as though I was being raped from a distance, my insides physically hurt from the incident and they still ach,” she explains, slowly regaining her fractured composure. “Whatever it was, it was something that I was not meant to see, that we human beings are not meant to see, because we have no natural defense mechanism. It knew that, and I was its prey, it were as if I were its prey and it was toying with me,” she explains as David gathers her in his arms.

“Do you wish for me to cancel the dinner party?” asks David roughly twenty minutes later after getting dressed.

“No, if anything perhaps they can help, perhaps they know what is going on. You know that Linda is in to this stuff,” replies Martha.

“I wonder if something will happen,” remarks David.

“Hopefully it does, then I’ll know that I’m not going insane. They were wearing different clothes, were they not?” asks Martha, still struggling to comprehend the growing complexities playing out before her eyes, as David merely responds with a nod of the head...

A ring of the doorbell and a couple of knocks at the door signaled the beginning of the arrival of the guests for the dinner party, a party with a less festive atmosphere for the four couples in attendance than the hosts would have envisioned merely hours before as what had remained of the jubilance in the Cullen house had been replaced with a subdued emptiness of emotion.

“You two are awfully quiet tonight, everything okay?” asks one of the guests, noticing David incessantly forking his plate of Caesar salad and Martha withdrawn in her tall glass of red wine, her third helping in twenty minutes.

“Well, as a matter of fact...” begins David.

“Allow me to do the honors,” announces Martha cutting him off.

“Recently we obtained a painting to add to our collection, a very creepy painting and based upon several unexplained and horrific incidents over the past week, the other explanation I have to offer to you all is that its haunted,” explains Martha with a glint of shame in her eyes.

“How is it haunted?” asks one of the guests.

“I’ve suffered strange nightmares, I’ve encountered the boy and girl from the painting, I placed it in the garage and it returned to the mantle, the children changed clothes, and Rory won’t go near the thing. Accept merely three of those five with your choosing and you’ll likely agree with our contention,” declares Martha spitting out the words with a monotone demeanor, painfully reliving each incident.

“You are sincere in your speech, I believe you, and without further testing I’ll conform your diagnosis,” explains Linda.

“What do we have to do to rid ourselves of this thing?” asks David. “I mean it returned into the house on its own!”

“How about getting a priest to bless your home?” asks one guest.

“The thing about that is that priests are notoriously reluctant to participate in such an exercise in this day and age, particularly with folks that are not exactly the church going type. They bark about needing church approval before blessing anything, much less an object like a painting. Often times they won’t risk ridicule of performing such a stunt with outsiders, unfortunately there are many out there that make light of the significance of the exercise,” explains Linda.

“So dunk it in a drum of holy water and drown those little fiends would that work?” asks David in jest.

“Holy water is but one tool of the trade in the fight against evil, but the thing is that we don’t even know yet if the painting is evil, it could just be a human spirit or two that is causing you to feel threatened and fighting, the transition to accepting the spiritual realm is always a difficult experience the first time,” explains Linda.

“You believe that the spirit of these children are alive and well in the painting as ghosts?” asks David.

“That’s one possibility of any number of them,” responds Linda.

“They’re not children, I can assure you of that. It doesn’t take the worlds greatest mother to understand the difference between a child and something else,” replies Martha.

“Do you know who painted this? Where did you obtain it from?” asks Linda.

“I’ll field that one. Purchased it at an Art Fair, the man said it was a century old and was a rare antique of exceptional prowess and design, a viewpoint that I concurred with,” replies David.

“Think about it like this. An artist puts so much work into his or her work, raising it from birth to maturity much like a child, releasing their creations out into the world, essentially placing them up for adoption. A painting possesses so much of the artist’s spirit...his life, his ambitions, his dreams...as well as his nightmares and fears. Perhaps this was not a portrait of two children in the traditional sense, you may be correct that they were not anyone’s children. Maybe a spirit or creature took the form of those children and tormented and tortured someone, possibly the artist, who was merely expressing this experience?” explains Linda as the room falls to silence at such a horrific possibility.

“With so much energy and emotions stored in such a small sample of paint and canvas it is not wonder that so many of these aspects can live on in a myriad of ways long after the artist has passed on, in this case spirits may have attached themselves to the painting” explains Linda.

“So what do we do?” asks Martha.

“First thing you must do is accept these possibilities, and remain strong in your resolve, that’s all that I can say, I’m far from an expert in this stuff,” explains Linda.

8: Chapter 7:

Following the party, Martha and David take the only course of action they can think of, striking a match and lighting a fire, tossing the painting in the fireplace and watching the blue and red colors of the clothes melting away in the dancing orange flames glowing about and shedding much needed light and extinguishment upon the darkness embodied within the foul painting. Dying a second death is the lily in the hair of the girl, crinkling into a descending black residue amidst the burning pile of cinders and ashes along with the rest of the painting.

Covering her mouth from whatever harmful toxic fumes or flying spirits emit themselves from the painting (after what she had been through she was not one to take chances), Martha watched the remaining portions of the painting dissolve away. The eyes were the last part to burn away, burning brightly with an intensity absent from the surrounding flames as Martha looked into them one last time, feeling as though they were communicating a stern and dreadful warning that the nightmare was not over. Whether it be a woman’s intuition or a fateful and foreboding encounter with the demonic, her instinct would soon prove to be correct.

Lying in bed that night following the dinner party and ritualistic burning, Martha played an ongoing game of hide-and-seek with her thoughts, feeling chilly with the midnight air seeping in through the window, a window she had opened after feeling as warm as the fireplace. Hearing the shrill call of a sudden gust of wind directs her stare towards the window, subsequently feeling it plant a tender unwanted kiss along her cheeks, dotting her arms with goose bumps and raising each hair of hers on end, out of fear that something horrible is awaiting the opportunity to make its presence known. “Something is at the window, wake up!” she whispers to David, already fast asleep as per usual.

Glancing ceaselessly towards the open window as the magenta colored curtains flail in the wind, another strong burst caroms into a lonely burning candle on the window ledge, knocking it over as the hot wax and slender flame spills into the carpet below. The geometry of the room was arranged in a most unforgiving alignment, as a stack of David’s work papers and a straw article collected from a previous art fair were within striking distance. Holding her breath, the influx of oxygen permeating the room in the stiff breeze carries the flame into the adjacent goods, engulfing them in fire immediately.

“David! The room is on fire!” screams Martha, her calls unheeded by her slumbering husband. Desperate to extinguish the growing blaze, the woman engages in a fight with her muscles and reflexes, finding them as locked in place as a Tetanus victim suffering through a spasm. Unable to lift a finger let alone rise from the bed, the fire spreads throughout the bedroom, scuttling across the carpet and consuming the dresser, climbing up the walls like an animal storming a tree. These flames weren’t dancing, rather the choreography more closely resembled an invading army, smothering and destroying everything in its path as it scorched the ceiling, taking the surrounding territory around the bed of the Cullens.

Free of resistance the flames spread quickly, but just distributed just as fast were the black clouds of smoke swamping the room as if they were in a race with the fire, rendering the window a one way street of traffic for oxygen as smoke poured out of the window, that is the smoke that was not caking the face and lungs of Martha.

“David! Help me!” she cries through her chokes, as breathing is no longer conducive to the chemistry of the room, the air so blackened with flames that the shining red, orange and yellow light of the flames has faded from view, although the welling up of tears and sweat pouring down her forehead in buckets has collected in her eyes, reducing her vision to pockets of occasional flashes of light.

With her husband failing to respond, and unable to wake him and save him or herself, Martha surrenders to the advancing army, setting aside the futility of her defiance. “Let me choke on the smoke, please God, let me go that way, I don’t want to feel the flames!” she attempts to whisper, coughing away at the relentless clouds of smoke burning from the flames and whatever other toxic substances and particles are fluttering about in the empty air. It would hardly matter which way she went out at that point as a plethora of painful sensations were permeating throughout her body, the worst one of all may have been the smell, a flavorless aroma burning her nostrils that just felt as hot as the sun, a feeling that spread as quickly as the flames did throughout her sinus cavity and up to her brain.

Martha was granted her one final wish, succumbing to smoke inhalation moments before the flames had the chance to overtake her and her husband and burn them alive, instead cooking and cremating their remains in a thousand degree inferno.

“Martha! My God you’re burning up. It’s okay, you feel like you have a fever well over a hundred,” describes David peering down at his wife, retrieving for her a glass of water after waking up from her latest nightmare. “Here,” he exclaims giving her a cup of water. “You were gasping, sounded though you were really struggling, almost as if you were choking. You were talking in your sleep once again and shaking. Sweating bullets, the sheets are drenched”

Swallowing down the water in one extended sequence, the exasperated woman breathes deeply, wiping the sweat from her brow and sharing the disturbing details of her dream. “There was a fire, right here in this room in my dream, you were unresponsive and I couldn’t move, I was fastened in place.”

“Sleep paralysis, always a very frightening thing, I’m sorry honey. You’re safe now,” assures David to his exhausted wife, a woman exhausted not from a lack of rest.

Waking up early the following morning, Martha is first to rise from bed and descend the staircase, fighting the urge to look at the empty spot atop the mantle, where an ugly rectangular shape emerges from the corner of her eye from that direction. “Not again, No!” she cries aloud at the sight of the painting prominently displayed once again above the fireplace. Grimacing her teeth and reaching up to retrieve the painting in order to slam it against the wall in frustration, in the process she screams in agony upon clasping the painting, burning her hands on the hot edges. Soothing her shaking hands and letting out a scream of frustration before collapsing into tears, Martha begins crying as David races down the stairs.

“There is no other explanation now, you were right, the painting is haunted. Had a feeling after what happened before I just couldn’t...just didn’t want to believe such a thing could happen to us. This isn’t some haunted murder house or plantation or the damn Tower of London. That painting though, who knows where it has been, who painted that monstrosity or who or what those children are. Enough speculation, I have an idea of how we can get rid of it,” explains David, taking command of the situation. “It was exchanged once before in a sale, stands a reason it can be sold again.”

“Sell it to who exactly?” asks Martha.

“What’s the difference, it’s 2015. This is the information age and we’ve got the power of the Internet in our corner. People buy anything on there, even haunted objects,” explains David.

“I’m guilty as charged,” replies Martha.

“Honey I never worked up the courage to specifically ask you before, but what was it about collecting all of that stuff that floated your boat?” asks David.

“It just had such a taboo quality that called out to me, that endeared itself to me. Some people collect stamps or coins, others knit, or live through the activities of their children. This was different, gathering up these goods I felt like the master, carrying dominion over them, and I must say the perception of establishing control over a supernatural force, whether real or not does provide a feeling of power. It’s always important to feel powerful when you occasionally feel powerless, and after everything with Rose, that is precisely how I felt,” explains Martha.

Readying the camera to snap pictures of the painting for their classified advertisement for online resale, David is perplexed at the actions of the camera.

“What’s wrong?” asks Martha.

“Not sure if it’s the flash or what it is, it’s taking pictures, but I can’t seem to take one of the painting without a bright light blinding the image,” he responds, changing the angle but to no avail as they each fail to develop.

“Pictures are developing just fine when I snap something else, like the television. It won’t work on the painting though,” he declares.

Retrieving her cellular phone from the nearby room, Martha returns and snaps two pictures, one of her purse and one of the painting. We’ll give you one guess as to which one developed. Angered and upset, the two take a brief hiatus from the advertisement construction, settling for placing the painting underneath a bed in the guest bedroom, relegated these days to an empty bedroom.

9: Chapter 8

A few days pass without incident as the two inevitably begin placing distance between themselves and the nightmare, that is until one calibrated, strategic moment, when whatever it was decided the time was right to strike. Arriving home early one afternoon from her floral shop, Martha relaxes in the kitchen with a cup of coffee, reading the horrors and atrocities outlining the newspaper, tragedies that read like a carnival itinerary of fun in light of what the Cullens had endured.

A fresh voice is heard in the distance, as the tranquility of the home is tainted and tarnished once again, this time with the sound of crying coming from beyond, not beyond the walls and ceiling of the house, but beyond the realm of logic, as the piercing tone of a child crying is heard reverberating from the direction of the painting upstairs. Lowering the newspaper from the field of vision and calmly setting aside the cup of coffee, Martha slowly makes her way up the stairs, the beat of her heart thudding a bit harder with each passing step. Any hopes that the crying is taking place outdoors are dashed as the ears of the woman pinpoint the source to the guest bedroom, confirming her distressing suspicions, along with the fact that it is the sound of a baby crying.                   

Taking a deep breath, she fumbles with the doorknob given her unsteady hand and leaky palm, struggling to complete the motion and forcing her shoulder into the door, succeeding in slamming it open and into the wall, and falling to the ground with inertia in the process.

Glancing upwards, a familiar look of dread blankets her face, spreading her eyes open widely as her jaw drops as near to the floor as possible. Astonished with the new position of the painting, no longer underneath the bed but perched ten feet atop the wall with nothing supporting or holding it up, her mouth begins quivering as the harsh tone of the baby’s crying floods her eardrums. Reaching up and placing her hand over her mouth in horror, the shivering woman snaps her eyelids closed, but not before a lone tear is able to run down her cheek as the screams of the baby ratchet up a notch.

“Hey honey, how was your day?” asks David upon arriving home, finding Martha hunched over the living room chair and moving in for a closer look. “Honey, is everything all right?”

“Martha?” he asks.

“Today I heard crying coming from the painting. Walking upstairs to check it out, I found the painting fastened up on the wall, where I saw...” she replies, trailing off.

“Yes? Saw what?” he asks.

“The boy, the girl, and Rose. Rose was in the painting, at least a likening of her,” claims Martha. “Where are you going?”

“Where do you think, to see this for myself,” replies David racing up the steps, angrily stepping into the guest bedroom, finding the painting face down on the floor. Wasting little time kneeling beside it, his imagination runs wild with what is on the other side of the painting, running his fingers along the outside edge, biting his lip and closing his eyes with apprehension as he flips it over. Opening them quickly, he finds the usual suspects, the ominous girl and boy standing in front of the murky green background, with no baby or anything else of note evident in the portrait.

Carrying the painting back into the living room on his way downstairs, David thumps it atop the mantle.

“Did you see it? Why did you bring it back down?” asks Martha.

“There was nothing there. At least there is nothing there now, not saying that you didn’t see something. I’m setting it here because this is where it wants to be. Martha, we mustn’t be afraid of it, sure it has inspired some hideous nightmares and is capable of performing magic tricks and disappearing acts and reappearing ones, but we mustn’t be afraid of it! Linda may be no expert but she is right about this, we need to show some resolve and band together against this overrated piece of art. It’s a damn painting, what is it going to do, give us lead poisoning if we consume it? Enough of this nonsense, we’re taking back our lives, I don’t care if those two kids hop out with Jack the Ripper,” declares David, storming into the kitchen.

“Where are you going now?” asks Martha.

“To fix myself a drink, I’ve had a long couple of weeks and I could use a stiff one, would you like,” asks David, before gasping aloud, slipping on the sopping wet kitchen floor tiles and taking a devastating fall with a debilitating impact, crunching his head and neck colliding into the refrigerator door.

“David! My God! Honey, speak to me?” she asks, finding him unconscious she avoids making physical contact out of concern for his health, calling an ambulance immediately. Checking David’s breathing and finding a slight pulse, she whispers to her husband. “Help is on the way, you’re going to be okay. How is the kitchen floor wet?” she asks, scratching her head searching for answers and provided one as the faint sound of laughter can be heard coming from atop the mantle. A soft sound of giggling proceeds to taunt the woman for a few minutes before being drowned out by the coming sirens, as she maintains a tenuous grip on her sanity. As paramedics arrive and soon carry David out of the house, Martha glances up at the painting as she makes her way out the door with them. She was hardly one hundred percent positive given the heat of the moment playing games with her emotions, the speed of which she vacated the home, and the reflection of light, but she could swear that the hands the boy and girl in the painting, still bound together in unity, were gleaming and dripping, as sopping wet as the floor...

     “This one looks absolutely adorable, doesn’t it Fred?” asks a woman to her husband.

     “I reckon it does. If this will make you happy, then we’ll take it,” replies the old man, flashing a wink and a smile to Martha.

     “You certainly are selling some lovely things here, this is the most luxurious garage sale that I have ever seen!” exclaims the woman.

     “Thank you. The reason for that is because a few months ago my husband had a horrible accident, he was in a coma for almost a week and cracked two vertebrae’s in the process,” explains Martha.

     “Heavens to Betsy, is he all right?” replies the stunned woman.

     “Yes he is recovering and getting better, it is going to take some time before he is physically rehabilitated and back to his old self. In the meantime I’m here trying to save every penny possible and make a few on the side,” explains Martha. “Tell you what, since you two are such a cute couple, I’ll throw this painting in for free, what do you say?”

     “Oh I don’t know, what do you think honey?” asks the old man to his wife.

     “Well I don’t like it nearly as much as the other one, but there is just something about a painting with children that helps bring out the fountain of youth in my spirits,” replies the woman.

     “Allow me to bundle these and wrap them up together for you,” declares Martha, handing the man the assortment of paintings and completing the transaction. “You two have a blessed day now!”

     Not more than ten steps towards their car, the bundle of paintings bottoms out, dropping one of the paintings to the ground.

“Good heaven, what is this?” asks the old man.

     “My goodness, this one is horrible! Those people in the portrait look absolutely terrifying,” remarks the woman as the couple is horrified with the look of the painting, which has changed once again and now includes two sparkling new silver gravestones with the names of David and Martha Cullen engraved into them, while the malicious girl and malevolent boy each sit atop the headstones still holding hands, with smiles draped over their desolate faces.

“Ms., how did this painting get in there?” asks the woman, returning the infamous painting back into the waiting yet unwelcoming hands of Martha.

     “Why, it must have stuck to the other two,” replied Martha, playing off the incident as a mistake.

“That’s all right dear, you already gave us two paintings for a bargain, and you don’t need to give us three. Our thoughts are with you and your husband; you ought to thank your lucky stars that he is going to be okay. You are very lucky,” exclaims the woman.

Fundraising for hospital bills was on the agenda, but it did not rank nearly as high as letting go of the painting. Martha did respect and appreciate the polite charm of the happy elderly churchgoing couple, selling them two paintings and briefly debating the righteousness of her proposed course of action, before reaching the painstaking conclusion that she no longer cares what was right and what was wrong in order to rid the wicked painting from the lives of her and her husband. Once a brave woman, Martha has been knocked down a few pegs, struggling to make it through the day without showing weakness or fear. Formerly a woman that never encountered a battle with insomnia that she could not win, she has been afflicted with night terrors ever since David’s injury.

“Lucky? Yes, suppose I am lucky, it could be worse, right? It could always be worse,” replies Martha as the elderly couple begins walking away, a look of sorrow decorating her face, as she is alone with the painting once again... 

10: Epilogue

A feathery brush, a wide palette featuring an assortment of paint colors as varied as the rainbow, a clean, blank slate and above all a vision, these are the tools of the trade. Best of all is the empty canvas, naked at first glance yet overflowing with endless possibility in the hands of the creative, the thinkers, and the dreamers. There is far more to it than what meets the eye, aside from a simple barrage of colors, textures, shapes and shades and shadows and even talent and vision for that matter. Whether painters, sculptors or writers, artists invest a great deal of their hearts and souls into their works, hearts and souls that may be as pure in shade as swan white, or as fiendish in shade as jet black. Stands a reason that in addition to positive attributes supplanting themselves in a work of art that less desirable remnants of ones personality and of this universe could likewise attach themselves to such quality work.

It’s the circle of life in our ecosystem of art in this chapter, but one last thought before you turn the page. If you happy to be at an art fair or garage sale, perhaps a flea market or a book fair, and you happen to cross paths with a woman named Martha Cullen who seems a little anxious, and comes off a little desperate as if she is at the end of her rope, offer your condolences and support. If she returns the favor and offers her appreciation by attempting to peddle off a painting, politely decline tendering such an offer regardless of how much you fancy the paranormal and the occult. Particularly if the painting depicts two mischievous and malevolent children fashioned in Victorian era attire that just so happen to possess the ability to accommodate their wardrobes to the latest styles without the assistance of an artist or brush...

 

END