‘Well as far as I am concerned by all means. I can’t stand it, it gives me the creeps.’
‘What about your husband?’
‘Well, he seems quite fond of it. it’s hanging in his study.’
‘I see. do you think I have any chance of persuading him to part with the painting?’
‘Well you can come over and try if you like.’
‘Thank you, this evening?’
‘Yes. But could you make it about 8:30 that should give me time to put the children to bed by then we’ll have a chance to talk.’
“Yes, I understand completely, 830 then thank him is this my goodbye.”
Coincidence? Imagination? I couldn’t take the risk this time I had to back my instinct. I had to get to the Smyth house before the children were put to bed. I arrived at about eight and left the car parked outside the front gates. As I walked up a long drive sheer natural curiosity urged me to peer through the window of a small garden shed. Standing on the workbench with a large tin clearly marked ‘weed killer – poison.’
I quickened my steps to the house approaching the front door I could now see the garden switch near the back and I still allowed ornamental fishpond my stomach turned over. “Weed killer, water. Coincidence again? I rang the bell.
‘Good evening. You must be Mr Gore?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ I said. ‘Sorry I’m a little early.’
‘That doesn’t matter. I haven’t quite got the children settled down for the night. But do come in.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Actually, I am rather glad you are early. I haven’t had a chance to tell him about this portrait business yet. But I’d like to explain about but my husband.’
‘Is he ill?’
‘No, not physically but he’s… well he’s become depressed about life in general, so he might give you the wrong impression.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well he’s always been such a happy easy-going person. No temperament at all, not like me…’
“And he’s changed?”
‘Yes, yes totally. He’s moody, he is irrational, and he’s never been bad-tempered with me and the children for no reason. But now…’
‘Mrs Smyth. How long would you say that this has been going on?’
“For about three weeks.’
‘Three weeks.’ I said.
‘I can’t understand it is happened almost overnight.’
‘Three weeks. I see. But does he want to talk about it. I mean communicate?’
‘Oh no. No that’s just it. He takes himself off to his study and sits there for hours. Alone.’
‘Perhaps he’s overworked. Maybe he needs a holiday?’
‘We tried that a week ago.’
‘Did that help any?’
‘Much, but within a few hours of being home, he was just the same. Oh, I’m so worried about him. Do forgive me Mr Gore letting my hair down to a complete stranger.’
‘Oh, not at all. You’ve actually been a great help. If there is anything I can do?’
‘Well, as a matter fact; I hope things maybe improving. Just before you arrived Philip insisted, he took the children’s bedtime drink up to them. He almost through me out of the kitchen.’ She giggled.
‘Mrs Smyth. Where is he now?’
‘He’s in the kitchen making it.’
The kitchen door opened, and Philip Smyth walked out carrying a tray. There were two mugs of milk on it. I knew I had to stop him in some way, so I edged to the foot of the stairs. Quickly I thought if I held out my hand as if to shake his, I could easily send the tray flying onto the floor.
‘Darling this is Mr Gore. he wants to-’
‘Get out of my way.’
‘How do you do Mr Smyth,’ I tripped him sending the tray of drinks crashing to the floor just as I had planned.
‘You stupid bloody fool!’ Mr Smyth barked.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry. What must you think of me? Pease-’
‘Philip, it was an accident.’ Mrs Smyth insisted.
‘Dam you…’ Mr Smyth muttered under his breath.
‘May I help clear up the mess?’
‘No, no, no. I’ll do it.’
‘So sorry Mrs Smyth. I know this is hardly the time, but I really must talk to your husband about that portrait.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘Into the study. The portrait is there too.’
‘Thank you.’
We crossed the hall to the study the door was closed.
‘Darling, darling. It’s someone to see you.’
Philip Smyth was sitting at the desk his back towards us. Staring up at the portrait of Nathanial Blackburn. In a heartbeat, I recognized the same smell of evil in that room, and I suddenly felt afraid.
‘Philip? Do you feel all right?’ Mrs Smyth asked.
Philip sprang out of his chair and turned to face us. In his hand he held a small hatchet.
‘Philip?’ His with exclaimed.
He moved quickly like an animal around the desk.
‘You bitch, you whore. I hate you!’ he snapped at his poor wife.
‘Philip, what’s the matter with you?’
Quickly I moved between him and the desk and standing behind him grasped both of his wrists.
‘Whore, whore, bloody bitch. I hate you!’
‘Philip please, no.’
He struggled with me, but I clung on. Finally, I managed to wrench the hatchet out of his grasp. As I swung around my eyes met those of Nathanial Joseph Blackburn. And in a split second I knew either that picture must be destroyed, or we would be. His evil still alive dominating commanding. Then Philip Smyth with a lunatic strength through himself at me.
I shouted to his wife. ‘Hold him? Keep him back!!’
We struggled. ‘It’s the portrait. I must destroy it. Hold him!’
‘You fool. Leave that portrait alone,’ Philip pleaded.
‘I can’t stop him’ Mrs Smyth cried out.
He gripped his hands around her neck. Quickly I struck the portrait. With the very first blow Philip Smyth released his wife, cried out in pain and he wheeled around room. I struck at Blackburn’s eyes, his nose, at his mouth, his neck, his chest. I felt possessed, overwhelmed by anger and hate. But Smyth, his strength ebbing away with each blow began to whimper like a wounded animal. Finally, the picture cord gave way and Joseph Blackburn slid to the floor.
‘Philip. He’s dead.’ Mrs Smyth sobbed.
‘No, no. Mrs Smyth he’s not dead, just wait a moment. Please, be patient.’
‘We must get a doctor.’
‘No, there’s no need for that. Your husband has simply been released.’
‘What happened?’ Mr Smyth asked in a confused state.
‘Nothing happened Mr Smyth.’
‘Will he remember do you think?’
‘Like one will remember a nightmare. But first a few details will remain clear. But then gradually in time all will be forgotten. And by you too Mrs Smyth.’
‘I haven’t hurt you have I darling?’
‘No darling you haven’t, not you.’ She whispered and kissed him.
~
What strange powers a painting can have. Sometimes good but in the case of Nathanial Joseph Blackburn evil.
Hours later after I had burned what remained of the canvas, I told the Smyth’s the whole story. There was one thing I didn’t tell them however, but I will tell you. When the portrait crashed to the ground and Philip’s Smyth lay exhausted and his wife’s arms.
I noticed that the paint of Blackburn’s hunting jacket had come off the canvas and lined the knife edge of the hatchet. That was understandable but why had so much appeared on my hands and streaked my wrists. Old paint should flake or powder, but this was wet, very wet.
When I washed my hands a few moments late, I knew why, it wasn’t paint, it was blood.
If any of you have portraits hanging on your walls? Are they of unknown s
itters? Be very careful how you look at them. You never know.
The story will feature along with other great horror stories not only in Gallery of horror on sale here:
AMAZON UK:
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AMAZON USA:
https://amzn.to/2I0Bxd1
But in a planned collection of shorts by Kensington Gore that we also plan to turn into a radio show or a podcast. So, watch this space dear reader/viewer/listener… www.kensingtongorepublishing.com
GET STUFFED BY GRAEME PARKER
The head of the ferocious tiger was deadly still; it had a glint in its eye. Beside it the penguin stood motionless. A large grizzly bear stood over them both in its scary attack pose.
The shop bell of Mr Smith's Taxidermy Shop chimed out. A beautiful woman in her mid-twenties, with long, flowing blonde hair, entered the dusty, seldom-visited shop.
The midday summer sunshine flowed into the dark, dreary shop, bathing the weird menagerie of stuffed animals that stood within.
The young woman's long hair cascaded down over her perfectly toned and tanned naked shoulders. Her bright floral strapless summer dress looked strikingly out of place in the shop that was shrouded in darkness and death.
"I'll be out in a moment," Mr Smith, the shop owner and sole proprietor, chirped from the back.
The woman looked around the old-fashioned shop in amazement. It was like she'd entered a time warp. It housed shelf upon shelf of dead animals in various strange and scary poses.
So many different animals – beasts of all kinds, from big game to various birds, so many different species it would give Noah in his ark a run for his money.
"Sorry to keep you waiting. I had my hand up a badger's arse, those things can really be rough..." Mr Smith snorted but then stopped in his tracks as he came in, wiping his hand with an old rag. He looked in awe at the beautiful blonde woman silhouetted in the bright sunshine. Mr Smith prided himself on his eye for a beautiful creature. He wasn't used to seeing such natural beauty up close. Well, not alive that is. She looked so vibrant and full of life. Something about her instantly attracted Mr Smith but, at the same time, put him on edge.
The young woman was slowly spinning around, mumbling things under her breath. Her eyes were now closed, and it was as though she was in a trance. It sounded like some kind of strange incantation. As she babbled away in tongues, Mr Smith stood rooted to the spot, hypnotised, looking at her, pretty sure she wasn’t wearing any underwear. Her flimsy summer dress seemed transparent. She was the prettiest creature Mr Smith had ever seen in his life and he was doing his best not to stare.
“Can I help you, my dear?” Mr Smith tried to flash one of his most cheesy smiles. He was a small weasel of a man in his late fifties, with thinning hair and unkempt greying moustache.
His question brought her out of her trance-like state. She flicked her blonde hair out her eyes and looked at Mr Smith.
“Wow!" she said.
"Sorry?" Mr Smith asked, bemused.
"I mean, wow! These are all such beautiful animals."
“Thank you.” Mr Smith smiled, proud at someone else admiring his handiwork. “I try my best.”
“No, I mean, wow, they are beautiful..."
Mr Smith smiled his crooked smile. "What can I say? It comes with years of practice."
"No, Mr Smith, is it?"
"Yes, that's me."
"You misunderstand me, Mr Smith. They are beautiful animals or, to be more precise, they WERE beautiful animals."
"I see," Mr Smith said, putting down his oily rag on the shop counter and sensing the change in the young woman's tone.
"How dare you kill God’s beautiful creatures and put them on show as some kind of petting zoo for the dead.”
Me Smith could see the hatred in her eyes and began to usher her to the door.
"You're one of those bleeding-heart liberal troublemakers, aren't you?"
"I'm an animal lover, Mr Smith."
"As am I, young lady. I capture their beauty."
"You can't be, Mr Smith, you deal in death."
"All I do is stuff and preserve the animals. How they have got that way is none of my business.”
"You fawn over hunters and give meaning to their whim of killing beautiful wild animals."
"I need to ask you to leave now, young lady. If you are not here to buy anything, then I can't serve you."
"I would never buy anything from this den of death."
"Please leave, Miss, before I call the police," Mr Smith said as he bundled her out the shop door.
"Get your hands off me, you animal," she snapped.
"I'm no animal. I only stuff animals, remember?" he quipped as he managed to force her out and lock the door behind her.
“How would you like to get stuffed, Mr Smith?” the protester shouted through the door.
Mr Smith violently turned over the sign on his shop to read ‘Closed’ and stammered “Why don't you g-g-g-get stuffed!”
He turned his back and was about to go into the back to continue work on his badger when he jumped with shock as a rock smashed through the glass of his shop door, sending his sign falling to the floor at his feet.
He turned, preparing to continue working on the badger, when a rock smashed through the glass shop door. He jumped away from the dangerous shards as the glass and the sign fell to the floor at his feet.
He picked up the sign and rushed out the damaged door into the street with it still in his hand, only to see the young woman running away. She stopped at the end of the street corner to look back and flick him the bird and scream at him, "Murderer!"
***
Mr Smith hammered the last nail into the hardboard that covered the hole where the shop door window had been. "There, that should keep them out."
His wife looked over his shoulder at his handiwork. "That won't keep anyone out, George," sneered Mrs Smith, "and if you think it will keep me in here, you’re more than the fool I took you for."
The kindest way to describe Mrs Smith would be to say she looked like a human version of Miss Piggy. But that might warrant a karate pork chop from Miss Piggy. Mrs Smith's nose was more like a turned-up snout. Her hair was long and dyed blonde, but she was badly in need of her roots doing. She often wore tight dresses that were way too revealing of her ample bosom. Her round pig-like face had way too much make-up and she wore enough jewellery to put Mr T in the shade.
She mopped her bright pink, sweaty, ham-like brow; the afternoon heat had built up, making it like an oven in the badly ventilated shop.
"A girl did this you say?" Mrs Smith snorted.
"Yes, dear."
"Some kind of animal protester?"
"I presume so."
Mrs Smith didn't seem too sure. "You didn't make any unwanted advances, did you?"
"No dear, you know I only have eyes for you," he replied. George bit his tongue as he wanted to add, “Though sometimes I feel I must want my bloody eyes testing!”
"Well, George, if you think I'm staying here tonight, lying awake all night in fear that the shop I sleep over is going to be petrol-bombed by some crazy animal rights nut job, you have another thing coming."
"Where do you plan to go, dear?"
“I'm going into London. Pamper myself in some five-star hotel and get some shopping done in Kensington. While I'm gone, you can get cracking on some DIY jobs. You've been putting off shaving down that living room door that keeps sticking for months.”
George rolled his eyes. "Yes, dear."
"I nearly got stuck in the living room the other day. I could've wasted away, the notice you take of me."
"What if that young woman comes back?"
"You should call the police, have the young tart arrested!" announced Mrs Smith. "What are you, George, a man or a mouse?"
***
“Eek!” the monster on the TV said.
Mr Smith turned off the TV that had been showing an old Kensington Gore horror movie, The Mummy’s Ring.
&
nbsp; “They play any old rubbish around the midnight hour,” he thought to himself.
He went over to his workbench in the corner of the room, where a particularly impressive eagle was frozen in hunting swoop. He sat down and started working on it, touching up the beak.
The storm grew louder outside the window. There was a scratching on the glass. To Mr Smith, it sounded like an animal trying to get in. Was it just his imagination running wild or could he actually hear an animal noise? He stopped what he was doing, cocked an ear and listened more intently.
There was a loud clap of thunder that made him jump out of his seat. He rushed over to the window. Tugging back the curtains, he was relieved to see the twigs of an overhanging tree branch had been scratching at the pane of glass.
There was that noise again. This time a more of a scurrying sound, and it seemed to be coming from downstairs.
"Margaret? Is that you?" Mr Smith shouted, thinking his wife had seen sense and had decided to return home.
The scurrying stopped for a second and then he heard it again. He put down his magnifying glass and paint brush and got up from his workbench to go and investigate.
As he reached the landing and looked down the darkened stairs, the noise started again. Now he could hear it more clearly: it was more of a scraping noise and a rhythmic thud.
"Margret? Margret are you home, dear?" he asked.
The noise again stopped for a second and then continued its journey. Louder with each heartbeat.
"Is there anyone there?" he called, his voice shaking with trepidation.
There was no answer. The noise grew louder as though it was coming towards him. He was halfway down the stairs when he saw something scurry past the bottom of the stairs.
"Not rats again!" he thought to himself crossly, as he'd only just paid the Rentokil guy a shedload of money for getting rid of an infestation.
He descended to the foot of the stairs. There was a huge clap of thunder from the storm and the lights flickered and then went out.
"Bloody faulty fuse box, it goes out more than the cat," Mr Smith muttered to no one in particular. He fumbled around in the dark for the handle to the cupboard under the stairs. He opened the door as another huge clap of thunder came and a precariously placed mop fell out the cupboard onto him. The shock made Mr Smith scream and throw the mop to the floor.
Scary Halloween Page 3