Come Saturday and it was overcast. As Tim drove along the gravel path he pointed towards the artist for Marie’s sake to which she acknowledged without asking much else. He was actually glad she wasn’t interested. There would be no desire to meet him and discover the fact he was, at the least, a bit strange. When they parked up Tim insisted on leaving right away rather than going in. “Just to make sure I’m back in time,” he assured. “Careful on your knee,” Marie told him which he dismissed with a waving hand.
Eagerness halved the twenty minute walk to ten. The painter could hear grass folding and put down the brush. “Are we ready then?” Tim nodded to himself before replying, “Ready.” He watched the artist slowly collect everything, offering help which wasn’t needed. At last the canvas was carefully placed under an arm and they walked in tandem to his outdated vehicle. Little talking occurred during the short journey, Tim just reiterated that he could not stay for much longer than an hour. “Just let me know when’s good for you.” That put him a bit more at ease. They turned into a modest cul-de-sac of bungalows. “It’s real quiet here which is perfect.” Tim was offered help getting out of the car which was rejected also. The painter left his latest creation in the car and opened the door.
“Excuse the mess.” He wasn’t kidding. After wiping his shoes in the porch Tim looked into the lounge area which was covered with paint-splattered newspaper sheets. The host cleared a spot on the couch for his guest but Tim was happy to stand. An offer of tea was accepted. While it was prepared Tim looked around. Aside from the couch there was no other furniture, no television or any kind of equipment. The walls were bare. “The paintings are kept in another room,” was yelled from the kitchen. “I sometimes paint in there when the light is good.” He soon returned with Tim’s brew and a coffee for himself. “Let’s go see them than shall we?”
In a smaller room were a trio of easels with paintings. Again newspaper sheets littered the floor. Tim analysed this space before going further and spotted a lone mattress in the corner. The artist took the lead towards a semi-circle display. With no reference material in front of them he helped Tim out, motioning to them with his coffee cup. “This one is of a field of sunflowers, this one is of an empty house, and this one is of dense woodland.” Tim took that bit longer to process what he was seeing which was purely down to age. “Ah, yes, I see the same interpretation with the trees.” He let him study each one until he saw a break in concentration. “It is only recently that this place became so messy, ever since I discovered my new talent,” said the painter while leaning against one of the walls. Tim’s demeanour changed. “You mean you’re new to painting?” There was a shake of the head. “Oh, you mean since you started painting in this style?”
“Yes, but it is not so much the style of the paintings as the direct effect of them.” Tim nodded in agreement but considered that the first pretentious remark he’d made. “Well, yes, they’re undoubtedly arresting.” The painter chuckled and took a big gulp of his coffee. He seized one of two stools in the room. The other was offered but Tim preferred to stand with his hands linked behind his back. The painter began, “When I say effect I mean a literal one on the painted subject.” He waggled a finger. “Now you said these paintings were like opposites…well, you’re nearly right. They’re inverted.” Tim went right back to looking at them as the painter watched the discovery wash over his face. “Oh, of course! Very clever.”
“Yes, but as I said, it’s not so much the effect on the viewer as a literal one on the subject. You could say the painting is now based on real life.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”
“I don’t work off inspiration so much as I do visions.” His spiel was sounding more pretentious by the second but Tim decided to see where it was going. “What is now three years ago I went to Fes, Morocco for the purpose of sniffing out an urban legend. I’m a sucker for that kind of thing. Most end in failure. Not this one. It was said that an artist by the name of Jeekah painted in a style of which the likes you’ve never seen, and that his works even had mysterious power. Eventually, after getting lost in this concrete jungle more times than I can remember I saw a painter in a small hut who fit local descriptions. He must have ignored me for days, until I started describing what I saw. It was then that he claimed I was of a ‘compatible mentality’. I’ll never forget that remark, spoken in this queer accent, but what was first laughed at proved to be the beginning of a two year existence with him. His skin was a leathery, reddish-brown and his features suggested a unique mix.” The painter seemed to lose his thread for a moment. “You know, since coming back I never got used to the temperature drop, that’s why I wear this.” He grabbed one side of his black coat. “Anyway, sometimes we would not speak to one another for a whole week, just paint. I lived like a monk. He expressed a desire to teach others but there were almost none who could ‘take it in’ as he put it. A year away and I felt this talent root itself into my hands. Jeekah began to refer to us both as disciples. Upon leaving I had been given something he claimed to inherit through years of living out in the Sahara…through years of being in contact with something not of this earth.” Tim tightened his incredulous face. “Gave you what?” The painter looked back through his eyebrows. A smile preceded the reply. “The power to repaint reality. What you see on those easels,” a finger guided his eye, “is what you will now see in those very locations.”
After more frowning Tim dropped the tension in his face. “You know, you’re not a bad actor either.” He smiled hoping to pop the joke. The painter’s secretive grin did not change. He continued to build his sentences carefully. “There is one thing that must be done though. The composition has to be drawn on a rare type of handmade canvas. He’ll teach you how to make it, how to weave the symbol in there which activates it. And then, when the painting is deemed complete, that is when the magic begins.” Tim scrunched up his face again and grew impatient. “But that is not all,” warned the scruffy artist, “something I noticed on my second painting – it is not just what I paint but everything within that area becomes inverted…all matter be it inanimate or breathing. And now I must show others the source of this power.”
“Right, well I think I should be on my way. Thank you for showi-” The painter cut him off like he couldn’t hear him. “This latest creation will be the first in which there are human subjects.”
“Excuse me?” said Tim.
“You sometimes question this…but…you can’t question the one who wills it.”
“Excuse me but I would like to leave now!” The painter looked up and snapped out of his indulged conversation. “I’m sorry. I’ll take you back to the manor.” He took the cup from Tim, placed it on a table and led him over the newspaper carpets to the front door. Nothing was said in the car after that awkward finale. Before they parted ways Tim tried to round things off with another, less warm thanks for the exhibition. The painter, currently digging out his equipment, picked up where he had left off. “I suppose you’ll have a ringside seat to this.” He glanced at the painting. “I’ll be finished in four days. Then you’ll see the true power of art – not to imitate nature but to redesign it.” Tim held a look, a mix of anger and confusion, as he watched the painter stroll back to his designated spot.
Before re-entering Ferncott manor there were even more questions, however, Tim needed to compose himself if he didn’t want to alarm Marie. He approached her nattering along with Kayleigh, poured himself some more tea and wore the smile of a man who had enjoyed himself. “So how was the exhibition?” she asked. “Not quite as interesting as I originally thought. Worth the trip though.” In a way Tim was glad Kayleigh was there as it reduced the amount of questions that would have come his way had he been at home. When that time came later in the evening he was able to assure Marie who had not been completely fine with him going to a stranger’s house. After soaking up more of the lecture it ended with another pop that he should not be walking around so much until his knee had fully healed. Normality
resumed and there was no intention to speak again to that painter, but that did not stop Tim keeping a mental note of what was said about his latest creation being finished in “four days” (this Saturday).
That day began, not with his usual routine of leg stretching but with Marie entering his separate room. She had just been on the phone to Kayleigh. “Tim! Wake up dear. Something awful has happened near the manor.” The statement put his emotions on high alert but he waited to hear her out. “There may have been a couple of murders at that cottage on the hill, and the area has been completed ransacked – trees, buildings, the ground.”
“What!” Anger was Tim’s first reaction, sensing a venomous disbelief had the power to weed this out as a prank. “I know. It’s awful isn’t it?”
“Is Ferncott manor still open?” he asked, moving about in a hurried way that got Marie fussing. “It is. Kayleigh’s on her way now. Easy! Remember your knee!”
Tim insisted on driving there and had to be told to slow down at a frequency which made him cuss. Had this tragedy not been so bizarre given the location, Tim’s behaviour would have raised more eyebrows. When they cruised over the mouth of the gravel drive both gazed at the scene of the crime, speechless. Verily Tim thought he had lost his mind as he saw the painting which had so interested him, now stencilled into reality, the only difference being hundreds of metres of police tape which went around the destroyed area. Most of the manor was empty to witness the aftermath of whatever had happened. Surely people must have thought (what with the state of the house and the holes where trees once were) that it didn’t make sense. That is what Tim hoped, so this private burden of questioning his sanity was apportioned. Most went back in to talk about it. Tim stayed that bit longer looking at this mutilated patch of land.
Fifty metres to his left another person was looking upon the rearranged vista. He wore a long black coat. Sure enough it was the painter. Tim stared until his ashen-expression was met with one much more relaxed, like a man looking at freshly cut lawn. Had this been a conventional crime Tim would have approached but he felt like he could extract more truth by simply looking at the engineer of this. An easy smile came to the painter’s face before giving a wave. Tim watched him go back to his car. He had no option but to go into the manor.
Every table was speaking about the same thing, many of them leaning out of chairs to take in different rumours and facts. There was a whole lot of clattering and raised voices in a room which attracted for opposite reasons. Clearly this was the subject of the day, probably of the week. Tim sat quietly as Marie and Kayleigh prattled away. Perhaps it was due to his astute observations that the painter had disclosed this power he possessed, a reward of sorts, or maybe it was just because he wanted to see someone witness what they had been told, ideally a soft spot, a gullible old timer who would be fast-tracked into a care home were he to tell police what he knew. Against his will, Tim heard things which went from the ear and straight to the heart.
“Police have found a number of dead animals in the area, like they’ve been skinned or turned inside out. The same may have happened to the couple I reckon. Some sort of witch craft going on.”
He began to feel agoraphobic, like a panic attack was coming on. To consider that today was the result of some unearthly power made him look over a room he knew well with a sceptical eye, as if it too was about to change beyond recognition. He took a deep breath and grabbed his knee with the intention to cause pain, to bring him back. For once he tuned into Marie and Kayleigh. It was comforting to hear their crude version of events, legitimacy be damned.
“Yep, just a bunch of sadistic kids who must have used the farming equipment to make such a mess.” Marie noticed her husband listening in.
“What do you think, Tim?”
He nodded while looking unsure of himself, still clutching his sore knee, his anchor on reality. “I think you’re right. Let’s hope the police find them.” He finished with a smile, putting a veil over his true feelings. He could only hope this vision of a Moroccan hut would disappear.
A Story to Remember
It was tradition in the Bloomfield’s house that every time their daughter visited the grandchildren would be treated to a spooky tale come eight o’ clock. These twenty minute stories actually helped them sleep - hearing about things that should not be under the roof of a cosy home underlined the fact they were safe. The imagination was enriched not poisoned. Then there was the way in which Tom, the patriarch of the house, would finish by smiling, usually after clapping his hands or grabbing a member of the audience at the hair-raising moment. He enjoyed it as much as they did though lately he had been the recipient of a few jeers.
The problem was that Allister, the eldest of the quartet at thirteen, was beginning to find the stories a bit tame, plus he couldn’t help himself if he spied a plot hole. “But that doesn’t make sense,” he would butt in. Before Tom could reply the other three would yell back to “Stop spoiling it!” Allister would then quietly brood till bed time. The stories were fairly generic - apparitions at the end of your bed, werewolves next door, and then there was his version of The Blob. Worst yet was when the youngest demanded retellings. In those moments Allister would get up without excusing himself and go to where his parents drunkenly chatted to Nan. It didn’t take long for that to grow old either. A quick acknowledgement gave way to family affairs, a subject that never seemed to wear out. Had that room been free he would have been happy to watch late night television. Instead he was in bed shortly after his siblings. Before leaving the following day they’d have some breakfast, say their goodbyes, and that was Allister’s typical visit.
During afternoon at the Bloomfield’s everyone would fill up the lounge to watch a movie. It was a spacious room, tastefully decorated and with a real fireplace which Tom used for story time. Resting on the mantle was a collection of dog ornaments. Two large ones stood their ground beside the fireplace. A look over to the main windowsill showed that there was another gathering of canine figures. Allister had never questioned it because it came with the territory but the time arrived when it suddenly struck him as odd. While everyone else had their eyes on the screen he moved his from one figure to the next, to see if there was a favoured breed or a pattern of some kind. Of course Tom had a dog (Bertie), a good natured Schnauzer, but that did not account for what looked like an obsession he never spoke about. Allister noticed that he was still frowning at the ornaments when the credits started to roll. He decided that he would ask his grandad about them around the dinner table where he lingered after everything had been cleared up.
Allister’s relationship with his grandad had always been a little more distant. There was no being propped up on his knee and told war stories as a boy. Perhaps it was the result of being the eldest grandson, the importance of a good work ethic made up the bulk of their conversation. That might help explain why Tom was caught off guard when Allister broke the silence they were sharing.
“How come you have so many statues of dogs?”
His grandad stared across the table with his own inquisitive look. He held it long enough to make Allister feel like it was wrong for asking. “I just noticed there were lots of them,” he quickly concluded, not wanting to let on it was anything more than an observation. When Tom noticed how quickly Allister shrunk he was encouraged to open up. There was a reflective sigh before beginning. “Yes, there are a lot aren’t there?” He studied a few of them over his grandson’s shoulder while seated. His expression was hard to read, there were a mix of emotions. He stared back at Allister. “I add to my collection now and again. There isn’t much more space though.”
“You’re a big fan of dogs then?”
“In one sense, yes, but that’s not the reason I started collecting them – long before I ever owned a real one.” Bertie was sat contently in the corner of the dining room with a bowl of water.
“Oh, right, so they’re like special editions then?”
“Nothing particularly valuable, no.” Tom reposi
tioned himself and appeared tense. Allister did not know how to respond. It spiked his curiosity. Another bout of staring made him sure he had somehow touched a nerve. “I first got them because I did not like them,” clarified his grandad. Just then Nan came back from the kitchen with an offer for dessert. “I can tell you about it later.” Allister was all for ice cream. As he replied “Yes please” he shot another glance at the dog figurines, wondering what their true significance was. Rather than boredom he was in a state of anticipation to hear what his grandad was reluctant to talk about.
As the evening wore on there came the inevitable time when the sprogs were all told along with Allister that, “Okay, Dad and I are going to speak with Nan now so you go into the lounge with grandad.” It was time for their drunken rambles. As they entered the lounge it was apparent that everything had already been set up for story time, the lights were out, the fire provided an orange glow and grandad was sat in his designated seat which had a throne like presence in the corner by the fireplace. The three youngest knew what it meant and quickly huddled around him, sitting cross-legged. Allister was glad to do the same. One or two stories at the most and he would hold his grandad to that promise around the dinner table. It turned out to be two stories as the youngest wanted to hear the tale about the phantom chimney sweeper, a well-crafted but overfamiliar one. Allister sat there contently. There were no objections. At the big crescendo, when the female protagonist realises the chimney sweeper is in fact a dead relative, Tom put his usual emphasis on the last passage. There were no more requests as three stories were unheard of. Tonight would be an exception of course but first Tom made sure the others retired for the night. He assured them he was going to talk to Allister about his school work, real boring, so no need to feel left out. Bertie also retired to the hallway.
Dare to Read: 13 Tales of Terror Page 8