PAINTED

by Kirsten McKenzie

  He made to shoo her towards the drawing room, where the fire spluttered in the hearth, when the shrill sound of a child’s voice distracted him.

  “What the hell?” he said, turning towards the stairs.

  Anita hurtled away from the distracted man. Her body a mess of bruises and sprains but none of them registered in her mind. She only had one thought. To escape.

  Callaghan roared after her, knocking past the dining chairs she’d pulled behind her. Anita bashed her shoulder against the flimsy patio doors but they didn’t move. Fumbling with the latch she tried again as Callaghan reached her. Ducking under his arms, she raced back through the dining room, momentarily considering the front door, but remembered how heavy it was — she’d needed two hands to swing it open. Changing direction towards the kitchen, had the corridor always been this long?

  Throwing open the back door, she surged into the night. With Callaghan’s cries assaulting her ears she didn’t hear the knocking at the front door or the howling of a dog not so far away. Scrambling through the undergrowth, brambles ripping at her skin, her feet, her hair, terror had her in its talons. Mutely she ran from her aggressor, no spare energy left for screaming. With no jacket, her skin felt encased in ice.

  “Anita,” Callaghan called out. His longer stride bringing him closer and closer. Outside, he was as blind as she was. She didn’t stop. The blood pumping in her ears laced with adrenaline, fuelling her flight.

  Stumbling, pain arced through her foot. Behind her Callaghan was cooing, the way you would settle a crying baby. She carried on, pushing the pain away, but tripped again, on a root? No, a gravestone. She’d run straight into the family graveyard. She slipped through the broken doorway into the darkened mausoleum, inching round the remains of the door. Her toe nudged the pile of gardening tools stacked against the wall. A clatter as the metal heads knocked against themselves. She stopped breathing, waiting for Callaghan to locate the noise and find her. He was crashing around outside, further away though, still calling for her.

  As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she reached for the nearest tool, a hand trowel. Holding it empowered her. She had no idea if the edge was sharp enough to stop him if he found her but the trowel gave her a sense of protection.

  A light bloomed outside. Callaghan had found his cellphone and was using it to cast long sweeps through the gardens, calling her the whole time, “Anita, come out, come out, wherever you are…”

  She shuffled deeper into the darkness, palms clammy, she wiped them on her jeans. The trowel slipped from her lap onto the tiled floor. The clattering horrendously loud in the small space.

  “Ah, I’ve found you now my little cherub,” Callaghan quipped, changing direction towards the mausoleum.

  Pressing herself into the wall, Anita prepared to fight. Somewhere, outside, a dog howled.

  Callaghan pushed his cellphone through the wrecked door, illuminating rows of marble plinths, the names of dead people recorded for eternity.

  “Come now Anita, no more games, it’s freezing out here.”

  Anita watched as puffs of icy breath followed every word, the cold holding her captive against the back wall. Callaghan wavered in the doorway as if stepping foot inside wasn’t a prospect he felt comfortable with.

  “Don’t make me come in there and get you. We both know how that will end. Let’s go back to the house now,” he said, stomping his feet against the chill.

  She pushed herself further into the wall, the hand shovel digging into her leg, the pain inconsequential to the fear enveloping her.

  A howling permeated the tiny room. It wasn’t so far away now. It was close. Very close. Callaghan stepped back, the light from his phone swinging towards the sound, leaving Anita in the dark. His outline moving tentatively away from the safety of the doorway. She struggled with herself, trying to decide what to do. Should she run while he’s distracted? Or stay and fight?

  Closer now, the howling echoing inside, and Anita strained to see beyond the darkness. More scared of the man than the animal, she prayed that one would take care of the other. Callaghan was waving his phone around like a fiery torch, fending off rabid wolves. She couldn’t see what he was looking at. Again she thought about making a run for it. She edged towards the doorway, trowel tight in her hand.

  The light went out.

  A hand seized her. Callaghan’s fingers sinking into her arm. Anita screamed. Callaghan grabbed the hand holding the trowel as she struggled to bring her arm up, to slash at the monster. He slapped her, an almighty crack across her cheek. Her head flew backwards with the force. Anita tried stabbing him with the trowel but Callaghan wrenched her wrist backwards, threatening to snap it. Screaming she dropped the weapon, naked under the control of the bigger man.

  They’d forgotten about the dog. From the blackness of the night it hurled itself at Callaghan, a tangle of fur and claws and teeth. Protecting her? Anita scrambled away on hands and knees, the brutal fight between man and beast raging around her. The jumble of man and dog knocked her down again. The snapping of the dogs teeth and the grunting of Callaghan became one sound.

  A yelp.

  Anita didn’t know what had happened to the dog but wasted no time scrambling to her feet. She flew back towards the house. Possessed with an unnatural evil, Callaghan wasn’t prepared to let her escape and roared after her. The animal no longer a threat; incapacitated with a hefty blow to the head.

  The lit turret guided their way.

  Chapter 52

  Abraham stood unmoving in the window. Bound in starched black mourning cloth, the way a grieving widower should, he looked mummified in the half light. Stopping his daughter his priority. There was an evil within her, from where it came, he didn’t know, but someone had to stop her. He’d been about to follow her when the commotion downstairs distracted him. It hadn’t been Ruth this time. It was the others in the house — the young woman and the quiet man.

  The woman had released him from his prison, and now the man was, what? Attacking her? Puzzling over the words, nothing made sense. Everything so vague, the outlines fuzzy and words muffled. But he’d discerned the gist of what was happening and he wouldn’t allow that in his house.

  He whistled. A flash of yellow outside, and the hound, his wife’s dog, took off towards its unseen prey. The dog was all that remained of her now. He’d seen the remains of her portrait in the fire and grief overcame him a second time. Upon reflection it was better she’d gone, joining her children in heaven, three of her children. What Ruth had become would’ve broken her heart. Of the baby who’d joined their family at the end, he gave no thought.

  The artist had corrupted them all. If only he’d known earlier. So much heartbreak could have been avoided. So much unnecessary loss and now he needed to stop him before this madness went any further. He didn’t understand how it’d happened, or why, but too many lives had been ruined by the flick of the artist’s brush or the stroke of his daughter’s pencil. Instinctively he knew where Ruth was, she’d be drawing, in the nursery. Stopping Ruth, and protecting the stranger, almost the same thing.

  Hand on the stair rail, he started his descent, the cuff of his sleeve peeping from the black cloth, gaping without its cufflink holding it closed. It seemed easier not to bother after his wife died, fiddly things. Grief still had him well within her clutches.

  Chapter 53

  Running in through the patio doors of the drawing room, barging past the glorious furniture, the crackling fire, the leftover lunch, ignoring the unfinished art on the table, her laptop still beaming it’s brightly coloured screen saver, she skidded through the foyer, her feet slick with snow and decaying leaves. Flying up the stairs she tripped over the top step, landing on her knees. Another bruise, another pain. Prone on the floor for barely more than a second, she came face to face with Yvonne. With Yvonne’s portrait; the pearl adorned portrait Callaghan had left in the hall. Yvonne’s papery skin the colour of Egyptian alabaster, she looked more ephemeral on canvas than she’d ever looked
in life.

  Behind her came the calls of the man in pursuit of prey. One last look at Yvonne and Anita was up, racing into her room. She needed two things, her car keys and cellphone. Yanking open the dressing table drawer, she grabbed her keyring. A ring of odd sized keys, not much to show for her life so far — keys for her car, house, gym locker. She wouldn’t have a life if she didn’t move now.

  Sprinting over to the bedside table, she reached for her cellphone, for the cellphone she’d left there. Her hand faltered over the emptiness. Callaghan was calling out to her from downstairs, cooing to her like a dove to its mate in the dovecote. She checked under the folds of the cover and the tangled mess of the unmade sheets, and threw herself onto the floor. Rummaging around she found only dust.

  Where was it? She knew she’d left it beside her bed; she knew. Creeping to the doorway, she could hear the monster downstairs singing in the foyer. Pressing into the wall, she crept along the hallway. Maybe she’d left her phone in the turret when she tried ringing her mother. It was the only other place it could be.

  Inching her way, Yvonne’s eyes followed her. Anita tried not to look but it was like watching the looped replay of a car crash on the news, her eyes drawn to the image. How had someone painted Yvonne’s portrait so quickly and so well? She sent a silent plea to Yvonne and to Scott to come back from wherever they were although there was a part of her mind which knew they weren’t returning. That Callaghan had ensured they were alone.

  Reaching the turret door, every inch of her body ached. The stress so unbearable that the concept of giving up appealed to her fragile mind. Facing the prospect of being upstairs with no weapon was the worst idea she’d ever had. If she couldn’t get to her car, she needed to call for help and then hide somewhere safe. Safe seemed like a place so very far away.

  She splayed the keys from her keyring between her fingers and wiggled her way through the partially open door.

  Tiptoeing up the stairs mouselike, she couldn’t remember if the stairs creaked, so took every step as deliberately as the moves of a chess master. Heart in her mouth, terrified a creaking stair tread would give her away. Not that Callaghan had any cause to think she could escape from up here. He could wait at the bottom until hunger or thirst dictated she come down. Until she gave in.

  Light dripped from an oil lamp hanging from a hook on the doorframe. The heady smell of kerosene and paint so prevalent it burnt the back of her throat. Lamplight wasn’t the same as electric light — it wavered and glossed over everything it touched, causing shadows to dance and the windows to ripple like waves. No wonder the Renaissance delivered so many masterpieces. With no electricity casting its ugly countenance, only beauty remained, capturing the glow of an aura, or the highlights in the hair of a muse.

  The lamp left shadows clinging to the seats, weird depressions and shapes seemingly born from the fabric. She groped for her cellphone, one ear aimed towards the doorway. The faint scent of a man lingered in the room, Scott’s aftershave? Or Callaghan’s? She retched. The memory of his stained hands and tomato-filled mouth, the nightmare refusing to end.

  Lifting the lamp from the wall, the metal handle cutting into her hand; she lowered the light in one last effort to find her phone. Casting it back and forth, the light spread across the painting on the easel, across the unfinished portrait she’d seen only days ago — the painting of a woman. But now the face was done, the cheeks, the nose, the lift of the brow, the definition around the eyes, and the slope of the neck all beautifully detailed. Even the hair, tiny stroke after tiny stroke laid brown tresses on the canvas, with the flame picking out a subtle hint of red among the brown. A young woman, not so young she’d need identification at the liquor store, but still with youth on her side. Sad eyes. No, not sad, but unfinished, unfinished eyes. If eyes are the window to a man’s soul, then what are they to a woman? Callaghan all but forgotten downstairs.

  Pushing the lantern closer, she knew who this was. It was a portrait of her, almost complete. She knew the instant those eyes were finished, she would be too.

  Touching the painting, her fingers came away wet. Someone was here, painting, moments before her. Who?

  She touched her own eyes, to assure herself they were still there. Her body threatening to give way.

  “Ah-ni-taa,” she heard Callaghan calling, his voice so far away yet so close. Too close. She blinked. The portrait still there when she opened her eyes. What would happen if she smudged the paint? She looked at her fingers in horror, the brown paint from her hair drying on the tips of her fingers. Remembering the portrait of Alan, her whole body shuddered. The lantern light flickered in response, her mirror image dancing on the canvas. Alan had been painted by the same artist who was in this house, now, somewhere. Yvonne too. Yvonne’s portrait had been painted and she’d disappeared.

  A sob escaped. She wanted to grab the canvas and set it alight. Destroy it before she herself was. But something stopped her.

  She daren’t turn her back, she didn’t trust the light, or the room, or the artist, or her sanity. Lowering the lantern to the floor, she took the canvas in both hands, avoiding the wet paint, amazed at how light a canvas could be with no frame to bolt it to gravity. Looking into her own empty eyes, she felt herself sliding into the picture, imagining the view from within the paint. What would she see looking out at the world from inside the canvas?

  A movement outside on the driveway caught her eye — the old man, in all his protective, elderly glory, walking away. Dropping the painting she waved the lantern, like a madwoman signalling him. The dog saw her, looking up towards her, pausing behind his master, before carrying on. She should scream or hammer on the glass, but then Callaghan would know where she was. Torn between the here and now — between the canvas and the man outside, she chose the man, just as he and his dog disappeared in the dark.

  She abandoned the lantern and grabbing her keys, she slipped down the turret stairs. She’d make a run for the door and scream for the farmer once she was outside. It was the only choice left. Then she’d jump in her car, lock herself in and drive to safety.

  Callaghan has fallen silent. Was he laying in wait on the other side of the door? She held herself flat against the door, counting her breaths until her heartbeat slowed, listening for anyone doing the same. This a one time only chance. There was no sign of anyone through the gap but that didn’t mean it was safe.

  A deep breath, and keys in hand she edged out, probing the corridor. At least he couldn’t sneak up behind her and the corridor was empty. Yvonne the only face she could see. Her poor friend but she couldn’t think of her now, she had to think of herself. Only herself.

  Her heart breaking for Yvonne, she was oblivious to the man concealed in the doorway of Alan’s room. A man reeking of whisky, wood stain and tomato, so gripped by a long nurtured psychosis, that his actions were normal to him. So much part of his day-to-day life, that grabbing Anita and throwing her against the wall until her head cracked on the old wooden wainscoting was no different to dropping a carton of eggs on the supermarket floor.

  Anita screamed, twisting like a fish on a lure. Thrashing she stabbed at Callaghan with the keys, again and again, the two of them doing a macabre dance, the portraits on the walls watching their chemistry.

  Down they went, the larger man pinning her to the floor. Eyes laughing, he grinned.

  “Got you,” he said, his grip tightening, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of her arms.

  Anita screamed again and he slapped her, leaving red welts across her face. But in that one moment he’d released her arm, and with the keys still in between her fingers she slashed at his face. By some miracle the angle was right, and the keys sliced through his eye like a knife through butter. Callaghan bellowed, bucking away from the pain. Anita jumped up; running down the hall and then downstairs, taking them two and three at a time, every movement jarring her already incoherent thoughts. She made it to the front door.

  Nothing had ever looked as formidable as this
door; grasping the handle with both hands, Anita twisted and pulled. The heavy door gave way, opening onto the blackest of nights, lit by the coldest of moons.

  With Callaghan leaping down the stairs behind her, she ran for her car. It was closer than the farmer who’d disappeared into the blackness. Praying she’d left it unlocked, she reached for the door handle. Caked in ice, her hand stuck to the cold metal. Panicking she pulled away before trying again. Her hand slipped off. The third time gave a satisfying click as the door swung open and she leapt into the icy car, slamming the door. She hit the lock as Callaghan reached her. A face of pure evil, with a bizarre smile stretching across his teeth, leered at her window. He didn’t seem affected by the temperature or the snow as he walked around trying all the doors. His mangled eye made even more macabre by the smile on his face.

  Anita swivelled around, the leather seat freezing cold beneath her. He couldn’t get in, she’d locked the car. She checked her pockets for her keys. Where the hell where her keys? She searched again, thrusting her hands deep into her pockets, nothing. She plastered her face against the condensation on the windows, searching the driveway for her distinctive keyring. There was no sign of it amongst the messy snow and the scuffing of footprints. No point checking the glove box or behind the sun visor for a spare key, she wasn’t that stupid. The car’s only spare key hung on a hook in her mother’s kitchen.

  Callaghan paced around the car, grinning, darting towards her like a wound up Jack-in-the-box. She jumped back in fright, leading to hysterical laughter from the man outside. Surely the farmer must be able to hear this. She stared down the driveway and thumped uselessly on the horn. The car horn wouldn’t work without the key.

  She didn’t have many choices left. She could unlock the car and make a run for it when Callaghan was on the other side of the car and scream for the farmer. But there was only a slight chance the old man would hear her or that he’d be of any help.