Arcane

by Nathan Shumate

  This ordeal lasted five days. During that time, the TV stopped working, as did the bathroom lights. Ross would have moved away immediately, but he had signed a full year’s lease on the place. He of course complained to the landlady, but that only made things worse.

  For one thing, the doorbell started to work again. The landlady pressed the button and the familiar buzz rang through the apartment. After a few seconds of surprise, Ross opened the door with a sheepish expression. Okay, sure, the doorbell was working again, he told her, but the telephone and TV were still off and now the bathroom lights weren’t working.

  She tested the television first. It flashed to life at the first press of the button. Wordlessly, she moved to the bathroom and began to flick the switch on and off. The lights worked perfectly.

  “I don’t know what sorts of problems you’re having, or what you’re trying to pull,” she said, “but I’m a busy person, so don’t bother me unless it’s important.”

  As she moved to leave, the phone rang, as if to mock him. Ross muttered out a few apologies as he stumbled towards the phone and answered it.

  “Ross!” It was Jessyka. “I was about to head over! You haven’t returned any of my calls. What’s wrong?” The landlady gave Ross a halfhearted wave as she left the room. “I know you hate stepping out into the big wide world, Ross, but if there was something wrong with your phone, you know, I’m only just across the—”

  The moment the landlady shut the door, the line went dead. No beeping, no buzz, just silence.

  “Hello?” Ross didn’t expect an answer, but he was too confused to think of what else to do. He placed the phone back down with a fair amount of care.

  ***

  In the foreground, the eye becomes more and more detailed, more and more concrete. No matter how many times Ross paints over the tiny veins with white, or splatters bright oranges and greens onto the canvas, his paintbrush eventually finds a way to recreate what details he smudges away. It’s so hard for him to create coherent thoughts while painting. Any willful act is followed by a number of smaller, subconscious ones. It’s a momentous occasion when he can tear himself away from the canvas for reasons other than eating or sleeping.

  He tries not to think of himself as a slave to the painting, but it probably wouldn’t be all that inaccurate.

  ***

  Back then, Ross was still able to get out of the apartment. All he had to do was walk across the street and meet up with Jessyka. The two of them would go out to dinner or the movies while Ross pretended that there wasn’t anything strange happening at home.

  A nearby art museum had just opened a new exhibit. Jessyka was determined to see it—it was good to be cultured, she explained, and maybe it would end up being somehow eye-opening for Ross. Ross never felt very much while staring at paint on canvas, or ink on paper, dye on cloth, whatever, but he still agreed to go.

  By then, the lights in the bedroom had become awfully dim, and the window in the kitchen had gotten stuck closed.

  She dragged him through the sizable museum and took time to stare at pale orange paintings of sunsets and earthy brown sculptures of abstract figures that Ross clearly remembered from the last few times they visited. He didn’t fault her, though; he didn’t have anything better to do with his time, what with the blackened television and the lack of books. The books had all simply disappeared, leaving only empty shelves and dusty cobwebs. Every few days, he found himself with fewer and fewer things to do with his time.

  He didn’t tell any of this to Jessyka. Outside of a vague, made-up explanation for why his phone wasn’t working, he wasn’t planning on telling this to anyone in the fear that it would end the same way as it had with the landlady. Certifiable insanity was not the sort of thing that Ross wanted at the moment. It wasn’t as though he had that many people to speak with, anyway. Having just moved, he didn’t know any locals other than his coworkers, and even back home he hadn’t been much of a social type.

  It had been a joke, Jessyka suggesting that Ross get some art supplies from the museum’s art store. Jessyka meant to mock him about his clear indifference to a painting she found stunning. “Think you could do better?” she said with a laugh. “Ooh, I bet it’d be really fun! You could get some paints and an easel from the shop and create that masterpiece I know is boiling up inside you.” She gave Ross a firm prod in the chest then moved on to comment on the next work.

  Ross had nearly forgotten about it until they were walking out of the museum and he caught a glimpse of the storefront. His steps slowed to a stop and he couldn’t keep himself from staring. Jessyka laughed at him at first, but Ross explained that, well, he needed a hobby anyway. He might as well try it out.

  They had a variety of beginner’s sets, each consisting of a rainbow of low-quality paints, a few brushes and a small canvas. However, Ross couldn’t bring himself to buy one; he instead opted for more professional paints and a handful of sleek black paintbrushes that sold individually for eight dollars each. Ross didn’t even look twice before picking out a canvas—only one really felt right. The easel was the same way.

  “Gee, Ross, you seem to know what you’re doing.” Jessyka stood a few steps away as Ross gathered up his supplies. “Have you done this before? Have you been hiding a secret from me?”

  Ross pretended he hadn’t heard. The bill was steep—practically everything Ross had—but he paid it without a word. Going home with the huge canvas and easel was a hassle, but Jessyka gladly helped. The directions on how to set up the easel were vague at best, but they managed, although there weren’t too many places to put it other than the center of the living room. It looked very much out of place in Ross’s otherwise generic apartment, and Jessyka made a big deal out of pointing this out. After a few minutes of joking, she mentioned that she was heading off to the movies with some of her friends, and left.

  The door shut behind her with a resounding slam.

  ***

  This is the foreground:

  Ross took being trapped inside his own apartment fairly well, if one were to ask him. He kicked and banged on the door and walls randomly for only the first two days. Then, he would listen and begin to make noise again whenever he heard people in the hallway outside. He had enough food to last him a few days, but that soon proved irrelevant: every morning, when he woke up and hoped that everything had been a dream, the cabinets were restocked—everything exactly the same as it had been the morning before. By this point, things had gotten too strange for him to dwell too intensely on the fact that he wouldn’t starve.

  With nothing left to do, the decision to paint was obvious. He set up the canvas and paints with no difficulties, but he hesitated a fair amount before starting. The off-white canvas seemed too clean, the paints too professional. Anything Ross could do would sully the supplies, he was certain. He didn’t even have an idea of what he was going to paint—he’d probably end up drawing some bright and two-dimensional picture of a house on a green field. Something basic.

  As if to prove himself wrong, he began with a dark gray color—something that would prevent those bright childish doodles. He layered on other murky shades, picking each brush stroke with little to no thought. Abstract seemed the way to go, since to his mind there was little one could actually fault an abstract work for doing.

  He lost hours on this. Not just wasted—lost, as if his memory and sense of time were wiped away from one brush stroke to the next. He’d escape from his reverie only due to a grumbling stomach or a large yawn. Still, he worked slowly, painting over the same strokes over and over since, well, what else was he meant to do with his time? It occurred to him only rarely that he could have been looking for a way out—through vents, through windows, whatever—but the canvas looked so sad half-finished.

  One day while he painted, a white almond shape appeared on the canvas. Ross didn’t even know he had chosen to dip his paintbrush in white until he stepped back and saw the shape, a painful contrast to the stormy background. This was when he first
grew wary of this new hobby of his. The gaps in his memory were growing too great, as if he blinked his eyes at 8 a.m. and opened them again at 6 p.m. The storm-colored strokes moved around, but the painting always looked fundamentally the same, save for this sudden appearance of that white almond.

  The next day, the almond gained an iris, a perfectly-centered dark lavender circle. The next day, the iris was shaded and given a pupil. The effect was so realistic Ross could hardly believe it came from his own hand.

  The day after that, Ross swore not to touch the paints. He went to the kitchen window and watched the still living world outside. He only got a view of an alley, but he could still see people come in from the street, bicyclists zip through as a shortcut, cats and birds wander about making their way through life. He also took frequent naps and spent nearly four hours preparing an extravagant plate of lasagne—something he didn’t quite know how to make, but which turned out pretty good, all things considered. In all, he felt rather proud of himself for having passed his time without returning to the easel.

  Ross woke up the next morning with a horrible back ache and a crick in his neck. Stretching helped, but he still felt sore. It wasn’t too hard to figure out the cause: his mattress, which had been mediocre but adequate, had overnight become as hard as concrete. More disturbingly, a trip to the kitchen showed that all the food was gone, just like the books. All that remained was a pitiful box of crackers on the counter, a generic brand which Ross had only seen in the grocery but never bought. Furthermore, the view of the window had changed. Where there had been the alleyway, there was now a void of dark stormy colors—dark blues and grays and hints of thunderbolt gold.

  ***

  He steps back from the canvas with a large yawn and rubs his eyes with paint-smeared hands to try to force the fatigue away. By now, there’s not much he can do, he figures, save for paint and paint and paint. Every time he tries to fight it, worse and worse things happen. That’s why he hasn’t been able to sleep in about three days (too long staying in bed), and why the walls seem to shift in geometry if he looks at them for more than a few seconds (too long tapping at the walls, trying to send out a cry for help). The food supply varies: sometimes Ross gets no more than a few crackers, but other days he can make himself a decent, almost normal dinner.

  By this point, all the days blend together like the stormy colors on the canvas. His best guess is that it’s been a month now, but more and more that becomes harder to judge. It’s almost not a shock when he realizes he’s forgetting what life before was like. Just as his brushstrokes wipe away any recognition of time, so too they take away his memories. First, he wasn’t able to recall his girlfriend’s face or her voice, and then, it became difficult to recall her name (Jessica? Was that it?).

  Now, all he knows to do is paint.

  ***

  And then it’s done.

  At first, he isn’t entirely sure why he can’t bring himself to paint another stroke. When he realizes it, he’s almost relieved, but not quite. What remains is emptiness, and all he can do for a good ten minutes is just stare back into that lavender eye he created. It’s late, and he feels tired—not just tired, but drained. He wants to sleep, to relax, and—most importantly—get out of the eye’s gaze.

  Still, he can’t keep himself from staring. In an attempt to move towards the bedroom without looking away, he stumbles backwards and trips on something. He falls to the ground just as the front door clicks open.

  ***

  “It’s a masterpiece! A quality piece of art! Simply amazing!”

  That’s what they keep telling Ross, anyway. It’s hard to really care about what they’re saying, as if Ross is looking at his life through a dusty window, watching others talk at this clean-shaven, suit-wearing figure that happens to look like him. Besides, he’s only there for show; the critics are happy enough talking amongst themselves. Every so often, though, somebody walks up to Ross—a man holding a wine glass or a woman whose hair is tied up into a tight bun. “And you say this only took you three days?”

  Ross nods. That’s also what they keep telling him. He knows that can’t be true, not with how much he went through, but it’s easier not to try to explain. It’s easier to let his girlfriend go on and on about her amazingly artistic boyfriend, about how she was confused and worried about Ross for those three days but it was very much worth it. Ross doesn’t have it in him to tell her that he didn’t even recognize her when she had first walked through the door, or that even now he only remembers the bits and pieces she has told him, or that he doesn’t particularly care that all these people are hailing his painting as a poignant, entrancing work.

  He doesn’t particularly care about much of anything anymore. All he can see when he closes his eyes are stormy grays and blues and the occasional flash of thunderbolt gold.

  SWEET HEAVEN IN MY VIEW

  Frank Stascik

  It was a cold night. Icy. A bitter wind gusted, tried to claw the bark off trees, tried to bite boulders to dust. Snow-covered hills, draped mountains. On one mountain in particular, a hill was different from the rest. Man-made. The snow at the top of the hill trembled, caved in. A pale hand emerged from the hard-packed dirt, up through the snow. A small hand. A child’s hand. It reached out, pressed down, and shoved. The rest of the child dragged itself up and out. Wavy black hair. Green eyes. Naked. He looked to the east at the twinkling of distance lamplight. Stood against the harsh wind in snow up to his knees and did not shiver.

  Said, “Momma.” Then walked down the hill.

  ***

  He broke through the tree line under a full moon. He broke through and found a man waiting for him. An aging man, but not an old man. Gray lined the man’s black beard. White tickled his temples. He was wearing a white robe with a red cross etched onto the breast. He held a Bible in his hand. Behind him a town was taking shape. Wagons rolled in, even in the dark of night, bearing lumber. Big men and hearty women climbed ladders, pounded nails. The boy watched them watch the aging man out of the corners of their eyes. Disapproving.

  “Momma,” said the boy.

  “No,” said the man. He held his arms out. “You cannot see your mother. I will have to do.”

  The boy rushed up, clawed at the man’s legs, tried to bite at his neck as he was lifted up and embraced. The boy was stronger than a boy his size should have been, but even so the aging man held him back gently.

  “You will learn,” said the man. “My name is Jonas Cranston. You can call me grandfather.” He hugged the boy and pressed the Bible against his back. “Come with me now. Let’s get you warm.” Cradling the boy to his chest and humming “Amazing Grace,” the man walked into town.

  ***

  The next child crept from the woods during summer, more than a year later. Though it was all new to her, she saw the same man, the same robe, the same Bible. Behind him the town was larger, the stares from the townsfolk more wary. At the man’s side was a boy, with the same dark hair and green eyes that the girl recognized as her own. The boy held a Bible, as well. He smiled at her and opened his arms. She ran at him, fingers reaching to scratch, mouth jutted to bite. The older man scooped her up and embraced her. Said, “Quiet now, none of that. Respect your brother.” The girl hissed and lunged at face and neck, even stronger than the one who came before her. But once again the man held her back.

  “Momma,” she shouted.

  “I’m sorry,” said the man. “You cannot see her. Your brother will help you, together we will teach you. Come with us. Eat. You must be starving.”

  As they walked into town the townsfolk cleared a path. They grumbled collectively. Shifted from side to side. But they made way. Most of them bowed their heads as the man passed. Not all of them. But most of them.

  ***

  Ten years passed. On a winter’s night much like the first, the thirteenth child emerged from the snow and made her way down the mountain. Black hair, green eyes, naked, just like all the others. When she came out of the forest under the
full moon and stood before the town, there was nobody there to greet her.

  She went where her instincts took her. Tree to tree, closer to the large building with the cross at its peak and the scent of blood. A stand had been erected in front of the building, a long wooden beam laid across two supports. Hanging upside-down from the beam, nailed by their feet, were thirteen bodies—some almost as small as she was, some larger, though none very large. All of them had black wavy hair and green eyes. All of them were wearing white robes with red crosses stitched onto the breasts. All of them had had their throats slit. Blood was still dripping, pooling into the mud underneath them. The child walked the line, looking at their faces. Content. Peaceful. Accepting.

  She came to the last body. It was a woman, significantly older than the others. She inhaled and her eyes opened wide. She’d found her mother.

  She heard footsteps and retreated into the shadows. A man walked by, holding a gun. He paused in front of the child’s mother and spat on her. Then he crossed himself, glanced up at the stars, and continued along his way.

  The child looked around at the town. Saw lights in windows going out. Heard doors lock. She crept back to her mother’s body, reached up and grabbed a hand. She tensed the strong muscles of her arms. Pulled. Flesh gave way. Bone splintered. The body fell. Smiling, the child dragged it into the woods.

  She pulled the body over rocks, through snow, between tree branches. She found a ravine, pushed the corpse down into it, clambered after it. At the bottom she rolled the body of her mother onto its back and tore the clothes from it. She searched for sharp stones and sticks, found some that would do. Then she reached down, grabbed a handful of flesh near the midsection, and with her teeth and nails, with the tools she’d found, she bit and clawed and cut her way though. She snapped bones and tossed them aside. She yanked out the insides, licked organs clean, and stacked them in a pile near her mother’s head. She worked her way up to the chest, laying flesh open in flaps.