The Painting (4 page)

It was all in his head. He just needed some sleep.

He opened his eyes and moved his fingers away—nothing at the window.
You’re being stupid. There’s a logical explanation for this. Just get some rest.
He kept his eyes on the window and shook his head before stepping out of the kitchen and back up the stairs.

Get some rest.

Donny shut the bedroom door and placed his phone on one side. He could set the alarm for eleven AM, get a few hours’ sleep, and then he’d be ready to get to work. He’d have something else to eat when he woke up and then spend the afternoon writing. He could even head down to the pub at the end of the road for a celebratory pint when he was finished. It didn’t look too hard to find on Google Maps.

He leaned back against the pillow and stared at the painting in front of him.

He wasn’t sure whether it was his eyes, or his mind playing tricks on him, but he could’ve sworn the figures had grown a little larger.

He tossed and turned in bed. No matter how tightly he squeezed his eyes together, they just wouldn’t rest, the muscles rock-solid in his skull. He tried to relax his legs but whenever he did, something rattled outside or the wind battered the window in the kitchen, forcing them to tense up again.

The boys. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Who were they? Or rather, what were they? Was he just hungry? Tired?

He threw his bed sheets to one side, letting the light from the window hit his face. The curtains were useless, a withered, scraggy red shade peppered with holes. Donny sat on the edge of his bed and held his head in his hands.
If I could just write a few more pages, I’d be able to rest.
A few more pages and he’d be closer to his dream.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Just the window in the kitchen. There were no kids round here. Just the window. He was making it up. In fact, he was wasting time. All of this imagining could be put to better use. He reached over for his notepad and picked it up, flicking through the filled-in pages. His shoulders eased off when he saw them.
You’re doing great.
All this at the expense of sleep. It might leave him a bit delirious from time to time but it was worth it. Sara would be so proud.

He bit the lid off his pen and looked up at the painting. Those six trees, crispy brown leaves coating the ground, and the six silhouetted figures.

Were they bigger than before or was that just him remembering things differently?

That said—bigger figures were the least of his concerns today. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen something out of place. Besides, he hadn’t even seen them there in the first place. Who knew what other optical illusions the painting had up its sleeve? He chewed on the plastic of the pen lid and let the words flow.

It was only when his wrist began to ache and his tongue poked through a hole in the chewed-up pen lid that he realised he must’ve been writing for a while.

He skimmed through his notes—another four pages. Not quite the same level of progress as in the early hours of the night but progress nonetheless. At this rate, he’d have the bulk of it drafted soon. He’d at least have something to deliver to his publisher; a couple of serial installments, perhaps.

And if all went to shit, he could self-publish.

He stretched his arms out and a yawn escaped his body. He really could do with getting some rest now. Couple of hours’ power nap, lunch, then back to it.
You’re doing great.
He hopped to his feet and pulled the bedroom door open before walking into the bathroom. As he stepped in with his bare feet, he felt something wet and hairy tickling his toes.
Shit
—the dead mouse. He’d have to get rid of it, at least give it the—

When he looked down at it, he stumbled to one side.

The mouse was lying on its back and covered in blood. Its guts were spread out in front of it; thin white intestines noodling out of its body. Donny placed his foot to the side of it, steadying himself. He hadn’t stepped on it with that much force, had he? His stomach turned as he stared down at it and stepped past. He must have, simple as that. That was the only logical explanation for it. Anyway, the house was probably filled with insects, too, which hadn’t had the privilege of a snack for years.

Yes, insects. That was it.

Donny unzipped his fly and sighed as he took a leak. He was surprised he had much inside himself. It was as if he was pissing away the last bit of fuel in his body, letting it all go.

Tap, tap, tap.

Just the window. Just the window.

Tap, tap—bang.

His body froze.

Tap, tap, tap.

Just hearing things. Just tired and hear—

Bang
.

He looked up at the door, his hands shaking and his breathing shallow. The tapping had stopped; in its place repeated bangs.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

He saw the boys in his head, only this time they were holding both hands up and thumping the air; their eyes wide and angry. Bang. Bang.

Just the wind.
Pull yourself together, Donny. Pull yourself together.

He stood motionless over the toilet, staring at the bathroom door until the banging stopped. It was a good job he was where he was or he’d have pissed himself. He remained still for a few seconds after the banging receded. It seemed to come from somewhere deeper in the house—somewhere nearby. Maybe it was Manny Bates. Maybe she knew he was in her house and was fucking with him. What did she expect him to say?
I’m really sorry, Mrs. Bates, but nobody’s technically in possession of your house right now so I’m not technically breaking any laws. And I’m writing a really good book. You might even be a lead role. Yes, I’ll be more flattering in my portrayal of you, honest.

Fuck
. He zipped his fly up and took a deep breath through his nostrils and into his stomach. It was an old house. Old houses made noises. Besides, he was tired. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen things when he was tired. Back when he was taking anti-depressants, he’d see things all the time. Movements in the kitchen—eyes in the corner of the room at night. It was just his head. He’d go back to bed and get some kip. If it carried on and he got too spooked, he’d walk down to the pub. Everything was fine. In fact, it was great.

He walked back towards the bathroom door, almost tripping over the mouse’s corpse, and peeked out into the corridor, holding his breath.

The coast was clear. Of course it was—what did he expect? He’d get some sleep, write some more an—

The door at the end of the corridor was open.

Donny’s knees melted. It couldn’t be open. He’d checked it earlier and it absolutely was locked.

Someone else was in the house.

No. Don’t be stupid. He must’ve just loosened it when he tried opening it earlier. The banging—yes, the banging. Maybe there was a strong wind and it knocked the door off its latch.

He tried to breathe rhythmically as he walked towards it. The doctor always told him it was a good thing to try when he was feeling anxious.
In, out, in, out.
He could hear his stilted breathing rattling in his chest. A part of him wanted to walk over to the door and just shut it. His vision was blurring. He just needed to shut it and go to bed.

But maybe there was something in there—something revealing about Manny Bates that would aid him with his book. If it was locked, it must’ve been hiding something, mustn’t it? Or maybe it was the boys. Maybe they were just fucking him around. They could all laugh it off and eat crisps whilst he penned another page of his novel.

He bit his lip and clenched his fists as he crept down the corridor.
Pull yourself together, you wuss.
The tall grey walls seemed to be closing in around him; the flaky old door of the once-locked room not appearing to get any closer.

Come on. Keep it cool. One step, two steps…

His heart thudded as he reached out for the handle of the door. He jolted as he heard the kitchen window tapping.
Just look inside.
What harm could it do? It could help him.
Just look inside.

He held his breath and jumped around to look inside the room.

When he saw the walls, his entire body went limp.

We’rewatchingwe’rewatchingwe’rewatching.

The room was a similar size to the bathroom, light peering through a large, rectangular window at the opposite end of the room. The floor had been completely emptied out; nothing in there but dust.

Dust, and thousands of notes.

All four walls and the ceiling were coated in yellow Post-it notes. On each of them, words were scribbled in angry black ink.

Keep out keep out keep out keep out.

The ramblings of a madwoman. That was all it was—an authenticity detail he could add to his book.

But there was one note that did catch his eye. One note that stood out amongst the hundreds and thousands of nonsensical ramblings. He walked up to it, his muscles tight, and tilted it forwards.

They watch me from the painting.

His stomach turned as he thought of the little black figures approaching. There was no excusing it anymore—no explaining it. The painting had played a part in Manny Bates’ madness. He felt the sickness work its way up his chest, nausea looming in his lungs. He just needed to sleep; to lie down. No—he
needed
to get out of this house. He needed to pack his bags and leave because something was not right.

They watch me from the painting.

He whimpered and rushed out of the door, his pulse pounding in his aching head. Just down the stairs, out the front door, and up the road. Just a little walk, that’s all it was. Just a little walk.

Keep out keep out keep out.

He ran into the bedroom and grabbed his notepad, trying his best not to look at the painting.
Just leave the room, get out of here, and head up the road. Nobody will ever know any different. Just go back to Sara, put your feet up, and let all this be forgotten.
He ran down the stairs and turned the corner to leave the house.

Three little boys were blocking the front door, staring at him with glowing blue eyes, little hands tapping the air.

We’rewatchingwe’rewatchingwe’rewatching.

He stumbled backwards and rushed back up the stairs.
Fuck, fuck.

He could feel the house swallowing him as he threw himself inside the bedroom and slammed the door shut. He tossed his bag to the floor and collapsed in front of the door, holding his shaking arms out and pushing himself up against it to block himself in. Then, he crashed to the floor and curled into a ball, sobbing into his hands.

They watch me from the painting.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been lying on the floor when the tear dripped down his cheek.

His muscles were completely solid, his vision totally engulfed in darkness as he held his eyes shut. The boys—three of them this time—standing in front of the door. What did they want? Who were they?

A part of him wanted to put it down to tiredness. He wasn’t even sure if he’d got any sleep whilst curled up on the floor. It could be dark outside. He’d lost all track of time.

They could still be there, watching him.

They watch me from the painting.

Something was wrong with that painting. Manny Bates had written about it and she knew something wasn’t right. Maybe that’s what sent her insane: the paranoia, the uncertainty. But who had painted it? Who were the children?

And how?

After a few more moments of complete stillness, Donny edged his head out of his hands and opened his eyes. His vision was blurred, but it was still light, which meant it was daytime. Unless he’d passed out and it was the following day. He just couldn’t be sure anymore.

He lifted his stiff neck up and glanced around the bedroom. Everything was more vibrant, the red bed sheets even redder, a glimmer of sunlight peeking through the stained window. It was silent except for the slight breeze of the trees outside. No tapping, no banging—nothing.

In the back of his mind, a naïve part of him clung onto the belief that maybe he’d just been asleep all this time, dreaming away. Maybe he’d crashed when he first got up the stairs and everything that had followed—the boys, the room—was all just make-believe. An offering of writing ideas from the forces above.

He held onto that naïve belief until he saw the painting.

There were only three figures between the trees and they were larger than before.

Donny rose to his feet and moved slowly towards the painting. He didn’t want to get too close but he was close enough to see there were only three figures now. Or was it his eyes? Maybe it was another optical illusion—a trick of the light.

He leaned in towards the painting. Between the trees, three black silhouettes, almost half the size of the trees now. Two, three inches. When he’d first seen them there were six—there were definitely six—and they were only an inch high. They were growing. Something was changing.

We’rewatchingwe’rewatchingwe’rewatching.

The three boys, tapping the air in front of them.

Three figures.

An overwhelming sense of foreboding intensified in Donny’s stomach. What if the figures were the boys? What if the three that were missing were… were the three boys he’d seen? He tried to cast his mind back to earlier, clenching his eyes together. Were there only four figures earlier when he’d seen the two boys outside? Five? The more he pondered it, the more insane he felt.
You’re hypothesising about a fucking painting. Get a grip and write your book.

He shook his head and squeezed the bridge of his nose. This wasn’t going to work. He’d spent hours awake, hours jotting away in his pad, and he’d got some really solid ideas down. He could take his pad home and work on them. He could get them typed up on his computer and then he’d really have something to work with.

He looked up at the painting and the butterflies fluttered inside him.
But what if I stay?
Perhaps he was insane. Perhaps he was just going completely mad and the lack of sleep was causing him to go crazy, but a niggling series of ‘what ifs’ plummeted around his skull. What happens if the figures grow larger? What if another figure disappears?