I’ve got a new painting hanging in my study, and it’s the most beautiful thing I own. I debated a lot on whether I should play it safe and chuck the thing into the fireplace. I knew that if what the previous owner had told me was true, then this painting was now among the most dangerous things to ever enter my possession.
But allow me to rewind . As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, I’m a collector of all things strange, supernatural, and twisted. I pick up these items from all over. Sometimes things get mailed or passed on to me by fellow enthusiasts. Sometimes I buy them at the Velvet Room auctions. Other times I search for hidden gems among antique shops, yard sales, or in the case of the painting, an estate sale.
The estate sale was about a few hours from me. I brought my dog Midge along. Thanks to her blind eye, the yellow-furred mutt has a good sense for spotting things with a paranormal tinge. She trotted by my side as we entered the house, which was already stuffed with buyers milling around. We passed by the expected debris of a sale, like furniture, silverware, and DVDs, all without a discernible reaction from Midge. I was about to call it a wash and head back home by the time we reached the downstairs bedroom. In that room was a frazzled-looking young woman labeling boxes of discounted bric-a-brac, and a painting propped up on an old dresser.
Before Midge even began to growl, the painting had me mesmerized.
It’s a portrait, with no signature or date. Framed within gold is a chamber featuring black curtains, a mahogany desk upon which a raven is perched, and a potted tree with gold and silver fruit growing on its crooked branches. At the desk sits a young man who . . . well, he’s not easy to describe. Or rather, any description I can add will fail to do justice to him. I can tell you he has midnight-blue eyes. I can tell you he’s wearing a fine navy suit with gold buttons. I can tell you he has long, ink-black locks and fair skin, a sharp jawline, all that jazz. But none of those details can fully impart the otherworldly aura he exudes. None of them can describe how completely his appearance just arrests your attention. It’s like getting to see a star up close. I’ve never been the type to care about someone’s looks, but even I found myself unable to tear my gaze away.
Midge broke the spell with a sharp, vicious bark in the painting’s direction. I looked away from the painting to see her glaring up at it with her ears flattened and fangs bared. She growled again at it, and I knew this painting must be something special.
“Is your dog . . . alright?” the young woman asked, taking a step farther from Midge.
“Oh, yeah! She does this all the time,” I said with a dismissive wave of my hand as Midge barked at the painting again.
The woman seemed unconvinced. “She looks ready to bite or something.”
“Oh, no, she wouldn’t hurt a fly. She’s just very expressive when it comes to her opinions. She’s obviously not a fan of this painting over here,” I said, jerking my head in the painting’s direction. “But I am! Don’t see a price tag on it, though. I’ve gotta track down the seller.”
“Oh, that’s me, actually.” The woman glanced away, awkwardly tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “The painting’s not for sale, though. At least not right now. I’m trying to talk my brother into letting me sell it, but he’s dead-set that I store it in a vault or something. He’s not very stable right now, though. I think he’ll change his mind eventually. Once it clears.”
“Ah! So all this stuff is—was— his, then?”
“. . . most.” The seller shrugged. She had a distant, sad look in her eyes. “I’m not really here to get into all that. Just let me know if you see something else you’d like to buy. I take Venmo, cash, or check.”
I nodded at the painting. “Honestly, I really only want this. You sound pretty sure your brother will give it up anyway. There’s got to be a price you’d be willing to part with it for.”
“I don’t know. He’s really . . . weird about this painting. To put it lightly.”
“All the more reason to get it out of his life, then.” I folded my arms. The conversation so far had only served to heighten my interest. From the sounds of it, the seller’s brother had quite a story tied to the painting, and I was itching to hear it. “Could I maybe meet with him directly? Talk him into selling?”
“That’s not easy for me to arrange.” The seller chewed her lip nervously. “Look, there’s tons of other stuff—”
“What would you say to four thousand?” I interrupted her. “Plus another three hundred to point me toward your brother.”
Her eyes went wide at the number, and I knew I had her.
*
I got my audience with the previous owner of the painting, whom I shall refer to here as “Vincent”. I recorded Vincent as he recounted his story to me, and have transcribed it here for you all. The names of all involved have been changed here to preserve their privacy.
What follows below is Vincent’s account of how the painting destroyed his life.
***
VINCENT’S ACCOUNT
I didn’t tell Amy to “put it in a vault”, I told her to bury the fucking thing.
Ten feet underground, with nothing but the worms for company. But no, Amy’s got it propped up at the sale for everyone to fucking see. What, she play innocent with you? “Ooh, I couldn’t possibly sell it!” Please, she knew what she was doing. I knew she wouldn’t listen. She thinks I’m a goddamn headcase. Everybody thinks that now, everybody. They think I’m a headcase, or a liar.
If you really wanna hear my side of the story, I’m more than happy to tell it again. Not like I got anything else to do. You can believe it or not believe it, but I’m telling you, if you’ve got enough brain cells to rub together, you’ll do exactly what I told my sister to do. Bury it.
Anyway. Here’s what you need to know.
It was four of us sharing the house. There was me, my girlfriend Natalie, and our two buddies from college, Drew and Mikey. You’ve been to the house obviously, so you know it’s a good size, plenty of room, so we didn’t get on each other’s nerves. We all got along real well, and it would have stayed that way if Drew hadn’t brought that painting into the house.
Drew loved old antique shit, for some reason. He’d save up spare funds and then go out and buy something to decorate the house, like one of those tall wooden clocks, or some cracked vase with a bunch of flowers painted on it. Anyway, for weeks he’d been saying we didn’t have enough art in the house, that our walls were ‘too bare’, whatever that means. He’d go, “We really need to hang something in the living room”, and I’d go, “Yeah, you.”
Oh, come on. That’s funny.
Well, one day Drew finally did something about it. He sauntered in during dinner with this big-ass painting wrapped up in canvas paper, looking real pleased with himself. We were all in the living room, eating pizza, watching The Boys. He shuts the TV off and plants the wrapped-up painting in front of it for all of us to see.
“You’re not gonna believe what I just got from a garage sale,” he said, starting to unwrap the painting. “For five bucks.”
“Whatever it is, it better be more interesting than a dude with laser eyes.” I sighed and sank back into the couch, put my arm around Natalie.
“Oh, it is.” Drew kept tearing away the wrapping. I should’ve figured something was off then and there. He was too excited. Feverish, if that makes sense. He gets all the wrapping off, and we see it’s some sorta portrait. Fancy-dressed dude sitting in his room . . . well, I don’t have to describe it, you know what it looks like. So I look at it and think, ‘I guess it’s nice’. Like, I’ve never been a big art guy, but I can tell it’s a decent painting, it’s technically pretty to look at. But I didn’t really like it. Didn’t like the guy in it. It’s like, he had all the ingredients to be good-looking, but something about him ruined it for me. Maybe the smug fucking look on his face. Yeah, actually that’s it, that’s why I didn’t like it. He looked fucking smug.
But I was in the minority. Everyone else loved it.
“Oh my God.” Natalie’s hand flew to her mouth, and she practically melted staring at it. “It’s gorgeous! No way you got that for just five bucks!”
“Right?” Drew beamed. “I couldn’t believe it either. Can’t believe it was even at the garage sale. It feels like it should be hanging at the Met or something.”
“It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful,” Mikey gushed, pointing at the guy in the painting. “Who is it in the portrait? Was he, like, a lord or something?”
“No idea. I asked the lady running the sale but she didn’t know. She found it collecting dust in her mom’s attic and decided to hawk it. Which I think is insane, but it’s like that saying. One person’s trash . . .”
“Is another man’s creepy-ass painting,” I finished for him. I looked away from the painting, unable to stand the slimy grin on the guy’s face. “Maybe just hang it in your room, man. I don’t know if I want this thing in the living room.”
Natalie shot me a look. “Are you kidding? It’s like a renaissance painting. We’ve got to have it up.”
“It’s too showy,” I said, but I already knew I was fighting a losing battle. My housemates were staring at this thing like it was the second fucking coming of Jesus.
“Let’s put it to a vote.” Drew grinned and raised his hand. “All in favor of hanging this in the living room, raise your hand.”
Three hands up in the air.
Coulda sworn the dandy bastard in the painting looked even smugger once they did.
“Whatever,” I sighed, and that was that. The Boys stayed paused as the others got to work putting the painting up, right across from the TV, center of the wall. Little while later we all headed off to bed, not even knowing that we’d just had the last truly normal day of our lives.
*
Things started to change once the painting was hung. It started small. I noticed the others kept waking up more tired than normal. Bags under their eyes. Glassy expressions. They’d walk around in the mornings dazed and distracted. At first, I chalked it up to the stress of midterms coming up, since they were a much more studious lot than I was, and always got way more worked up over exams and all that. But then I noticed that they weren’t actually studying. Like, I’d see them getting books and notes and gathering in the living room like they would for a study session, but when I’d walk in a little later, they wouldn’t be looking at any of it. They’d be looking at the painting. I’d have to say something to snap them out of it to even get them to crack open their books.
They all started finding excuses to be in the living room. Natalie would suddenly be struck by the urge to vacuum the room and then just stand there, letting the machine run while she stared at the man in the painting. Mikey would go in during the evenings to “watch a movie” and never even switch the TV on. Drew went to “take a picture of it for a friend” and ended up taking hundreds, snapping pic after pic after pic until his phone told him he used up all his storage. They could look at that painting for hours on end. It was eerie. Uncomfortable for me, because I’d go look at the thing, and I just couldn’t see what they seemed to see. I’d look for the masterpiece they were apparently seeing and just see some dude whose lights I wouldn’t mind punching out.
I especially didn’t like the way Natalie was with it. What you gotta know is that we were the type of couple that was always in sync, really made for each other. Even after a year of being together, Natalie always lit up whenever I walked into the room. Always wanted me close. Now suddenly, when she’d go from looking at the painting to seeing me, I’d catch a flash of disappointment in her face.
One night, Natalie woke me up. This was not an easy thing to do, ‘cause I used to pop melatonin like it was candy and sleep the sleep of the dead. I’d barely even dream, just boom, conk out until morning. But Natalie got loud enough to wake even me. She was talking in her sleep.
“Let me just see,” she was saying, low and slurred and raspy. Her fingers kept twitching. “Let me just touch.”
She kept repeating it, and it was freaking me the hell out, so I shook her awake. Her eyes flew open as I was leaning over her, and there it was again. That flash of disappointment. I told her she was talking in her sleep, saying weird shit.
“Oh. Sorry,” she said, but she didn’t sound sorry. If anything, she sounded annoyed that I’d woken her up. “Just a dream.”
She turned on her side and then, shut her eyes. She went back to sleep, and so did I, though I felt kind of stung. I couldn’t get the way she’d just looked at me out of my head.
Skip to the morning. I’m the last one up. I go down the stairs to the kitchen. Natalie shoots me a scowl, which puts me in a mood right off the bat. I’m grabbing pop-tart when I see Mikey in the living room through the entry. One fucking guess as to what he’s doing. Yep, staring at the goddamn painting again. Seeing this puts me in an even shittier mood.
I walked over and joined him next to it. I waved my hands in front of his eyes, annoyed. “What’s the deal, Mikey? You gonna marry this thing? Should I break the news to Lucas, send him packing?”
“Huh? Oh, no.” Mikey blinked. He was still staring at the painting, but something was different in the way he was looking. Sharper. He pointed at it. “It’s just . . . is something different? Something seems different about him.”
“Different?” I turned from him to the painting and squinted at it. At first, I didn’t know what he was talking about, y’know, it looked like the same old douchebag to me as before. But after another second, I realized Mikey was right. Something was different, right below the neck.
The top two buttons on his shirt were undone. You could see his collarbone now.
“Fuck . . . you’re right. The buttons.” I didn’t know what to think. What to say. I wasn’t the one staring at the stupid thing 24/7 but I remembered what he looked like, that he was all buttoned up. Sure of it. But the opposite evidence was right in front of my eyes. For a straight minute, Mikey and I just stood there staring slack-jawed at it, completely confused.
Finally, Mikey goes, “Mandela Effect or something, I guess. We’ve just been remembering it wrong.”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s it. Like the Berenstein or Berenstain bears, whichever it is,” I said. And he didn’t look convinced, and I didn’t feel convinced, but what else could we tell ourselves? That the painting had miraculously changed overnight? Didn’t make sense. Sounded crazy. And the way humans work is, we try to make things make sense, even if they don’t, even if it’s something impossible. We have to make it stick to the logic we’ve always known, so we force ourselves to believe something we know deep down isn’t true. Because that’s easier than admitting we might be wrong about the way the world really is.
I tried to keep it cool, but I left the house that morning more freaked out and more furious than I think I’d ever been. Because I was holding two ideas in my head. One, the Mandela Effect bullshit that I was desperately trying to convince myself was the case. Two, that the man in the painting’s buttons had all been done up before last night, and that, somehow, Natalie had undone them.
*
Things were icy between me and Natalie the next few days. An unspoken accusation hung in the air whenever we were together. It didn’t help that every time I passed the painting, it felt like he was grinning right at me. Mocking me with those two undone buttons. Mandela Effect, I kept telling myself. It’s all in your head.
Here’s where things really ramped up. Really went to hell.
Mikey had this boyfriend, Lucas. Great dude, I really liked the guy. He was an old-school, no-bullshit, easy-going type. Great all around, and great for Mikey. He knew how to make Mikey glow with just a few good words or the right joke. Right after the whole button thing, Lucas needed a place to crash for the week. Don’t remember why exactly, something to do with his roommate needing the place to himself while a girlfriend was visiting, I don’t know. Point is, Mikey invited him to sleep over in his room.
Man, I remember the fucking relief I felt when Lucas sauntered in behind Mikey that day. It felt like a breath of fresh air to have someone there who didn’t have anything to do with the painting.
I went over, said hi, all that. Lucas was all smiles, started talking about how he was taking up kickboxing. It felt good to have a normal conversation with someone whose eyes weren’t constantly wandering to the painting.
And then who walks in but fucking Drew, inviting Lucas to “see something in the living room”. I swear to God I coulda punched his teeth out at that moment.
Natalie was already in the living room, staring like always. Drew led us three in. Beeline to the painting. Drew showed it off to Lucas, told him the whole garage story. I stood beside him as he looked at the painting, waiting with this sick dread for him to get that same foggy glaze in his eyes as the others did when they looked at it.
Instead, he shrugged at it. “I guess it’s okay. But it’s not really my thing, if I’m being real with you. I dunno. The dude in it is kind of weird looking.”
There was that relief again. Finally, someone normal. I laughed and went, “Glad someone else sees it!”
The others tried arguing with him. “No way”, “you can’t be serious”, “It’s like the Mona Lisa”, all that shit.
Finally Mikey looked between Lucas and the painting, all wide-eyed, and went, “Come on, you’re crazy. Just look at him. He’s got to be the most beautiful guy in the world.”
Lucas turned his back on the painting and winked at Mikey. “That’d be you, actually. Now, let me take my stuff to the room . . .”
He and Mikey walked off. Mikey was smiling from ear to ear. Drew and Natalie looked stunned by Lucas’ indifference, but I was over the moon. Finally, someone saw what I saw in that stupid painting: nothing worth anything. Drew frowned as the microwaved beeped from the kitchen, went to grab his food. Natalie’s phone went off, taking her attention off the painting. I turned to head to the kitchen, but just before I left the living room, I glanced over my shoulder at the painting.
The painted man’s grin wasn’t as wide as it had been before. In fact, it almost looked like a sneer.
Natalie and Drew got worse that week. Natalie started talking in her sleep more, often waking me up. She’d hurry off to bed early, like she couldn’t wait to get to sleep, and soon I’d hear her murmuring, see her eyes darting under their lids. I started sleeping on the couch. Found out Drew was talking in his sleep, too. I could hear his voice low behind his bedroom door at night. Then in the mornings, they seemed downright depressed. Wouldn’t say a word. Would just grab whatever was in the kitchen and head to the living room. They even turned the couch to face the painting, so they could just sit there and stare. And stare.
They weren’t the only things changing. Every day I had to work harder to convince myself of the goddamn Mandela Effect, because every day something seemed just a little more off about the man in the painting. I’d pass by him and spot yet another button undone, or all the buttons done back up. A lock of hair tucked behind his ear that wasn’t tucked before. Sometimes he changed positions, like leaning back farther in his chair or tilting his head in a different direction. Sometimes he was looking just a bit to the side. Sometimes straight at me. All the changes were just small enough that I could tell myself that it was my memory playing tricks on me. Well, something was playing fucking tricks alright.
Mikey, unlike the others, actually got better that week. I don’t know if Lucas being there grounded him or distracted him or both, but he lost interest in the painting. He was like his old self again. No more evenings spent staring at it or wistful glances its way as he headed for the door. Any moment the painting had to tempt him, Lucas was there at his side to draw him back with a joke or a suggestion to go out. I couldn’t handle being around Natalie and Drew at that point so I tagged along with them whenever I could. Lucas and Mikey didn’t seem to mind me being the third wheel. We three had fun, going to the movies, hiking, stuff like that. The farther away we were from the painting, the better it was. Then came the night before Lucas was set to leave.
Mikey was in the shower. Natalie and Drew were trying to fall asleep upstairs. I was coming down the stairs to sleep on the couch. Lucas was in the living room, pack of cigarettes in hand. He usually went to the backyard to smoke, but apparently he’d paused in the living room to look at the painting.
Lucas nodded at me. He smirked at the painting as he pulled a cig from the pack. “You’re a nicer housemate than me, man. No one, and I mean no one, could convince me to hang this ugly motherfucker in my living room.”
I laughed. The damn painting had made the atmosphere of the house feel so dark and heavy since it showed up, it was a relief to hear someone joke about it. “Believe me, I was outvoted.”
“Too bad. This dude is uglying up the whole place.” Lucas chuckled and jammed the cigarette in the painted man’s direction. “I don’t know why they love this so much. There’s not much in it to really look at other than the guy, and God knows he’s nothing special.”
I sighed, heavy. I thought of Natalie upstairs, so distant from me now. We hadn’t so much as kissed in days. It was like we were strangers to each other. “I don’t get it, either.”
“Well, it is what it is. I’m gonna head out for a smoke, maybe take a walk, stretch my legs. I’ll catch you in the morning before I go,” said Lucas, upbeat. He nodded at the painted man with a smirk. “See ya, Butterface.”
Lucas left for the backyard. I threw my blanket onto the couch and went to shut off the lights. The moment I did, I caught a glimpse of the painted man’s face. In the brief flash of light to dark, his face seemed to contort, to twist into pure, seething rage.
My blood ran fucking cold. My heart skipped a beat as I switched the light back on. When I did, the painting was just the same as before. Same grin.
I stared at it another moment before I felt brave enough to switch the lights off again. Just in your head, I told myself. Just in your head.
*
I didn’t see Lucas the next morning. None of us did. His motorcycle was gone, so the reasonable explanation was that he decided to take off early, and didn’t want to wake any of us. But something in my gut told me that was wrong, even if it was what I wanted to believe. And I wasn’t alone in that.
“He wouldn’t just leave without saying goodbye. He never does that,” Mikey kept saying, pacing in the kitchen. Natalie and Drew were still asleep upstairs. Mikey looked down at his phone, frustrated. “And he’s not answering my calls.”
“Maybe he’s still on the road?” I suggested, though he didn’t live very far away. If he’d left early, he’d have been home by then.
“Maybe,” Mikey said, real quiet.
“I’m sure he’ll call you back soon.”
“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”
I’m sure it won’t come as a shock when I tell you that Lucas didn’t call back. By the end of the day, we were getting calls from his roommate asking if we’d seen him, saying Lucas never came home. Next morning, no one was able to locate him or get a hold of him. After that, we filed a missing person’s report.
Mikey took a turn for the worst. He mostly just holed himself in his room, when he wasn’t going to class or the police station for updates on Lucas’ case. He barely ate. He kept his phone in hand, glancing at the screen, waiting for a call that wasn’t ever going to come. There was only me around to try and help him through it, since Natalie and Drew spent all their free time sleeping by then. But I’m just a friend, not a therapist. Nothing I said or did comforted Mikey. He started skipping classes, spending even more time in his room. Then late one night I was walking through the hall, and heard noises coming from his room. I opened the door just a crack and looked inside. There he was, talking in his sleep. Just like the others.
I was losing them all to the painting. Whenever the three could stand to be awake, they were parked in front of that goddamn fucking painting, and the bastard in the frames was grinning wider than ever. My girlfriend, my friends, they were just . . . deteriorating. They stopped leaving the house. One time I caught Drew staring at himself in the bathroom mirror with bloodshot eyes, whispering the same thing to himself over and over.
“Not beautiful enough . . . I’m not enough . . . not beautiful enough . . . not beautiful enough . . .”
Mikey started waking up with strange marks around his neck. Angry, dark purple ones. Even when he’d just been asleep, he always looked like he’d been weeping for hours. He’d fallen into near silence, but the few times he did speak, his voice was hoarse and raw.
And Natalie. She couldn’t get close enough to the painting during her handful of waking hours. Gaunt and glassy-eyed, I saw her press her hands and face gently against the canvas, like she thought if she kept trying, she could fall into it.
It was around this time that the Mandela Effect went out the fucking window. Before I had been able to come up for explanations for all the weirdness. Misremembering, stress over classes, stress over Lucas. I couldn’t anymore. The excuses fell away one by one until all that was left was the painting. The man inside it. Everytime my eyes met his, I knew. I knew he was the cause of all this.
I took it off the wall and threw it into the garbage bin outside, hoping it would be picked up by the truck before any of the others could wake up and stop me. Next day it was right back on the wall, scavenged. I figured, okay, I just have to wait. Wait for the right opportunity. See, some of the guys from my calc class had invited me over for a bonfire that coming weekend, and I knew exactly what I wanted to bring. I figured if it was burned, that would finally be the end of the line. I thought if I just took the painting somewhere else, no matter how far, they’d still chase it. I’d have burned it right at the house’s fireplace but I was scared that the others would find out and intervene if I did that. Hell, they were so far gone, I was half-afraid they’d try to kill me or something if they caught me in the act. I wanted to do it in a place with plenty of other people, some security. Some distance.
The night before the bonfire was supposed to go down, I was laying wide awake on the couch, around one am. I’d run out of melatonin, and had forgotten to run out for more, so I wasn’t falling asleep easy like usual. I was just lying there in the dark. House was silent. All I could hear was the faint murmurings of my housemates from all directions. Like ghosts haunting the rooms. I’m not a dude who cries easy, but fuck, I had to shut my eyes hard then to stop it from happening. Without my usual sleep aid, I fell back on that old trick where you count down from one hundred. Soon enough, the world around me faded.
And I opened my eyes to find myself in another one.
It all seemed too real for a dream, so clear. There were the black curtains and the tree behind where I sat on the floor. I could have reached up and plucked a golden apple. A few feet in front was the desk, and a taxidermied raven tacked to its edge.
And there was him. Flesh and blood.
I froze as he walked closer, that nasty grin plastered on his face. In the dim lamplight of the room, he looked like a demon.
“Finally,” he said. His voice was silky and low. “I’ve been waiting ages to chat with you, Vincent. But your head’s been such a brick.”
Wish I could say I kept my cool, but the only words I was able to manage were “What the fuck.”
“Case and point.” His lip curled slightly before smoothing back into a smile. “All will be well now, Vincent. Do not fret. I know it must have been so very painful for you, to be excluded all this time. Only able to witness me from a distance. To experience a mere fraction of the glory our dear friends have been privy to. But your anguish is at an end now. We’re finally together.”
He took another step closer, and I scrambled away from him.
“Y-you’ve trapped me in here.”
“Trapped you? Don’t be absurd. I’ve invited you. Welcomed you.” He glared at me before saying a long, hard “You’re welcome.”
“You son of a bitch.” I got to my feet. “You’ve been screwing with my friends’ heads. And you’ve got something to do with Lucas disappearing, I know you do—”
“What, that foul stray you lot dragged in?” The painting man inspected his nails with a bored look. “I don’t know what you could have seen in that hideous creature. Michael, the little wretch, ignored me while he was here, if you can believe it. But alas, I am a kindly soul. I’ve forgiven Michael and welcomed him back with open arms. And I forgive you too, Vincent. I know your earlier discourteousness toward me was merely borne of envy. But that’s all behind us now.”
“Like fuck it is. Where’s Lucas?”
“Haven’t the slightest. What do you think of my suit?”
“What have you been doing to my friends?”
“The usual. You still haven’t told me what you think of my suit. Don’t you find it dashing?”
“I find it as fucked up as the rest of you, asshole.”
The man’s face twitched hard, like he was just barely keeping the fury off his face. He took another step closer. “Cease this childishness. I know your true feelings. You’re only lying to yourself.”
“Stay away from me.”
“Tell me honestly, Vincent. Tell me what they all tell me. What they’ve always told me.” The painted man leaned in, dead serious. “Don’t you find me beautiful?”
Well. He said to tell him honestly. So I did.
“I think,” I said, slowly raising my hand to my mouth. “That you are, by far, the ugliest person I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
I had just enough time to see the dark, unbridled rage twist his face before I bit down on my hand as hard as I could. The pain shot through me, but I kept biting until the world around me blurred. I opened my eyes to find my real-life teeth clamped around my hand so hard that I’d drawn blood. I sat up on the couch and spat out the blood on the side. I was back in the living room. The first thing I did was grab my phone and flick on the flashlight. I pointed it straight at the painting. He still wore the rage-filled scowl, his canines bared like a rabid dog. He was standing upright. Staring daggers right at me.
“Fuck you too, buddy,” I said, getting up off the couch. I was done. No more waiting for the bonfire, I wanted the others out of that bastard’s claws that very second. I turned on all the lights. I went room to room and shook them all awake, yelling in their ears, dragging them one by one out of bed into the kitchen until we were all gathered around the kitchen table. They glared at me.
“Is this important?” Natalie asked me.
“It’s the middle of the night,” Drew added, then paused. “I think.”
“This is extremely important,” I told them, sharp. “I know you guys haven’t been feeling like yourselves, but I need you all to listen to me. We need to get rid of that painting.”
Mikey’s face crumpled. Drew and Natalie turned angry, like I expected, and they both started laying into me.
“We can’t do that, he’s a part of our home—”
“He said you’d say this, that you were jealous—”
“Why won’t you give him a chance?”
I whistled to cut them both off before I yelled at them. “He’s ruining your lives!”
They were all silent. I kept going.
“When’s the last time you went to class?” I asked Natalie, then looked at Drew. “When’s the last time you met with friends? When’s the last time any of you talked to your families, or went for a night out, or even left this house?”
Natalie blinked slowly, as if trying to remember. “I . . . I don’t know.”
I turned to Mikey. “And you? You think this is what Lucas would have wanted?”
Mikey looked down at the table and rubbed his eyes furiously.
“You all spend your whole days devoted to this thing, but what’s it giving back to you? Nothing!” I hit the table and pointed to the living room. “He’s a parasite, draining you of everything ‘til there’s nothing left. He’s not gonna be happy until he has every last bit of your time, your attention. Are you willing to give up your entire lives for this painting?”
They were quiet for a long time. Finally starting to think for themselves again. It took another half hour of talking them down. I forced them to look at the drop in their grades, and all the missed messages from scared friends and family. Every downturn their lives had taken since the painting’s arrival, I shoved in their face until the full weight of what was at risk finally settled on them.
“So what do we do?” Natalie asked, sniffling. “He’ll never let us go.”
“No. But we’re gonna let him go,” I said. “We end this down in the basement. In the fireplace.”
Drew’s eyes went wide as plates. “Fireplace? I don’t want to torture him.”
“Don’t worry, he’ll burn fast,” I said, though I wouldn’t mind letting the asshole die slow. “And I doubt he feels pain like we do.”
Mikey looked up at me then. He’d been silent almost the entire time. His eyes were red and watery. He said, very quietly, “I don’t want to be alone.”
“Mikey.” I leaned in, put my hand on his shoulder. “You’re not gonna be alone. You’ve got your family. You’ve got us. We were all here for each other before that painting came along, and we’ll be here for each other long after.”
That got to him.
We all agreed to do it then and there. We also agreed not to look directly at the painting until it was all over. We didn’t want to give him the opportunity to reel anyone back in. Natalie, Drew, and Mikey headed down to the basement to start up the fire. I popped out to the shed in the backyard to grab some extra wood, just in case we didn’t have enough stocked in the fireplace already. As I picked up the bundled wood, with all the lights of the house glowing at my back, I felt like a huge weight had been lifted off my back. We were finally gonna be rid of the painting. Everything was finally gonna be okay again.
I’ve replayed that moment in my head a million times.
The first thing I noticed when I stepped into the living room was the painting. There in the frames were the same curtains, and the same desk, and the same tree. And nothing else.
The second thing was the screaming from the basement.
I dropped the wood and bolted down to the basement. When I reached the last step I tripped over something that was splayed on the floor, which sent me falling face-first. I looked over to find that what had tripped me was Drew. He was limp and bloody, bent like a broken doll. He’d been hacked by something right across his back, deep enough that I could see bone. There was a second that I couldn’t move, couldn’t even scream, just paralyzed by total shock. It was only hearing Natalie and Mikey screaming behind me that snapped me out of that, all the good it did. I scrambled to my feet. There he was, right by the fireplace. Same fancy suit and everything, though now it was soaked through with Drew’s blood. He had our wood-ax in a death grip, despite Mikey’s desperate attempts to yank it out of his hands. Natalie was at the man’s feet, shaking like a leaf, hands over her head. Red rivers were already streaming down her arms, so she’d taken blows already. I rushed and joined Mikey in trying to take the painted man down, but . . . God, he was strong. I slammed into him and he didn’t budge an inch. It was like hitting a wall. He backhanded me so hard it sent me to the floor again. He then turned and shook off Mikey as easy as a horse shaking off a fly. Another swift movement and he’d swung the ax clean through Mikey’s neck. I doubt they’ll ever get his blood off the walls.
Again I forced myself up and rushed the painted man. Screaming loud enough to wake the dead. The man caught me by the throat. He shot me a slow, nasty grin as he squeezed. Just enough to hurt. Just enough to make me gasp for air. But not enough for me to lose consciousness. He wanted me to see him deliver the killing blow to Natalie. Hell, he wanted me to see them all die. As Natalie went limp he turned to me.
“This is your doing, Vincent. You poisoned them against me,” he said, still squeezing my throat. “You are to blame. And you’ll pay the price.”
Then he squeezed harder, and everything went black.
*
I don’t remember who called the cops. One of the neighbors who heard all the screaming, I’m sure. I came to right around when they busted in. The wood-ax had been tucked into my hands, with my fingerprints all over it. No sign of forced entry. And then there’s me, the last one alive, with mild injuries that could easily be explained away as being the result of my “victims” self-defense. I can’t blame them for jumping to the conclusion they did.
Oh, and they also found Lucas’ body after taking me in and sweepin’ the area. He’d been had struck in the neck with what appeared to be an ax as well, then buried with his motorcycle in the woods just behind the house. They pinned his murder on me too, obviously.
I was angry for a long, long time. Still am. But what can I do? No one’s ever going to believe me. It’s no use being mad at the system. But I’ll never stop being mad at that fucker in the painting. He’s cost me everything.
You’ll probably be safer if you burn him, that’s true. But being buried alive is what he deserves. If there’s not going to be any justice for me, there should at least be for him.
END OF VINCENT’S ACCOUNT
***
I, uh, have not buried the painting.
I know that sounds bad given what you’ve just read, but hear me out! I couldn’t know just from sitting with him at the prison if Vincent’s story was true. I needed to test out the painting. See if it was the real deal before I made any judgements.
After my meeting with Vincent, I hung the painting in my study (to Midge’s displeasure). For what it’s worth he looks pretty stunning next to my taxidermy collection. I’ve taken to calling him ‘Pretty Boy’.
Pretty Boy popped in for a visit while I was dreaming that night. The room was just as it was in the painting. Pretty Boy was leaning on the desk, staring at me expectantly, almost desperately.
“Hello, A.C,” he said. “Tell me . . . do you find me beautiful?”
Friends, I chose life.
“You’re the most gorgeous dude I’ve ever seen!” I said, trying very hard not to look terrified. Thank God he bought my forced enthusiasm, and lit up at the compliment. Just as he started talking about how his previous companions had “cruelly turned their backs on him”, I found myself yanked back into the waking world. Midge was pawing at my chest and barking, having apparently decided it was necessary to wake me up. In any case, I had my confirmation of Vincent’s story.
I’ve also drawn several protective wards and sigils around both my room and the perimeter of the painting to keep Pretty Boy contained, and so far it seems to be working. No nighttime visits or evidence that he’s escaped the frames. I’ll see Vincent’s justice through someday and bury Pretty Boy as requested, but I can’t bring myself to do it now. After all, Pretty Boy is an anomaly, a mystery unlike any I’ve ever encountered. I can’t possibly get rid of him before I’ve had the chance to adequately study him. So for the time being, Pretty Boy is here to stay.
I just have to take care not to look at him too long.