Picturesque

Suspense Stories | May 1, 2014 | 28 min read
48 Votes, average: 4 out of 5
Suspense Stories

Picturesque

Ryan Tandy
Follow
Greg shifted forward in the seat, hands gripped on the steering wheel, as he tried desperately to keep his beloved Audi on the road. Outside the rain was falling in great sheets, an unrelenting wall of water that seemed to assault the car from all sides. He reached out with one hand to wipe the condensation from the window, cursing under his breath as he squinted.

It was entirely his sister's fault, he thought bitterly as a fresh gust of wind buffered the side of the car and forced him to make a quick adjustment on the wheel. If she hadn't insisted on moving his bloody mother up to some god forsaken nursing home in the middle of North Wales, he wouldn't be forced to traipse up here every other month to see her.

Not that she recognised him anymore, with her dementia now in an advanced stage and his visits growing ever more infrequent. More often than not they'd just sit in silence, something Greg had grown to enjoy. She'd spent years criticising him for every little fault and mistake, and it was now a rare treat to enjoy the peace in her poky little room, watching her disappointment slowly fade into the ether.

But on this visit his sister had not even let him enjoy that. She'd insisted on visiting with him, filling the long gaps between brief seconds of the old woman's lucidity with her inane prattle as she dabbed the tears away with one of her disgusting old handkerchiefs.

And as if that hadn't been enough, tonight she'd practically forced him to have dinner with her and the rest of her brood before he left for his home in Cardiff. Two hours of overcooked vegetables and stifled conversation about the so called achievements of his nephews has left him considering another ten or so drinks to go with the half glass of red he'd had with the meal. However, he'd known that if he had gone down that road he would have been unable to make the journey home until the morning, and so instead decided to tough it out and get on the road as soon as he could. While at the time this decision had seemed the best plan, another night on the sofa was starting to appear a more appealing prospect in the face of the current weather.

He lent further forward in the seat and tried to keep the road in sight. Greg had made the trip a few times previously, but never in conditions like this. The weather had already forced him to make two detours and he was beginning to think that the sat nav on his phone was not as reliable as he had first though it to be.

He reached over to clear his side window and peered out, trying to catch site of a landmark with which to get his bearings, but he could not see a thing beyond the collection of tall, imposing trees that lined the road on either side. High above him the rain clouds had conspired to remove all traces of star and moon from the sky, and Greg got the distinct impression that if his car were to break down now it might remove the only light source for miles around.

Shivering slightly at this thought Greg returned his attention to the road ahead. He was used to driving on well constructed city highways but navigating along this particular stretch felt more akin to navigating a dirt track, albeit one that stretched on into the darkness to what seemed like infinity. He hadn't seen a road sign for at least half an hour, and was beginning to feel a flutter of panic. He'd never seen this area before in his life, and again he had that sudden, brief sensation that he was the only person left in the world.

He flicked his attention to the dashboard, where his phone was mounted for the journey, to check his bearings before glancing back at the road. As he looked back up he saw a glimpse of movement to his right, as something moved into the middle of the road.

Greg pulled the wheel to the left, slamming down on the brake as he went. He felt the back end of the car begin to pull out and fought with the steering wheel as momentum, friction and the anti lock braking system vied for control of his fate.

Suddenly the car came to a halt with a crashing thud, propelling Greg forward to meet the airbag as it deployed. He bounced back into the seat, his skull thumping against the headrest, before finally coming to rest against the airbag once again. Around him the night was silent again, the only sounds coming from the rain outside and the steady beeping of the car's dashboard.

Slowly Greg lifted his head and leaned back into the seat. His head was pounding along with his heart, and the pain in his right shoulder was screaming like a banshee. The dull ache running down his neck completed the soundtrack to his pain as he reached for the door handle and forced his way back out of the crippled automobile.

He climbed out of the car and steadied himself against the top of the car for a moment, waiting for a sudden wave of nausea to pass. The rain continued to fall as he stood there, and by the time he felt well enough to lift his head again he was soaked through. He stared around the car, noticing the skid marks tracing their way from the moment he lost control. He stumbled slowly to the front of the car and leaned down to inspect the damage.

The weak light from the interior of the car was enough for Greg to gauge that the car was a write off. The front end had taken most of the impact and was partially wrapped around one of the tree trunks that populated the side of the road. He mumbled a string of curses as he straightened up and looked back in the direction he'd come from.

With the initial shock wearing off he walked towards the spot where he had lost control, eyes scanning the tree line on either side as he tried to catch of a glimpse of whatever had run out in front of him. He wasn't sure if he had hit whatever it was, but looking around he couldn't find a trace of the mysterious interloper.

Greg made his way back to the car and leaned over the driver seat to retrieve his phone, which was miraculously undamaged in the crash. Holding one hand over the top to protect against the rain he peered down at the screen, only to find that he didn't have a single bar of signal.

‘Shit!' Greg said, running his hand through his sodden hair. He stared around wildly, trying to get his bearings. He knew that it would be no good trying to go back the way he had come, as he would be walking a good two hours before he got back to a point where there may be help. His only hope was to keep heading in the direction he had originally been going and hope he stumbled across something.

Greg walked to the back of the car and unlocked the boot to retrieve his bag and a thin rain coat. He thought briefly of the golf umbrella he'd left at home, slammed the boot shut, shrugged on the coat and set out into the darkness.

*******************************


Twenty minutes later Greg was darkly contemplating if a better course of action may have been to wait with the car until he was rescued. He was soaked through to the skin, the flimsy jacket no match for the deluge that was falling from the sky, and he could no longer feel his feet. On either side of him the tree line seemed to stretch on forever, and not a glimmer of light penetrated the oppressive gloom that surrounded him.

Greg huddled his shoulders further into the jacket as he walked and tried desperately to take his mind off the present situation. As was so often the case in recent times, his mind wandered back to the troubles his business was currently facing. Greg was an antique dealer specialising in paintings and other works of art, and owned a small shop down in Cardiff Bay that had a reputation as one of the finest in the country. He had ploughed countless hours into the business, and one of his greatest pleasures had been discovering some hidden work in a dusty attic that he could sell on for a profit. Greg had always felt there was something almost heroic in these discoveries, as if he was plundering some long forgotten tomb in search of treasures long forgotten.

But when the recession had hit, Greg had began to feel less like an explorer and more like a sea captain solemnly going down with his ship. He'd barely kept the business afloat in the first couple of years, and now was at a point where it was likely that it would take a miracle to turn the failing shop around. He'd even given up purchasing stock, as the risk of not selling the pieces was too great to bear.

He was pulled from these unhappy musings by another blast of rain, which cut through the canopy to tumble down upon him. He raised his head momentarily to glance into the distance, and was shocked to see a light. He blinked for a moment, as if his eyes were deceiving him, before quickening his pace as he headed towards the source.

As he got closer he realised that the light in fact a lonely street light, sat on the corner of a small junction. The road texture began to improve as Greg approached, and by the time he'd reached the lamp post he was standing on tarmac. He took a moment to lean against the post and catch his breath before scanning the surrounding area.

Directly opposite him was a long, low wall, clearly put in place to prevent drivers from plunging over the hill behind it. Beyond he could see a range of hills stretching into the darkness, their general shape just disenable amongst the clouds. The roads that went to the left and the right of the lamppost, other than their sturdier composition, were much the same as the one he had just walked and were lined with the same giant trees that had been his companion over the last few miles.

It was only on the second pass that Greg noticed the small moss covered stone nestled in a dark corner against the wall. He wandered towards it, pulling his phone from his pocket and using the screen's light to provide some illumination. The sign appeared to be more like a small tombstone than a directional marker, but when he got close he realised that there were two place names, both in Welsh, carved into the rock with accompanying arrows pointing in either direction and numbers to show how their distance.

Greg had seen pictures of this sort of sign in history text books at school, but couldn't recall actually seeing one up close. He lent further forward and read the slanted carvings, his eyes narrowed against the unrelenting rain. He did not speak Welsh, and had no idea what either word meant, but the numbers were what interested him most. The arrow pointing to the right had the number twenty carved next to it, while the left hand arrow had a number two scratched on the side.

Straightening back up, Greg felt a small smile break across his face. It was true that another two miles would not be much fun, but at least he was in walking distance of civilization. Once he found a house he could call someone to come and collect him, and be back in Cardiff in a few hours. He'd probably be without the car for a couple of days but at that moment it felt like a small price to pay.

Greg started down the road again, his spirit renewed with the promise of warmth and rescue. As he walked away from the junction the darkness enveloped him once again, but his eyes soon adjusted. After a few minutes he noticed that the trees on either side of the road were beginning to thin, allowing him a glimpse of the rolling hills that lay beyond.

After another few hundred metres Greg caught sight of another light, just ahead of him where the road curved off to the right. He quickened his pace again, hoping to find a pub or hotel that he could take refuge in.

As he rounded the corner he realised that it was not a pub but a large cottage, situated at the end of a rough gravel driveway that slopped gently away from the main road. Greg picked his way downwards, careful to avoid the large puddles that had accumulated in the potholes, until he had reached the gated entrance to the property. Greg looked at the building and felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature.

Set in a garden that seemed to be nothing more than a wild collection of overgrown bushes, the cottage stood framed against the mountains beyond. While some may have generously described the building as quaint once upon a time, in the near darkness of night the building seemed to take on a much more oppressive air.

The cottage was a one storey brick construction, with a low slate roof that was covered in moss. The light that had drawn Greg towards the ramshackle building came from within via two large windows on either side of a weather battered front door, the paintwork peeling and long faded with age and neglect. Vines and weeds covered much of the outer walls, their green shoots crawling up the brickwork like the tentacles of some great sea creature. A low mist had crept down from the sky, enveloping the area and completing the haunted house vibe of the building.

Greg stood for a minute or so, considering the dwelling in front of him. It seemed almost impossible that anyone could live there, and yet the lights coming from with clearly indicated a presence of some kind. Of course, he thought to himself, that doesn't mean the presence is friendly.

He stood contemplating for a few moments more before a particularly strong gust of wind blew past the building, catching him unaware and nearly knocking him off balance. Greg steadied himself and wrapped his arms around his chest to keep the cold at bay.

‘Bugger it,' he said. ‘At least if I die in there I'll be warm when it happens!' He reached down to the gate and gently pushed it open, still apprehensive in spite of his desire to get out of the rain.

He walked cautiously up the garden path, his head moving left and right as he picked his way past the overgrown bushes. As he approached the house he could make out a metal number one, as tarnished and battered as the rest of the house, hanging on a little plaque to the left of the door. He eventually reached the threshold and, pausing for only a second to gather himself, knocked twice on the door.

The knocks seemed to disappear into the night, swallowed up by the sound of the rainfall. Greg waited on the doorstep, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and wondering if whoever was inside would even have heard him over the noise of the storm. He was in the process of raising his hand to knock again when the door suddenly flew open, flooding the area with light and causing Greg to nearly losing his balance for the second time in as many minutes.

He straightened up and stared cautiously at the doorway. The light, while relatively dim, had still been sufficient to dazzle him after miles of gloom. He could just about make out the small figure of an elderly lady in front of him. He lent forward slightly and spoke as softly as he could.

‘Hello?' He stammered. ‘I've had a crash and the car won't start. I don't suppose you have a phone I could use, do you?'

‘Oh no!' said the figure, reaching out and grasping his forearm. ‘You must be soaking, you poor thing. Come on in and let's dry you off.'

Greg opened his mouth to respond, but before he could speak he was pulled with surprising strength over the threshold and into the warmth of the cottage.

He blinked as the door was closed behind him, and he stared around the room; his mouth ajar at the total contrast between the cottage's exterior and the place he found himself in. He was stood in a narrow hallway, well lit and cheerfully decorated in floral wallpaper. An antique coat stand and mirror stood to the left of the door, the hooks hung with various women's coats. A pair of muddied wellington boots had been neatly placed on the ground below, alongside two pairs of slippers. Ahead of him, the passageway stretched on into a small, cosy looking kitchen.

Greg opened his mouth to speak, but was once again cut off by the same pressure on his forearm. The old woman had finished locking the door and was now leading him into a large parlour room of to the right. She steered him in through the doorway and pushed him down into a rickety armchair that had been positioned in the middle of the room.

‘Now, you sit down, my love.' She said already halfway back out of the room. ‘I'll get you some towels.'

The woman departed at high speed, intent on forcing all manner of hospitality on her helpless house guest. Greg waited until her footsteps had receded and he could hear cupboards opening before getting back to his feet, not wishing to incur her wrath by doing something as strenuous as standing up.

He glanced around the small parlour, glad to be out of the driving wind and rain. The armchair he'd been placed in was one of a pair, both of which were sat around a low coffee table. In front of the table was a large fireplace, made bigger by the solitary log that was burning in its hearth. An antique bureau stood in one corner, and the walls themselves were covered in an assortment of paintings.

As he looked around Greg became aware of a fainting whispering on the very edge of his hearing, almost drowned out by the old woman's bustling in the kitchen. He turned to his left, trying to locate the source of the noise. Behind the chair he had been sat in was another wooden door, much like the one that he had come through to enter the parlour. There was no light coming from the room beyond, but whatever was in there seemed to be the source of the noise.

Greg stood very still for a moment, trying to listen to what the voice was saying. While undoubtedly a male, the actual words remained unintelligible to him. Greg took a step forward and placed his hand on the door, pulling it open enough to allow him to lean forward and look inside. A thin beam of light spilt into the room, revealing a solid wooden dining room table. As he took another step forward the whispering seemed to grow fainter and Greg leaned further forward, trying to keep the voice in earshot. As the voice trailed off he braced himself to pull the door open and reveal whoever was there. As he took a step back his heel collided with something, and he felt a hand grasp his shoulder.

Greg span around, yelping in fright as his back caught the door and slammed in shut. In front of him the old woman gave a short scream before breaking into laughter, one wizened hand clutched to her chest.

‘God Lord, you gave me a fright!' She said once she stopped laughing. ‘What on Earth were you doing?'

Greg, who did not share her amusement at the situation, sighed shakily as he lent against the wall and waited for his heart rate to subside. ‘I heard someone whispering in there!' He said, his voice a light higher than it usually was.

The woman cocked her head to one side and smiled crookedly at him. ‘There's no one else here, love,' she said, reaching past him and pulling the door handle gently open. Have a look for yourself.'

She pulled the door open and stepped back, allowing Greg to look into the room beyond. Inside was a small dining room, complete with chairs, a side dresser and the table Greg had glimpsed moments below, that was completely empty of any person. With the door fully open there was enough light to see the whole room clearly, and he could plainly see that there were no shadows or corners that someone could conceal themselves in.

Greg turned on the spot angrily, the frustrations of his night's ordeal finally bubbling to the surface. ‘Listen here,' he said, advancing towards the old woman with one finger raised. ‘I heard a man whispering in that room!'

Despite his threatening demeanour the old woman continued to look at him with an amused smile. ‘It was probably just the rain, love.' She said, turning towards the centre of the room where a full tea tray now sat groaning on the small coffee table. She retrieved a large towel from the chair and handed it to him before seating herself on the other chair and busying herself with the tea pot.

Greg stared at the old woman for a few seconds, his anger building inside, before he forced himself to cool down. He lifted the towel to his head and vigorously rubbed his hair dry, taking a couple of deep breaths as he did so. Whisper or no whisper, he knew he had to keep this batty old mare onside if he wanted to get out of this god forsaken place. Lowering the towel, he made his way over the armchair and sat down.

The old woman continued to fuss over the tea tray, giving Greg a chance to actually catch a good look at her. She was a tiny thing really, not much taller than five foot tall with a frame that was only padded out by the layers of jumpers she was wearing. Her thinning hair was pure white and sat upon her head like a cloud, looking like it may blow away at the first sign of a breeze.

She leant forward to pass him a cup, catching his eye with a smile when she noticed him staring at her. She was wearing thick glasses which magnified her already large, benign eyes and gave her the look of some rare insect. As he accepted the cup and sat back he was amazed at how alert and full of life that her eyes were, a total contrast to her frail appearance. Greg had seen eyes like that in his shop from time to time, and had learned early in his career that it was not the sort of gaze to trifle with.

‘I don't think we were properly introduced just now.' said the woman, filling her own delicate cup and saucer from the pot. ‘I'm June.'

‘Greg Manet. Nice to meet you.' Said Greg, watching the old woman put the pot back on the tray. Despite being full she managed to lift it without much effort, and he thought for a moment back to her firm grip on his forearm.

‘And you. So where's your car now?' asked June as she spooned brown sugar into her cup. ‘I'm not sure really, to be honest.' Greg replied, taking a sip of the tea. ‘It was a dirt road a couple of miles away, lined with trees.'

‘Ah, the fford mawr.' said June, her thick Welsh accent making ease of the pronunciation. ‘You're lucky you only broke down a couple of miles from here. If it had happened dead centre you'd have been walking for eight miles no matter which way you went.'

‘So what brings you to this part of the world then, Mr Manet?' she said. ‘Visiting family?'

‘Yes, actually.' Greg replied, frowning slightly. ‘How did you know?'

June smiled knowingly at him. ‘Just a guess. Not many unfamiliar faces around here, especially this late at night. And who were you visiting?'

‘My mother.' said Greg, his tone conveying that he didn't wish to discuss the topic further. After the whispering from before, the old woman's probing questions were making him even more uncomfortable.

June seemed to sense this, and smiled as she placed a comforting hand on his knee. ‘Oh, don't you worry about me, Mr Manet. I just likes to pry a little bit. I don't get many visitors these days.'

‘So your fancy phone doesn't work around here then?' said June, leaning back and casting a suspicious eye at his pocket. She ploughed on before he had time to answer. ‘They never do. I just uses the one in the kitchen myself.'

'Fantastic. Do you think I could possibly use it? I'd like to get someone out here tonight.' Greg began to rise from his seat as he spoke, but June gestured him back down with a wave of her hand.

‘It isn't working at the moment. I've got someone coming about it tomorrow.' said June, delicately bringing her cup up to her mouth.

Frustration passed over Greg's features as he stared at the old woman. ‘Well, how on earth am I supposed to get my bloody car fixed if you haven't got a phone?' he said, struggling to keep his voice low.

June surveyed him sternly for a moment over the rim of her cup before lowering it. ‘The rain should be subsiding in an hour or so.' She said in a firmer tone. ‘When it's cleared up you'll be able to carry down the road to Llansannan. You'll be able to get a signal there, and you'll be much the warmer and drier for waiting a while. But I'd thank you for not swearing in my house.'

Greg stared at the woman for a moment, a pin drop of embarrassment working its way through his anger. The offer to wait out the passing storm was appealing, but he didn't fancy spending too much longer in the presence of someone who could make him feel like a naughty child with a few words.

‘Thank you for the offer,' he said. ‘But if it's all the same to you I'd like to leave now.'

He had placed the cup down on the table and making to rise when something caught his eye on the wall at the far end of the room. It was a picture, much larger than the others he had notice during his first scan of the parlour, and it was hung in an ornate picture frame that was tarnished with age. The picture was of a building of some kind; most likely somewhere in the local area, but whoever had painted it clearly knew what they were doing. Greg continued to squint at the picture, trying to make out the details, until June's voice pulled him from his reprieve.

‘Beautiful, isn't it?' she said, and when Greg looked back at her she was staring at him thoughtfully, as if trying to measure his intentions towards the picture.

‘Yes. Yes, it is.' He said. ‘May I take a closer look?'

She replied with a curt nod of her head, her eyes still fixed upon him. She watched him as he climbed to his feet and made his way over to the canvas.

He walked towards the picture and stopped a few feet away. Even with the garish lighting Greg could see straight away that the picture was of exceptional quality. The subject of the piece was a small cottage, set amongst a hillside on a summer's day with its immaculate garden in full bloom. The only blight on this cheerful scene was a lone male figure stood in one of the windows, attired in black with a sullen expression on his face.

‘It's been in the family for years.' Said June, her sudden presence beside him making Greg start. ‘My great, great grandfather painted it one year, when he was spending the summer here.'

‘Surely that's not this building?' said Greg, but even as the words left his mouth he knew she was right. Though time had taken a terrible toll on the old building it was undoubtedly the same one he now stood in. He took another step forward, noticing as he did so the name W.Peters written in the bottom left corner of the picture.

Greg froze on the spot, his breath caught in his chest. It can't be, he thought, as he stepped back and scanned every inch of the picture. He lent forward again, studying the small writing. He'd definitely seen it before, etched below a portrait of a provocatively positioned courtesan in a corner of the Tate Modern. At the time Greg had not been paying much attention to such trivial matters as signatures, but his studies and dealings since that day had lead him to be able to recognise the mark of Rev William Matthew Peters when he saw it.

Greg took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to regain his composure. He chanced a glance to his left, where June was stood next to him. She was still staring at the painting; her face painted with the half smile of some long forgotten memory, and didn't appear to have noticed his little lapse. He straightened up and took a step backwards.

‘June,' he said, fighting to keep his voice level. ‘May I use your toilet, please?'

‘What?' said June, her turn to be pulled from a moment of concentration. ‘Toilet? Oh, of course, love. Out the door and to the right, down through the kitchen.'

Greg thanked her and moved towards the door, his mind racing. He darted into the bathroom and slammed the rickety wooden door behind him, sliding across the bolt before turning and leaning back against it.

He let out a slow, shaking breath and ran one hand through his thinning hair. He'd long been a fan of Peters' work, the eighteenth century genre painter who went on to become a clergyman. He'd been lucky enough to see many of his works up close, and was considered in some circles to be a bit of an authority on the man. And he'd often heard tell of hidden gems from great artists turning up in the most unexpected of places. But an undiscovered Peters, hanging on the wall of some derelict cottage in the middle of nowhere, was so unbelievable as to be ridiculous.

But how could it be a forgery, Greg asked himself as he began to pace furiously. The old woman had said it had been in her family for a few generations, and she had no reason to lie about it. No, it had to be authentic. Greg knew his art, and for this to be a forgery the con man in question would have to be a bona fide genius.

Greg sat down on the closed toilet seat and began to wrack his brain. He had no idea what a Peters would be doing here, although he vaguely recalled the man's mother being Welsh, which could explain why he'd spent time here. It was a landscape scene, something Peters was not known for, so it's likely one of the last pictures he painted before he died, especially if the old man in the window was a self portrait.

But the million dollar question, Greg asked himself as he lent forward and rested his elbows on his knees, is how much is the damn thing worth? He'd heard of some of his earlier works fetching near a fifty thousand at auction, and this had been nearly twenty years ago. If he found a couple of eager enough collectors he could probably double that. That sort of money could clear all his debts in one fell swoop.

And it wasn't just the money, he thought as he jumped back to his feet and assumed his pacing. The prestige of discovering such a rare work would undoubtedly increase his reputation tenfold. He could count on interviews with a few of the classier publications, which should lead to some extra trade. And it won't stop there, smiling as his mind began to sing with possibilities. With enough of a profile boost he may be able to open a shop somewhere in London, maybe Chelsea or Westminster.

Does she have any idea what she's got on her possession? He wondered as he slowed his pace. Chances are she doesn't, or she wouldn't be living in this shack in the middle of no-where. Meaning she likely doesn't know what the picture could be worth.

Greg took a deep breath and made his way over to the sink. Turning the rusted tap on full he cupped his hand under the flow, and splashed his face gently with the cold water. The sudden shock pulled his mind back into focus, and he felt himself slip into what he liked to call shark mode. Often, when stalking the markets and clearance sales that always yielded his most profitable purchases, he'd known instinctively when he was in the presence of a seller he could cajole. The little signs and tells that gave away a weak negotiator seemed to broadcast to him directly and allow him to hone in, like the great fish stalking a helpless minnow.

He filled his hands again and dabbed his face again. He knew that June would probably be a tough opponent, but Greg had made the decision that he had to have the picture. Also knew he was going to be paying her a lot less than it was actually worth, although this did not really concern him.

He straightened up and pulled the towel from the rack to dry his face. As he lowered it back down he caught site of the mirror and its reflection of the room behind him. As he stared a dark shadow began to form in the far corner of the small bathroom, growing until it was the size of a man. Greg watched in mounting horror as the shapeless black began to move towards him, extending its reach outwards towards his back as if it was trying to pull him into the darkness.

Greg span around, expecting to feel the cold grip of the shadow close around his throat, only to find the room empty. He blinked furiously then turned around and stared at the mirror but the shape had gone, vanished as suddenly as it had appeared.

Greg slowly turned again and made his way towards the door, eyes fixed on the point where the shadow had manifested itself. He must have imagined it, he told himself, more than likely just a breeze catching the light bulb and causing the shadows to move.

He reached the door and leant towards it, listening for the sound of approaching footsteps. He'd somehow managed to keep from crying out when the thing had appeared a fact for which he was grateful. Despite the horrific experience he had just had his own greed and ambition had managed to keep the fear at bay, and he was still focused on acquiring the painting. He knew his task would have been all the harder if his opponent had heard him screaming about ghosts in the bathroom.

He slowly unlocked the door and backed out of the room, keen to avoid being blindsided by anything else, supernatural or otherwise. He made his way back through the kitchen, pausing only briefly to check the telephone sitting on the kitchen table. He lifted it to his ear and felt slightly calmer when he was met by a resounding silence. He was unnerved enough already without the prospect of it turning out the old woman had been lying to him.

He paused outside the door, taking just a second to compose himself before re-entering the parlour. Inside June had returned to her seat, and gave him a broad smile as he walked in. He answered with one of her own, knowing he'd have to keep her sweet in order to convince her to part with the painting.

‘Find everything alright?' She asked.

'Yes, fine. Thank you.' He replied. He took a deep breath and began his opening salvo.

‘June, I was wondering if I could ask you a question about the picture?' He replied, careful to keep his tone low and gentle.

‘Of course, it's lovely isn't it? He was a minister, you know, a great eye for the beauty of things.'

‘Very lovely.' Greg said, his heart leaping monetarily at the comment about the artist's religious vocation. ‘In fact, I was wondering if anyone's ever made you an offer to buy it from you. It's such a beautiful piece.'

‘Lord no!' She replied, shaking her head as if offended by the very notion. ‘No, and I never would, even if they offered. It's been in our family for years.'

Greg cursed inwardly as she spoke, realising this could be a little tougher than he'd first intended. He decided to switch away from the roundabout approach and be a little more direct.

‘Oh, that's a shame.' He said. ‘Only I've got a friend back in Cardiff who has just moved into a new house, and she was looking for a picture just like that for her dining room. She'd asked me to keep an eye out for something at one of the local dealers while I was here but I couldn't find anything. She told me she'd have been happy to pay as much as eight hundred for a nice one.'

Greg watched June carefully as he spoke, hoping that the figure he'd mentioned would be enough to pique her interest. Instead, her eyes narrowed, her previously cheery demeanour replaced with suspicion.

‘Is that right?' she said carefully, her eyes fixed on his face. ‘That's a lot of money to entrust to someone just to buy a painting, Mr Manet. Do you know a lot about art?'

Greg smiled back at her, refusing to let her distrust fluster him. ‘Not at all, June,' he lied, gesturing dismissively with one hand. ‘I just know what sort of thing she likes, and she trusts my opinion in these matters.'

But June refused to believe him, and lent back in her chair with her arms followed over her narrow chest.  ‘Well, be that as may, Mr Manet, but I'm still not selling.'

Greg smiled at her again, this time a little less enthusiastically, and lent towards her. ‘Okay, June, I understand it's a family heirloom and you wouldn't like to see it go. Fortunately it's my friend's birthday in a month or so, and I'm yet to buy her a gift. So why don't we make it fifteen hundred? I'll even arrange for the frame to be returned to you once I'm back home. I'm sure it wouldn't fit in with her décor anyway!'

Greg smiled jovially at her, desperate to regain her trust, but June saw right through him. ‘Another seven hundred pounds, Mr Manet?' She said, one eyebrow arched with cynicism. ‘She must be a very close friend.'

Greg smiled again, but could feel the first tendrils of frustration creeping over him. The old girl was onto him but he wasn't going to let her win. He had to have that picture, was desperate for what it could bring him.

‘Now now, a gentleman never tells.' He said with what he hoped was a winning grin. ‘Alright, I can see you're very attached to the picture. Why don't we try and reach an understanding?'

Suddenly June lent forward, her face just inches from his. ‘The only thing that needs to be understood, Mr Manet, is that the painting is not for sale. I don't believe for one second this cock and bull story you're telling me, and I don't much care for being lied to in my own home.'

Greg jumped to his feet, forcing her to lean back. The pain of his own failures combined with his hellish evening of cold and misery had pushed his patience to breaking point, and the prospect of losing out on the prospect of salvation was enough to force him over the edge. He took a step towards June, who was holding his glare despite their vastly different physiques, and opened his mouth to speak.

But before he could utter a single word a terrible wail cut through the air, emanating from the back of the house. The mournful cry seemed to fill the room, a torturous combination of animal and man. Greg spun frantically, expecting to see the same ghostly figure from the bathroom, but they were alone in the small parlour. As the cry rang out a second time he realised that it was coming from outside the cottage.

Greg turned back to face June, the anger he'd felt just moments before replaced with fear. ‘What the hell was that?' He said shakily, stepping back away from the doorway.

‘My cat, most likely.' said June, noting Greg's panic with a smile on her face. ‘He keeps getting himself locked in the shed then crying blue murder when he can't get out.'

She pushed past him and moved towards the doorway. When she'd reached it she turned back to face him, her expression grim.

‘I'm going to fetch him out; I shan't be more than a couple of minutes. When I come back I'd like you to leave. I don't expect to be intimidated in my own house, especially by someone I've tried to help.'

With that she turned and exited, closing the door firmly behind her. Greg stared after her, seething with anger. The spiteful old bitch, he thought as he began to pace the room wildly. She lives in a shack, for God's sake, what on earth does she need this painting for?

He stopped in front of the painting, feet planted just two foot away. So close and yet so far. Out in the hallway he heard the front door open and then bang shut, followed by June's receding footsteps as she made her way to the back garden. Listening to her plodding stride raised another wave of anger inside him, and he clenched his fists into balls until his knuckles turned white. He stood there for a moment, eyes screwed tightly shut until he felt the pressure in his head lessen.

As he opened his eyes a flash of inspiration struck him, and he realised what he had to do. Glancing all around him to make sure he was alone, he reached up and lifted the picture down from the wall, surprised at how heavy the frame was.

This is the only way, he told himself firmly as he searched the room for something to cover the picture in. If she refuses to sell it then I don't have a choice. I can't let my life just fall apart without doing something about it. She hardly knows a thing about me, and if she does go to the police I'll just say she sold it to me and must have forgotten. They're clearly not going to believe some mad spinster in a cottage next to someone like me.

Greg reached into his pocket and, struggling to hold the picture under one arm, pulled out a wad of cash. He threw it onto the table, aware enough to realise he'd need to leave a paper trail to support his story, before readjusting his grip and heading towards the door.

But as he reached for the handle he heard the whispering begin once more, again emanating from the same darkened dining room. Only this time there was no mistaking the furious tone of voice, even if the words were once again unintelligible. Greg stood, rooted to the spot in terror, as echoing footsteps began to make their way from the far corner of the room. As they approached the door separating the two rooms Greg managed to regain control of his body and threw the door open in sheer blind panic.

He crashed out of the room and collided with June. Greg went down hard, his head bouncing slightly as it made contact with the floor. June stumbled towards the kitchen but managed to stay on her feet.

‘What do you think you're doing?' She shrieked, steadying herself on the doorframe. ‘You could have-WHERE ARE YOU GOING WITH THAT?'

Greg jumped unsteadily to his feet, snatching the painting back from the floor as he rose. He made a dash to the front door and yanked the handle as hard as he could, but it would not budge. He threw himself at the door, panic flaring in his chest, but the old wood held solid.

He turned, eyes blazing with desperation and fear, and confronted the old woman. She was matching his stare with as much hatred as she could manage. Dangling in her hand, rusted and battered, were the keys to the door.

‘Give them to me, you stupid bitch, or I'll kill you!' He said, readjusting his grip on the picture.

June stared right back, a malicious smile playing over her face. ‘You're welcome to try, Mr Manet, but I'm a lot stronger than I look!'

Greg made a movement to grab them from her but she stepped back, twisting away from his grasp. He let out a strangled cry and lunged towards her, his free hand outstretched not for the keys but for her throat.

Greg was just inches away when he was hit by some unseen force. The blow was enough to take him off his feet, and he was knocked sideways into the parlour with sufficient force to knock the door from its hinges on the way through.

He landed hard on his back, the picture spinning off to one side. Dazed and terrified, he managed to make it to his knees before another blow caught him across the temple. He skidded across the ground and came to rest face down in front of the painting which had landed face up on the floor.

Greg lifted his head up dizzily, his vision blurred, and watched as June walked back into the room. She stopped in front of him and looked down at his beaten form, a mixture of surprise and amusement across her features. After a few moments she leant down until her face was close to him, placing a hand on his shoulder to steady her.

‘Funny really,' she said, her voice surprisingly light. ‘My grandmother always told me he was watching over us and that as long as that painting hung here we'd be protected, but I never believe her until now.'

She patted Greg gently on the shoulder, as if consoling a small child. ‘I'd like to say I'm sorry, but it would be a lie. Goodbye, Mr Manet.'

She climbed slowly to her feet, smiling as she glanced back at the canvas one last time. ‘Looks like he's making a place for you.' She turned and walked away, closing the door without looking back.

Greg's brow furrowed as he watched her leave, his vision swimming. What on earth was she talking about, he thought hazily as he turned back to look at the painting.

At first glance it was the same picture, but as he focused in he realised there was something terribly wrong. The picture had changed, was changing before his very eyes. As the image began to swim out of focus the whispering returned, filling Greg's brain until he drifted into unconsciousness, and the comfort of oblivion.

************************


A few days later the police paid June a visit. A car belonging to a Mr Greg Manet, a well know art dealer from the other side of the country, had been found abandoned a few hundred yards from her small cottage and they were checking to see if anyone in the area knew his whereabouts.

She cheerfully ushered them in and, over tea and homemade scones, told them that she was sorry but she had not seen anyone matching Mr Manet's description in the last few days. After a few minutes the two constables were satisfied that June was not going to be able to help, and cheerfully bade her farewell.

As they made their way back to their car the younger of the two officers made a comment about the batty old lady, living in her cottage with her cat and walls full of creepy old paintings. The older constable, a short, portly man, agreed, remarking in particular about the big canvas in the parlour. A simple painting of the farm house they had just left, he was particularly disturbed by the face in the window.

The younger constable agreed, noting that the stern face of the man on the right had reminded him of his old headmaster. No, the older PC said, not that one. It was the face of a youngish man in the window on the left hand side that had troubled him. The one who'd looked like he was screaming in agony.

 

 

Tags:

  
Report This Story 
Notice (8): Undefined index: User [APP/View/stories/story.ctp, line 227]
Notice (8): Trying to access array offset on value of type null [APP/View/stories/story.ctp, line 227]

Recommendations

Recommendations

Reviews

Download the Short Story Lovers App

Read and write stories anytime, anywhere with the Short Story Lovers app

"Short n Scary Stories"

is a throng of rare and

true horror stories of witches, zombies, monsters and unidentified spirits

around us. Here you can share your paranormal experiences and read world's best haunted stories to thrill your imagination.

BE A SHARER
STORIES
WHAT'S NEW
MORE INFO