by Pete Ravensway
At the sound of a tap at my office door, I looked up from
my typewriter attempted to see, through the glass, who was there. The glass
was that really annoying frosted kind, so all I could make out was a vaguely
human shaped blur.
"Who is it?" I called.
"It’s Andrew Benson," the
blur outside replied.
"Come on in, Andy," I said
rolling back my chair.
The door slowly squeaked
open and a scraggly haired kid of about twenty or so shuffled in. He pushed
his glasses up his nose, fidgeted for a moment and then took a seat opposite
my desk. He acted considerably more nervous than he normally did. It was
a rather unnerving contrast to his usually spirited disposition.
He did not speak for a moment,
so I took the initiative. "What’s up?" I asked.
"I’ve got to talk you,"
he said.
"Yeah, you know you can
always talk to me," I linked my hands behind my head and leaned back in
my moderately comfortable chair.
Andy looked over his shoulder,
reached behind him and swung the door shut. "In confidence." He said, glance
past me out the window, as if to make sure no one was lurking outside,
listening to our conversation.
"Of course," I assured him,
"whatever you need."
"It’s about the painting,"
He said in a near whisper, leaning forward.
"The painting?" I asked.
He nodded.
"What about it?"
The painting in question
had once been a proud member of a shapeless jumble of whatnot that took
up the greater part of my attic. It was the sort of untidiness that one
likes to ignore, hoping that
it will clean itself. Finally, one day about three weeks ago, I grew
weary of looking at all that junk, cleared out the attic, and did what
every good American citizen ought to at least once, in order to live a
full life. I had a garage sale. The painting, which was nothing especially
noteworthy, had resided in the top of my house for more years than I could
remember, so of course it had to go. It was, in and of itself, a very nice
painting, a portrait of and old man seated at a table in prayer. It was
the sort of artwork that modern artists tend to shy away from in favor
of canvases splattered with obnoxious colors.
Andy, who I had not met
before that day, despite the fact that our offices are only a few doors
apart, made a showing at my sale and took a definite fancy to the portrait.
He said it would give his house a little of the upper class feel it needed.
I didn’t know what he meant by that, but it seemed important to him, (either
that or he was being impetuous, as he tended to be I learned as I got to
now the boy) so I gave it to him for five dollars. I had not thought of
the picture since.
"I, uh," He paused, "I just
wondered, out of curiosity, where it came from?
"Years and years ago my
great great uncle or someone like that who I never knew, put a bullet
into his head, and did not bother to leave a suicide note or a will, so
all of his belongings were divided up among the relatives. I got the picture
and an antique pocket watch," I explained," Why do you ask?"
"Did you ever notice anything
about it?" He asked,
"Anything out of the ordinary?"
I shrugged, "Not really,"
I replied, "I never hung it on the wall or anything, it has always been
in the attic. Out of the ordinary like how?"
"Like it’s eyes?" Andrew
cast a nervous glance behind him. At that I laughed; I could not
help it. Andy’s face fell. "What’s so funny?" He demanded.
"It doesn’t have eyes, as
such," I stated, "The old guy in the picture is praying if I remember correctly.
His eyes are closed."
"No no no," Andy insisted,
"His eyes are open. They are like those Uncle Sam wants you eyes that you
always see on those posters. They follow me all over the room. Where ever
I go in the room those eyes are gazing at me." Andy waved his arms emphatically.
"That’s impossible," I asserted.
Andy stood up, propelling
the chair into the wall with a thud. "You don’t believe
me? I’ll prove it! Come by my house tonight, I will show you!"
"Why does it matter to me?"
I asked.
"You sold me the picture!
I want you to see what I got for my five bucks!"
" I don’t know where you
live!"
"34 Holly Southeast. You
know where that is?"
"Yes, but I can’t come tonight.
I have a very important meeting that I cannot miss.
If I lose this account, my job is as good as over."
"Tomorrow then! Are you
free tomorrow?"
I quickly reviewed my mental
appointment book. "Yes," I replied, finding it empty.
"Be there?"
"Yeah, okay, fine," I waved
my hand dismissively, "I’ll be there."
"Great!" Andy clapped his
hands; "I’ll see you then. You’ll see what I’m talking about." He turned
and left the room without another word. I shook my head in mild amusement.
Andrew was a rather rash boy at times. His logical thinking was often overruled
by emotions, as is often the case with people so young. I figured the best
course of action would be to humor him.
I glanced at the clock above
the door, and then returned to my typing. Another hour until my engagement
with my customer, I would have to hurry.
Andrew’s house was a fairly
common ranch style house of the sort that was often built in the 1950s.
It was just kind of nondescript house that no one would notice when passing
through the neighborhood. In fact, I drove right by the house and had to
turn around. When I coasted to a stop in front of Andrew’s house two nights
later, I noted that every light in the house was turn on. I smiled at that.
That boy had really gotten himself worked up. I switched off the car and
climbed out. The front door to the house burst open before I could even
make it up the walk. Andy stepped out and bounded down the steps.
"I’m glad you came," He
said, grasping my hand."
"Yeah," I replied, "It’s
nothing."
"Glad you came," He repeated,
still grasping my hand.
"Forget it," I said, retrieving
my hand.
"Are you hungry? Andy asked
as we entered the house.
"It’s nine o’clock at night.
I’ve already eaten."
"I just thought I’d ask."
Andy shut the door, "To be polite."
"I’m fine. Thanks anyway."
Andrews’s house was in the
exact state that I had always imagines a twenty-year-olds house to in.
Clothing strewn about leaving it anyone’s guess as to what was clean and
what was otherwise. A pillow and blankets lay crumpled on the couch in
front of the TV. An open pizza box sat on the coffee table with a half-eaten
pie inside. I glanced into the kitchen. Dishes where piled high in the
sink, and the trash can were filled to the top with beer cans. I couldn’t
help but wonder
how Andy could have thought that a single painting would improve this
hole.
"Nice place," I stated thrusting
my hands into my pockets.
"What? Oh, sorry about the
mess. I have to sleep on the couch because a rat died in my bedroom."
I grimaced in disgust. "Thanks
for sharing."
Andy scuttled over to the
table and began trying to quickly tidy up.
"Don’t worry about the mess,"
I told him, "Let’s just go have a look at that painting of yours, shall
we?"
"Yeah! Follow me."
Andy led me down a brightly-lit
hallway to a small den. Inside the room, which was considerably cleaner
than the rest of the house, were two reclining easy chairs in one corner.
A tall bookshelf sat against one wall (full of books I was surprised to
see), and on the opposite wall hung our infamous painting. The man in the
portrait had his eyes closed in prayer, just as I had expected him too.
"Sit," Andrew motioned to
one of the chairs. I did.
"Look," I said gesturing
toward the picture, "his eyes are closed. "
"Yes, they are now." Andy
replied, "but they won’t be for long."
"Really."
Andy took a seat in the
other chair. "Do you want to here something kind of weird?" He asked. He
continued without waiting for an answer. "I first noticed the eyes a couple
of days after I bought the painting from you. At first I did not mind them,
but after a week or so of him staring at me…"
"He isn’t staring!" I exclaimed,
waving my hand at the picture "Look at it!"
"He will! He will! Just
let me finish my story. Okay, after a while I grew weary of him staring
at me, so I took it down popped it out of it’s frame and stuffed it into
the trashcan out back. I felt very relieved to be free of those eyes boring
into my head. I slept easy for the first night in a week. In the morning
the garbage collector would take it away."
"You threw away my painting?"
"You kept it in the attic!
I hardly think it means that much to you."
"Okay, You’re right. Go
on."
"Anyway, I was a happy man
until I got up in the morning and discovered, much to my dismay, that the
painting had returned to its place on the wall. It was back in the frame,
like it had never been torn out. You could not tell it had ever been moved."
"Perhaps you didn’t really
throw it out." I suggested, " or perhaps you put it back in your sleep,
or dreamed the whole thing? I have very vivid dreams sometimes."
"No," Andy stated, "no,
I did nothing with it. It just appeared back on the wall."
"Look," I said, "Your haunted
painting hasn’t moved. He is still sitting there praying. I think you are
imagining things."
Andy jumped out of his chair,
"Just wait! He will stop praying. Wait a few more
minutes, you will see!" I pushed myself to my feet. "This is
silly," I said, "I don’t even know why I’m here."
"I don’t know what the stupid
thing is waiting for!" Andy cried, "Wait for a couple more minutes! Come
on!"
"I have to meet a client
in the morning for breakfast. I really ought to be getting
home to bed."
"Ten more minutes?"
"I can’t really. I’m sorry
your painting didn’t cooperate. I really am. Maybe I’ll
come watch it another night."
"Yeah, All right," Andrew’s
replied, obviously disappointed.
"I’ll see you at the office
Monday," I said heading for the door.
"Yeah. See ya."
I climbed into my car, started
it up and headed off down the street. Through the back widow of my car
I noticed the lights in Andy’s house going out one by one. I thought nothing
of it. Andrew did not come to work Monday. I, being very busy attempting
to kiss up to the clients as much as I possibly could, did not notice until
around ten o’clock when I went to the cafeteria for a coffee break. Andy
who normally likes to have coffee with me was no where to be seen.
"Hey, Art!" I called seeing
another of my coworkers who had an office near mine, "Do you know where
Andy is? We usually have coffee together." Art stopped and looked
at me curiously for a moment, "You didn’t hear?" He finally asked.
"Hear what?"
"His house burned down Sunday
night."
I gasped. "How did that
happen?"
"Arson," Arthur replied.
"No. Who would do a thing
like that?"
Art pulled back a chair
in the corner of the lunch room and sat down. "The report I saw on the
news this morning said that the owner did it."
"He would never do a thing
like that!"
"That’s what I thought,
but the report says that he dowsed his own house in gasoline and dropped
a match. Who knows why."
"What happened to Andy?
He didn’t…?" I did not finish the thought.
"Probably not," Arthur replied,
sipping his coffee,
"The garage didn’t burn
down and there was no car in it. They’re pretty sure he is still alive,
but they have no idea where he might be."
"That’s pretty crazy," I
said half to myself. Art chuckled, "You want to hear something really
weird?"
"I guess so."
"This morning on the news
they took a camera into the rubble and you know what they found not burned,
laying there in the middle of all the ashes?" "No," I replied, although
I had a pretty good idea what it was. "They found some old painting
without so such a was scorch mark on it. A picture of an old guy praying.
They’re still trying to figure out how it survived the blaze."
I took a long drink of coffee.
"Let’s," I paused, "Let’s not talk about that anymore." I said.
The End
Copyright 1998 Peter Ravensway
