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Alex here with another introduction
ahead of today’s episode this is the
second of our two writing competition
winners as with the first this should be
considered a work of stand-alone fiction
and not part of the Magnus archives
canon that’s all for now we hope you
enjoy the episode
Rustique will presents paint by Melissa
Mason
[Music]
the suitcase sagged on my bed muzzled by
two dull metal latches worn smooth with
age antique yellow and brown roses
curled in a delicate pattern faded to
fraying white at the corners it didn’t
look like a trap i tilted my head but
nothing stirred ominously in the room or
from the darkness outside my window
alone for the weekend my family had long
since departed on the half day trek to
Matt’s swimming competition it was just
me and the empty house and this a
cautious shove revealed no movement from
the case I stared at the note again it’s
sharp
CAPITAL LETTERS frantic and heavy don’t
let it out only four words punctuated by
a pen sized tear in the paper the
slanted script chilled me the who was
obviously a joke
a final twisted gift from my father’s
late sister illness took my dad’s two
other siblings when he was still very
young I suppose that’s why he tried so
hard to include Aunt Sarah in our family
inviting her to every holiday and
birthday party without fail when she
finally deigned to show up spindly and
skittish my aunt’s strange presence
always looked straight out of a dumpster
a bird’s nest made from tangled wire
coat hangers or a painting of spaghetti
noodles accented by neon sponge
meatballs hot glued to the canvas once
she gave my brother a resin sculpture of
a weasel its face blank except for an
embedded set of false human teeth
grinning out from the center my aunt
thought it whimsical Matt suffered from
nightmares so vivid I slept in a chair
in his room for two weeks afterwards
whatever stories dad proclaimed about
Sarah’s youth as a talented amateur
painter the woman I’d known served more
as cautionary warning than beloved
mentor for my own burgeoning interest in
pencil and oil
not exactly the kindred spirit I
desperately longed for in our family of
lawyers and accountants no with Aunt
Sarah as an example my pleas for art
school inevitably met with parental
demands to pursue a real major in
college nearly a year of soul-crushing
business classes later and my aunt Leigh
dead of a heart attack one final gift
remaining to taunt me from beyond the
grave
I flipped open the latches and steeled
myself but nothing sprung out as I threw
back the lid the case held a larger
Blanc of hard styrofoam fit neatly into
a rectangular square in its center lay a
canvas painting and that had a sigh of
relief and examined it bright scarlet
brushstrokes rioted starkly over a white
background no discernible pattern
emerged but glossy beads of paint
scattered in shining arcs and pools like
arterial blood freshly sprayed against a
wall my stomach turned a little at the
thought the style seemed too abstract
and frankly ordinary for Sarah so I
talked to the canvas out for a better
look it felt strangely cool and smooth
against my hands but lifting a heavy
pane of glass up closed and tilted
beneath the light the brushstrokes
appeared more regular in places with
gaps where the pale background peeked
through I scanned the image trying to
piece together my aunt’s intentions near
the bottom of the painting two Halfmoon
shapes caught my eye
they’re white color contrasted so
vividly against the sea of red that I
wondered for a moment if the canvas
contained a hidden light a larger
rounded circle burn to beneath them with
a similar intensity it almost looked
like a face something snapped into place
in my mind in the outline of a head
appeared colored darkening nearly to
black around its edges clawed fingers
stretched above an upturned expression
contorted in rage and anguish but the
rest of its vaguely human body bled away
like ink into the background
angry lines twisted around it I leaned
closer as more details revealed
themselves there weren’t lines at all
but thick interlinking circles chains I
counted eight ropes of heavy-looking
linked sloping upwards their ends sunk
into the side of a cramped room it was
bare except for the bound figure the
chamber tilted upwards in three-quarter
perspective revealing the only way out a
sturdy wooden door topped with a thickly
barred window more chains and locks
dangled from it as my eyes traced the
hallway outside the door
chaotic lines resolved into a jagged
staircase it marched upward above the
chamber and branched into more corridors
and stairs jutting up and out
overlapping like an Asha drawing locked
door stood century above and beneath
each hallway with a final set of
horizontal bars hung near the top of the
painting beams of light filtered through
them drawing my gaze back down to the
imprisoned figure its hate-filled
eyes fixed upwards upon that last
impossible exit
don’t let it out goosebumps rose on my
arms and the shadows outside my window
seemed suddenly a little deeper my aunt
never embodied stability at the best of
times but this reached entirely new
heights was it some kind of
self-portrait the eerie stillness
shattered as my ringtone chimed loudly I
jumped in surprise and scrambled for my
phone
Matt’s number lit up on the display the
sound of my brother’s familiar excited
chatter filled me with such relief that
I eventually told him about Sarah’s gift
he demanded a photo and I obliged
snapped a picture with my phone and
waited nervously while my brother
examined it
the silence stretched on for a few
agonizing minutes before Matt grudgingly
congratulated me for tricking him so
thoroughly no matter how I protested or
described the face
my brother insisted he couldn’t see it
finally I relented and hung up after
wishing him luck with tomorrow’s event
it bothered me Matt couldn’t see the
scene the image looked clear but maybe I
hadn’t zoomed in enough to pick up all
the detail i tilted the painting to take
another photo and froze pale amused eyes
gazed directly at to me the figures head
tilted outward its mouth stretched wide
in a violent eager smile and had there
been eight chains now I counted six
small twisted C shapes littered the
floor like rings ripped apart length by
length
I shoved the canvas back into the
suitcase and slammed it shut her hands
shook so badly it took three tries to
secure the latches I bolted down the
stairs and turned on every light in the
house for hours of television sitcoms
later and I felt much karma and even
more foolish the suitcase went firmly
into the closet and sleep descended at
last
bringing dreams filled with swirling red
lines and searing eyes morning light
barely reached the windowpane when I
woke up anxious and exhausted unable to
resist I hauled the suitcase onto my
desk
the cell in the painting lay empty piles
of chains and splintered wood trailed
over the floor and out onto the hallway
my heart stopped for a moment eyes
frantically following the dizzying path
of broken frames and shattered locks
about halfway up the canvas a pair of
Halfmoon eyes Cloward behind the bars of
a blessedly intact door as the minutes
ticked by I glared back determined to
see the thing move finally it happened
one moment my eyes studied the woodgrain
pattern on the door and the next only
smashed pieces and sawdust remained
frozen in mid-flight the burning face
lead gleefully I jerked back from the
case before fully realizing what I’d
done an armful of art supplies landed on
the floor and hit the desk armed with
turpentine and an old rag I swiped
viciously at the mocking empty eyes but
the cloth slid smoothly across the
surface as though of a polished glass
the image beneath untouched
I stared in disbelief and tried again
scrubbing harder the remnants of another
locked door joined the first panicked I
grabbed a tube of paint and squeezed a
glob of cobalt blue over the canvas to
my great comfort the oily liquid spread
and sank into the surface until a large
stain blotted out half the cell and part
of a staircase scarlet lapped hungrily
at its edges soon scorching the bright
hue into rust I triumphantly dug out a
paint brush and obliterated of the
macabre scene with victorious sweeping
lines relief flooded through me when the
pale eyes disappeared under my fingers I
surveyed my handiwork featureless red
stared back at me no stairs or chains or
sinister faces I stowed the painting and
latched the case maybe it was overkill
to stack the largest volumes from my
bookcase over the lid but better safe
than sorry
as i toted my textbooks down to the
living room the final image of the
figure refused to leave my mind it
wasn’t fear that consumed its expression
but a fierce almost predatory joy the
remainder of the day melted away in
schoolwork and cable-tv he was nearly 6
in the evening when my mom’s number lit
up on my phone display I expected a
cheerful tale of Matt’s athletic
victories with the horse barely
recognizable voice that answered only
managed to stammer out my name before
breaking into sobs
dred seeped into my body and stole my
breath as I waited helplessly for my
mother to recover something cool and wet
touched the back of my hand when my
fingers dug into the arm of the couch I
glanced over to see a small perfectly
round circle of scarlet gleaming against
my skin my mom haltingly continued a
story interrupted by choking gasps they
were at the hospital during Matt’s final
lap of the competition
he suffered a seizure in the pool her
voice sounded very small and far away my
fingers twitched as another red dot
joined the first Matt’s lungs looked
clear but he still struggled to breathe
the doctors didn’t know why but they
were running tests
steady drops now splashed over my hand I
mumbled words until my mother promised
to call me if there was any change of
hung-up unwilling to look at the oily
stain creeping over the ceiling I
normally ascended the stairs to my room
cold muddy liquid soaked into my socks
as I crossed the threshold gripping the
doorframe tightly to keep from slipping
paint smeared across the carpet in wide
bloody lines it thickened near the desk
where a slow cascade of viscous red
dribbled out between broken metal
latches my feet padded over the carpet
squelching wetly into the pool beneath
the desk the suitcase lay bare the book
side so neatly stacked over it now
sprawled on the floor in masses of
stained paper the lid lifted eagerly
under my fingers
two huge empty eyes blazed from the
painting with hellish intensity a gaping
mouth opened beneath them
so wide it seemed to stretch further
than the canvas itself engulfing the
entire lower half in screaming white
glistening ropey red calls ran over the
edge of the case pits of dried paint
clung to them like clammy flecks of skin
my eyes followed the oozing river back
to my clumsy footprints and beyond
running in crimson waves over my
bookshelf to a thin pool of the top a
collection of framed pictures sat there
bottom edges slick one photo stood out
the lower inch bathed in paint it showed
a smiling boy standing by the shoreline
clad in swim trunks and a cheerfully
patterned towel the Sun shone unhindered
on the lake behind him but the water
lapped crimson at my brother’s feet
the thought melted through some of my
shock and I stumbled over to the
bookshelf paint drenched my sleeve as i
wiped frantically at the photo but the
red ties Rose still higher I hugged the
frame uselessly to my chest as despair
filled me I had killed my brother
and Sara warned me not to let it out and
now it had Matt distantly I wondered if
it had claimed her siblings - before she
trapped it what did she expect from me
painting over the scene didn’t work I’d
need a clean canvas anything was worth a
try at this point I dug out a pad of
thick art paper from my bookshelf and
laid it on a clear part of the desk
feverishly I tried to recreate my aunt’s
prison cell in hope for cobalt blue as
the bloody tide of my brothers photo
marked the minutes with aching slowness
the original image took shape rough and
simple I managed to finish it just as
Matt’s
smile drowned in scarlet I spread my
crude copy over the painting and a
ripple ran out from one corner where it
touched the paper smooth flat against
the canvas and the pigment bled read the
scene blurred with an odd sense of depth
that set my teeth on edge liquid poured
through the barred door of the top in
jerky stop-motion animation I looked
back and forth between canvas and framed
photo but no figure appeared in the cell
crimson flowed over my brother’s nose in
desperation I scraped the picture as
hard as I could with the remaining
turpentine ignoring the burn against my
skin a thin strip of glass wiped clean
under my
yes I blinked for a moment and repeated
the gesture another ribbon came away
revealing Matt’s face blessedly free of
malevolent red
I nearly sobbed in relief a glance the
painting showed a familiar figure
crouched in the cell rage plane on its
upturned face I finally managed to clean
the last bit of paint from the frame
when my parents called my brother had
stabilized but they would stay for a few
days for observation I reassured them
I’d be fine on my own
I had work to do anyway the figure broke
through my obstacles quicker than
Sarah’s but I owned a lot of art paper
and started another scene taking more
time with this one setting my alarm to
go off once an hour
I painted through the evening and most
of the following day by the time my
family returned I’d managed to clean up
the house when I quietly told my dad I
switched my major to art he only winced
once and nodded
this episode is distributed by rusty
quill and licensed under a creative
commons
attribution-noncommercial-sharealike 4.0
international license it was written by
Melissa Mason and directed by Alexander
Jane Newell for more information visit
rusty Qualcomm twitter’s at the rusty
quill visit us on Facebook or email us
at male actor Rustique world.com thanks
for listening
[Music]