Sunrise set the riser scampering into his clothes and crossing the hall to the dumbwaiter: Fried eggs, bacon, and toast warmed under a serving dish, along with a piping hot cup of coffee.
In his rush, he had not noticed a new chalk outline was on the floor, which adhered to no nearby object. It tracked into the center of the room and aimed to recreate the elongated contour of a human figure standing next to the bedstead. This was undisputedly traced around a cast shadow, yet this outline would not have aligned itself with the lamplight from the previous evening. Moreover, two individuals were required to execute this drawing: one to pose and the other to trace the poser’s shadow.
For what purpose would a small crowd assemble in his room? And why did their activity not wake him when pebbles thrown at the window did? Were it not for the physical evidence of the flashlight, the reasoner might be easily reconciled to the belief that his entire sleep was the manufacture of a dream.
A desk drawer was opened impulsively. A whit of chalk, barely enough to pinch between finger and thumb, sat in the bottom of it. Its pale violet color matched the tracing in the floor.
A sensible man would have fled at once, but Liam was not of this mind. He returned his dishes to the dumbwaiter and stepped carefully around the mysterious outline in the floor.
Contrary to his friend’s claim, none of the downstairs windows were boarded-up. Sunlight did little to lighten the dejected property, otherwise. The upstairs hallway was peculiarly caliginous, despite an eastern prospect and cloudless morning. It was in consideration of the sun’s position that the visitor realized the house bore no north-facing windows. Where windows were available, drapes paired to them. In places the fabric drooped in the floor due to rods breaking away from their brackets; spiders seized these occasions to weave new curtains in the gaps.
And there was no shortage of curtains. They even hung on walls where no windows were located. They seemed excessive in their precaution against sunlight, as if a reclusive draper was convinced more than one refulgent sun invaded the sky, so sought to cancel out all contrast where shadow alone was desired. Perhaps it was the same sun imprudently overrunning itself, and stringing together days of short life in an otherwise cheerless existence.
Of this verdict Liam did not seek contradiction. Rivulets of dust coursed down these dreary drapes and formed vast tributaries that seemed of a Cambrian age; dread prevented his straying into an allergy trap should he rustle any set of curtains too enthusiastically.
It did not escape his consideration that, perhaps, his late-night visitor may have confused this surfeit of curtains for boards over windows.
The portraitist made his way to the parlor with his materials, where a walnut easel of good workmanship was set up for him. He pondered at his intended subject matter, which was not obvious in the sparsely furnished space. As the easel was locked in place, it, along with a utility lamp affixed to an exposed pipe in the ceiling, pointed to the boarded-up fireplace. A conspicuous bell pull was yanked and this set gears in motion under the mantelshelf.
Planks parted like winged cherubim, and a grotesque platform trundled out over the hearth. When the remains of a black Scottish terrier came to a full stop, the light over its pose came on.
Shock, though only a mild instance of it, discouraged the artist from venturing closer. Overcoming his reluctance, the mummified creature was examined at arm’s length, and then, bending over it, in active pursuit of a collar and tag. In the process his hand brushed the terrier’s spine, which felt like teeth of a serrated knife.
Cold emanated from the body, which was conceivably due to its hiding place beneath in the drafty chimney. It was presumed the proffered model had been dead long enough for a taxidermist to practice his trade on it. Of less vintage was the mechanism for deploying the dog. The workmanship in these panels was recent, as the smell of freshly cut white pine filled the room.
The painter retreated to the chair provided and studied the dog’s tawny glass eyes, which were streaked with sulfur yellow. The animal might have been a treasured pet, but it was doubtful it lived in this house. Still, something in this choice of subject matter sounded a threat, or warning. Fleeing again remained an option, but morbid dread had Liam staying put.
After disposing with his repulsion, the artist began painting from a prepared fine-weave linen canvas. It needed to be fast work to be completed in the timetable demanded. The utility light was sufficient to meet his needs, although he was tempted to tear down one of the window curtains to better illuminate his work area.
He listened to the house while he sketched and applied layers of underpaint. Further into his process, someone was heard calling to him from the wall bearing the fireplace.
It was not certain that Liam had been addressed. Nor was the nature of the address clear, beyond it being either a declarative remark or a plea. The rhythm and intonation of the voice conveyed a level of stress, and ‘hello’ was perhaps one of the few words understood. This individual who supplied the meals kept to the basement, even if the diner knew no door down to it. It was reasonable to suppose that this person was responsible for the cry.
A brief inspection of the flue was all the artist attempted. He returned to his work with an ear tuned to subsequent developments. It was arguably noon before he set down his brush, and two additional hours had produced no other outbursts.
Pulleys inside the same wall engaged, prompting the houseguest to round the corner and trot up the stairs to the dumbwaiter: A hot sandwich awaited him with chips and a bottle of club soda.
Before starting his meal, his tray was searched for clues that might have been left by the meal’s preparer. The napkin seemed a solid opportunity to jot down urgent communication, but nothing was written on it.
Some hours into the afternoon, the painter heard thumping in the wall. It was not in the ordinary way of noisy houses, and occurred at regular intervals along the wall from the bookshelves to the fireplace. Someone appeared to be searching the plasterboard for structural weaknesses.
He stood up from his work and toured the parlor in a show of stretching, casually examining stodgy portraits on this wall. They were crammed together to seize those occasions for exhibition where curtains did not interfere, yet were not evenly spaced. These pictures did not strike the viewer as barnacles of an old house, but rather as unrelated items purchased in an estate sale. They spoke of a slapped-together hodgepodge, intended to spruce up a derelict procured with a month’s rent.
Since a question arose about the timing of his meals, he assumed he was being watched, so looked, with less guardedness, for pinholes in each painting’s coat of varnish. Nothing of this nature was discovered. Invariably he wound his way out of the parlor and back to the entryway closet under the stairs; what he found here perturbed him.
By gravity’s prerogative, the blue sleeping bag should have collapsed to the floor by now, but it had regained some or all of its height. It crackled as Liam stood in front of it, adding a crease to its renewed Sisyphean effort to resolve into a heap.
He jabbed the thing, wishing to dispatch this one nightmarish chapter to its end. His finger met no resistance, and the vinyl bag buckled around his forearm to impart its close atmosphere, which was not dissimilar to the one orbiting the dog.
The bag was shoved back into the closet, and any decision about it was obviated.
What troubled Liam equal to these disturbances was the lack of motion-detection light in the entryway. Being centrally located, this corridor saw little daylight, yet his moving from room to room was insufficient to set it off, though it was perhaps time-activated.
During his next break, the painter expanded his exploration of the downstairs. Two chimneys were recalled buttressing the old house on his arrival, but nothing of a second parlor or fireplace was found in the east-facing rooms. This recommended that the second chimney must have been, like the second front door, plastered over, or was hiding under one of many curtains. This inspired the surveyor to count off paces, but ultimately he reconciled turbulent belief to a house smaller than the one seen from outside.
The day remained overcast, and the sun, huddling among clouds, was stingy with clues as to the hour. Days such as these made is vision grayer. Fuchs Dystrophy shared most of its symptoms with cataracts, as the two afflictions were often paired.
Abruptly the dog wheeled back into its covert and the lamp switched off. The tinkle of a bell accompanied this action, arguably issuing from the pet’s collar, although Liam had failed to note this accessory while making a preliminary sketch of his subject.
The painter dropped his brushes in a pickle jar of odorless turpentine and gathered it was five o’clock. He did not linger over the dumbwaiter with questions, but retired to his room to peck at his dinner.
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