The Black Painting. Neil Olson

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ think they might be out?”

      “Ilsa maybe.” Audrey stepped from the car and slapped her door closed, startling a crow from a pine tree. “The old guy never goes anywhere.”

      “Have you seen him?” Teresa asked, getting out and following. “I mean, have you been here since...”

      “Since the theft? Maybe twice, but not for years. You?”

      “No,” Teresa said. “Never. I’ve spoken to him on the phone. I thought I might see him at your wedding.”

      “He was invited,” Audrey said. “I think someone told him not to come. Wow, this place has really gone to hell.”

      They stood before the door, which was badly chipped. The whole house had a mournful air about it, though that may have been Teresa’s imagination. And the late September light. Audrey was about to hit the bell when Teresa noticed the door was a few inches ajar.

      “Look. It’s open.”

      They exchanged a quick glance. Then Audrey pushed the heavy door and marched in.

      “Hello? The girls are here—anyone around?”

      Teresa followed her into the front hall, papered in a fading green of leafy vines. A wide, carpeted stairway ascended on the right. The look and even the smell of the place—wood polish and dust—was instantly familiar. Yet like the property outside, it was diminished by time and wear. That magical house of Teresa’s childhood no longer existed. Near the stairs, Audrey was looking at the control panel of what must be a fairly new house alarm. The display read: Disarmed.

      “They must be home or they would have set the alarm,” Audrey said, tightness creeping into her voice. “You look around here, I’ll check upstairs.”

      Teresa started to protest, but could think of no reason why. Then she realized that she did not want to be left alone. Her face flushed with embarrassment, but Audrey was already bounding up the stairs. Get a grip, Teresa said to herself. It’s an old house. Full of sadness and memories, but nothing to be afraid of. You haven’t believed in evil paintings since you were a little girl, and anyway it was stolen. It’s not here anymore.

      It took only a glance into the sitting and dining rooms to confirm they were empty. She went slowly down the hall, glancing at old vases and portraits without seeing them. Dread gripped her. She had shed childish superstitions in college. She took pride in her scientific view of art, of the world. Yet some habits stuck. Such as the belief in her own instinct, which was correct more often than she could explain. And which was telling her right now that there was nothing alive in this house.

      The billiard room was also empty, the table covered in a white tarp. Teresa enjoyed the game, but she was a poor player. Audrey was the pool shark. Hustling Kenny for his summer allowance while James and Teresa played chess in the corner. For a moment, she saw the ghosts of their younger selves scattered around the room. There and gone.

      The corridor to the kitchen beckoned, but she was stopped short by something she had never seen before. The door to her grandfather’s study stood open. In all of Teresa’s time here that door had been a virtual wall. Locked when the old man was not inside, closed even when he was. Always closed. Now, just the glimpse of afternoon light falling across an ornate desk and a blue-and-red oriental carpet, thrilled her with fear and wonder. She took a deep breath and forced herself to walk through the door.

      It was a smaller room than expected, but otherwise exactly as she had envisioned it. Bookcases lined the walls, though there was space enough for one painting directly behind the desk. Did she only imagine the faint square where the cream paint seemed brighter? It had hung there a long time before some brave soul seized it. She looked away, as if even this outline might retain a lethal potency. A set of casement windows let in the mellow autumn light. The fireplace stood like an open black maw. Was that the same iron poker the thieves had used to clout Ilsa, or did Grandpa replace the set?

      On the near wall was a cracked leather sofa, and on it sat a man.

      Not sat, but sprawled, in a position that must surely be uncomfortable. One slipper dangled off the pale left foot. His dressing gown—dusky gold with red Chinese dragons—was badly rumpled. Teresa knew that dressing gown. Indeed, she would have said the man was her grandfather, except for his awful stillness. And the expression of abject terror which twisted his features. The dead blues eyes were fixed on the empty space across the room.

      “Teresa?”

      Audrey’s voice from the back stairs broke the spell. Teresa shuddered with an animal revulsion, then backpedaled. Until she struck a bookcase and fell to her knees. There had been a noise. A deep, guttural moan whose source she could not identify. The man? Had he groaned? Then she understood that she herself had made the noise. She tried to speak, but no words would come.

      “Was that you?” Audrey asked, rushing into the room. “Did you hurt yourself? What is the... Oh. Oh, man.”

      Teresa could not even look at her cousin. As much as she wished to, she could not take her eyes from the hideous gray face.

      “Okay,” said Audrey between deep breaths. “Okay, Teresa? Look at me. Don’t look at him, look at me.”

      She tried to obey, but could not move her head. She could not even close her eyes. She would be looking at that face for the rest of her life. Then something intervened. Audrey’s white T-shirt. Then her face. Those blue eyes. Like their grandfather’s, though bright and full of life.

      “Audie,” Teresa whispered. A frightened four-year-old girl again.

      “I know, sweetheart. It’s all right, let’s get you out of this room. No, don’t.” The voice went from compassion to anger in a moment, or maybe it was only panic. “Don’t you dare have one of your fits right now. Stay with me, Teresa.”

      It was no use. The hard edges of the world fractured into prismatic color. Her senses closed down, and she saw into the heart of the universe. For a bare moment she understood everything. Then a blinding light absorbed her. She felt her body go slack, go liquid, vanish. She gave herself up to the light.

      “Teresa. Teresa.”

       2

      For madness, no one could top Goya. Drunks, murderers, victims of violence. Lunatics beset by demons or witches summoning them. Gods destroying their children. The Spaniard had seen it all, in the war-torn landscape of his country or in his own troubled mind, and captured it on canvas. Including at least one thing he should not have caught.

      Francisco José de Goya. Teresa had known the name always. It was synonymous with fear. She was as easily scared as any sensitive girl who read too much, and the scariest things were those left to your imagination. Her grandfather, usually kind, was stern and absolute in one matter. Stay out of the study. Never go in for any reason. The fear could not be explained away as Teresa grew older because it was so obviously shared by her mother and uncles. They had also known of the painting all their lives, although only the eldest, Philip, had actually seen it. And he never spoke to his brother or sister about what he saw. Of course the old man saw it every day, and he was neither struck dead nor driven mad. There was a trick to it, or there was a type of person able to withstand the portrait’s awful gaze. More than withstand it, but learn and prosper from the contact. This was explained СКАЧАТЬ