THE WOMAN IN THE PAINTING

Prick, thought Jon.

     He watched Allan Denim talking to the movers around and Jon felt an instant dislike for the art dealer. He couldn’t put his finger down on a reason- except that he was a-

     Prick. A total prick.

     ‘Where do you want us to put the painting, Mr. Payne?’ Mr. Denim asked. He was a short man with a receding hairline and greying at the temples. A bald patch in the middle was growing more prominent. Steel-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his slightly hooked nose and he was dressed in a faded too-tight khaki suit. Jon put him to be around in his early fifties.

     Dull.

     ‘In here.’ Jon showed them the way. Mr. Denim snapped his fingers at the movers- the two burly men hefted the large rectangular object between them and carried it into the designated area.

     The living room was built in luxurious design. The walls were made of polished mahogany panelling, the furniture comprising of plush red divans, everything lending an antique feel to the room. To complete it, an old-fashioned fireplace lay empty beneath a handsomely carved mantelpiece. The only thing that looked out of place was the bare space above the mantelpiece-

     ‘For where the painting is going,’ Jon said, noticing Denim’s glance. ‘Nice place for it, don’t you think?’

     ‘Certainly.’ Mr. Denim’s eyes lingered on the space, curious, albeit momentary. ‘Shall we put it up, then?’

     ‘Go ahead.’

     The movers removed the protective sheet off the painting. Placing a small step-ladder as close to the empty grate as possible, one mover climbed up and the other lifted up the painting for his partner. Gripping it by the frame tightly, the man on the ladder carefully hung the painting on the single nail knocked in earlier by Jon. Satisfied that it was held securely, the man got down, folded up the step-ladder and the movers left the room.

     For a moment, Jon and Mr. Denim were both silent, staring up at the painting on the wall.

     ‘I take it you’re satisfied with it,’ Mr. Denim asked.

     Jon nodded, unable to take his eyes off the painting.

     ‘It has an interesting history, that.’ Mr. Denim removed his glasses, took out a silk handkerchief and began wiping them with delicate care. ‘Painted in 1721 by Spanish artist, Juan Meraz, an artist most of the world has – regrettably - forgotten today.’ Mr. Denim replaced the glasses back on to his nose. ‘This is his most- what’s the word?- infamous, of his works. The Elena Altamirano. Named after his lover.’

     ‘I’m aware of its history, Mr. Denim,’ Jon said shortly. He faced the art dealer. ‘After all, I am an art collector.’

     ‘I forgot.’ Mr. Denim’s tone said otherwise. ‘I’m guessing you’ve heard the legend behind it, then.’

     A sudden chill ran down Jon’s spine and, unconsciously, his eyes flicked towards the painting. As if it was listening... 

     Jon shook his head, dismissing the idea. Absurd and preposterous. ‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘Nonsense. Whatever you’ve heard- it’s all rumours and rubbish. A painting cannot be haunted. It doesn’t happen even in fairy tales.’

     ‘But the legends, Mr. Payne! And the bloody trail it’s left behind!’ Mr. Denim was working himself into a passionate fervour. ‘You’ve heard of them, you can’t deny that.’ 

     ‘Rumours,’ Jon repeated firmly.

     ‘Is it? Then how do you explain the deaths of every single person who came into possession of this painting?’

     ‘Coincidence,’ Jon said simply. ‘And bad luck.’

     Mr. Denim stared at Jon as though the man was insane. ‘You’re not serious?’

     Jon shrugged. ‘I don’t have a very good sense of humour.’

     ‘My God,’ whispered Mr. Denim. He held up a shaking hand at the painting. ‘Do you know the real story behind this?’

     ‘Mr. Denim-’

     ‘Juan cheated on Elena.’ Mr. Denim didn’t seem to hear Jon. His eyes had taken a glassy, faraway look. ‘He cheated, and when she found out, she cut out her throat with a piece of glass once the man had gone to sleep.’

     Jon couldn’t help wincing. ‘She was insane-’.

     ‘That wasn’t the worst of it,’ Mr. Denim interrupted, ignoring Jon. ‘Elena didn’t just kill herself that night. She took the life of her unborn child with her. Their child. Juan’s. She was five-and-a-half months pregnant.’

     ‘Yes, yes, it’s very tragic,’ Jon said impatiently. ‘But that doesn’t explain why the painting is cursed, which is stupid, in my opinion.

     But Mr. Denim shook his head. ‘Art historians say that Elena was deep into the art of black magic. Her ancestry had gypsy blood- perhaps that explains her interest in it. Before she killed herself, they say she placed a spell on Juan’s painting.’ He paused. ‘She told Juan that for his insult, her portrait would bring about his ruin instead of making him famous. Juan had once claimed that The Elena was his magnum opus. His masterpiece.’ 

     ‘Not making sense here, Mr. Denim.’ The contempt in Jon’s words could be detected beneath the surface. ‘Don’t tell me you believe that the-’ Jon’s voice became high-pitched, mocking, ‘-painting comes to life at night.’ His voice returned to its normal tone. ‘That’s werewolves, old man. And you know what? That’s also a myth.’

     Mr. Denim ignored the jibe. ‘One man survived the night,’ he said. His voice shook slightly. ‘He was bleeding like a stuck pig, and still alive. The housemaid found him in the morning and with his last breath, the man gasped said, “The painting lives”.’ Mr. Denim’s expression was solemn and grave. ‘This confirmed the rumours of the painting’s curse: whoever owned The Elena would rouse the wrath of Elena’s ghost and kill that person. The same way she killed Juan.’

     ‘Fascinating.’

     ‘His throat was scratched out.’ Mr. Denim licked his lips, his throat suddenly hoarse. ‘The coroner himself put it down in the report. The wounds in the man’s neck were caused by long fingernails. A woman’s fingernails.’

     ‘A lunatic who committed suicide and loved to exaggerate,’ Jon said matter-of-factly.

     Mr. Denim could no longer contain himself. ‘Listen to yourself!’ he cried out. ‘You say you know the painting’s history. Do you know how Juan Meraz died?’

     ‘Died in his sleep, didn’t he?’

     ‘In his sleep? Yes. Died? No. Elena’s ghost murdered him.’ Mr. Denim’s voice had started to shake. ‘The painting had come to life and taken his life. And it didn’t stop there. Each time the painting changed hands, every one of its owners died in gruesome conditions within twenty-four hours of acquiring The Elena.’

     Mr. Denim suddenly stopped talking. His eyes were fixated on the painting. His skin had paled and become clammy. Beads of perspiration appeared on his bald pate. Jon watched a drop of sweat roll down from Mr. Denim’s head all the way onto his cheek.

     ‘You okay?’ Jon asked. He was concerned now, not to mention slightly unnerved by the art dealer’s erratic behaviour.

     Mr. Denim muttered something unintelligible in reply.

     ‘I didn’t catch that.’

     ‘Destroy it, Mr. Payne,’ Mr. Denim whispered. The words fell from his mouth in a plea. ‘Destroy the painting.’

     ‘What?’ Jon was shocked. ‘You must be joking! I paid five hundred thousand dollars for it.’

     ‘And how much is your life worth? Mr. Payne, I was the unfortunate man chosen to look after this painting. I won’t hide it from you- I tried to get rid of it many times. Yes, I have,’ he nodded in response to the horrified expression plastered on Jon’s face. ‘But I couldn’t.’ He was trembling as he spoke. ‘I was frightened. I did not want to end up like those unfortunate bastards who’d kept the painting.’

     Mr. Denim pulled out his silk handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his face. He looked like he’d aged several years, a hunted look in his eye. ‘I never kept it in my house, though. Not even in the office, but a nice underground crypt-of-sorts in an unused piece of land- right where it belonged. Not a soul ‘cept for myself knew location of The Elena’s. I told my superiors the painting was safe. I couldn’t damage or destroy it, y’know. Insurance company would’ve descended on my head like a bunch of bloody falcons. But you can.’ Mr. Denim was speaking in earnest. ‘It wouldn’t matter if you destroyed it.’

     ‘What d’you mean, it won’t matter?’ Jon demanded. ‘This- this-’ He jabbed his finger at The Elena, pointing, ‘this is a rare 18^th century-old painting, and you’re actually asking me to wipe it out? You’re insane!’ Jon was breathing hard. He was certain that the man was mental. ‘Please get out of my house.’ 

     Much to Jon’s surprise (though he didn’t show it), Mr. Denim didn’t argue. He carried himself out without a word of protest as Jon showed him out the front door.

     ‘Goodbye, Mr. Denim,’ Jon said forcefully and he shut the door in Mr. Denim’s face.       

*

For several minutes, Allan Denim just stood on Jon’s Payne front step and stared at the door. An expanse of white-painted wood that was blocking his way to

     (death?)

     saving a man’s life. But Mr. Denim knew a stubborn mind when he saw it: Jon Payne did not believe in the stories.

     Mr. Denim sighed. A pitiful sound filled with sorrow and sadness.

     Almost unconsciously, his eyes were drawn to the yellow-and-orange tinged sky. More than half of the sun had disappeared below the horizon.

     The painting comes to life at night.

     Mr. Denim shuddered. He had fought hard to ensure The Elena remained forgotten. He had no desire to see it claim another life. But Jon had somehow discovered of its existence, negotiated a five-figure sum with Allan’s superiors and signed it with ink. The deal was made, hands were shaken and the painting had passed, after nearly ten years, from Allan Denim’s hands to that of the wealthy art collector. If the legends were true (and Allan Denim believed in them), Jonathan Payne was on the fast track to becoming the late Jon Payne.

      Shuddering, unable to take it any more, he turned around and walked slowly to where his vehicle was parked. The movers had gone long ago; their truck was no longer in the driveway. 

     He unlocked the driver’s door. Mr. Denim had no intention of being within a hundred miles of the house where The Elena now resided. A Black Widow spider, having successfully enticed its next meal- a juicy fly having wandered into its unseen web, moving in for the kill-

     When he got into the car, Allan Denim had already made up his mind to hand in his resignation.

*

Jon Payne’s house sat in darkness. It was fifty-five minutes past eleven.

     Somewhere on the ground floor, a clock ticked loudly. The noise echoed hollowly around the house. A heavy silence lay in the air, like a blanket that smothers the very life in the atmosphere.

     Outside on the street, a lorry passed. Its headlights momentarily flooded into the living room, briefly illuminating The Elena by Juan Meraz and throwing it into sharp relief. A beautiful woman seated upon a stool, her hair black and shiny, dressed in a simple white gown that seemed to mould around her voluptuous body. Small hands lay folded in her lap. Lips red and full lips, in a seductive pout. Her eyes… her eyes were black as charcoal, staring with such a piercing expression that it made her seem almost… alive…

     The light passed and the house was plunged into darkness. The painting receded back into the folds of the shadows.

     Silence.

     The clock struck twelve. It started chiming. One… two… three…

     The sound of a car racing up the street, its two pinpricks of headlights growing larger in the window-

     Five… six… seven…

     The car roared past the Payne residence-

     Nine… ten… eleven…

     The living room was lit up for an instant, the yellow-white light falling on The Elena-

     Twelve…

     Only a stool remained against the plain background. The woman had disappeared.

     The light faded, replaced by darkness. A still silence had fallen. Deathly…

     Creak!

     Somebody was climbing the stairs.

     From within the darkness, like little tinkling silver bells came the sound of high-pitched cold laughter, and a figure in white- a woman with features remarkable to those of Elena Altamirano- slipped upstairs into Jon Payne’s room.