THE ARTIST

Genre: Horror

 

 

 

THE ARTIST

By Randy Romero

 

Nathan Gray did his best to navigate the treacherous, poorly lit road of Old Montauk Highway. And though they called it a highway, it was really just one long road in and out of town. The maximum speed limit was thirty, and for good reason. The road was long, winding, hilly, and full of dangerous curves and sharp, sudden turns. It was like being on a rollercoaster, the road rising and falling, rising and falling with every stretch of pavement.

And if the roads in Montauk weren’t dangerous enough, you had to watch out for the deer constantly running out into the middle of the road. And if it wasn’t the deer, you had to contend with the fog.

And that day, a dense fog had crept in from the bay, slowly enveloping the sleepy hamlet of Montauk. Nathan traveled well below the speed limit as he entered town. He could hardly see a foot in front of him. And there were no stop signs or streetlights on the main road. He was terrified he’d smash up somebody’s car, or God forbid, hit someone trying to cross the street.

There were only three gas stations in town. He strained to see them, but he counted as he passed each one. He knew to make a left on Essex Street, after the third gas station. From there, he followed the road for two straight miles and then turned right on Fairmont. Then another right on South Federal Street. That’s where his Uncle Gordon once resided.

Craig Stillson was already waiting for him in the semi-circular driveway, smoking a cigarette. Nathan parked his red Dodge Dart behind Craig’s white Ford Cobra. The Cobra was from 2003, but it was a collector’s car. Cars were never really Nathan’s thing. All he cared about was getting from point A to point B. He didn’t care how rare the vehicle was, how fast it went, what it looked like. Four wheels and an engine was all he needed.

“This fog is a real bitch,” Craig declared. “I wouldn’t have found the place without my phones GPS. It’s been a long time. I think the last time I was here was the summer of 2002. How’d you fair?”

“I could barely see a thing. I’m lucky I got here in one piece. I’m surprised you beat me here.”

“Well, I do have a two hour head start. You live all the way in the city, I live in Riverhead.”

“You’ve got a point, I suppose.”

“How’s the city treating you?”

“It’s good for making a living. But it’s a lot different than Long Island, I’ll tell you that. This is the first time I drove my car in months. It’s a pain in the ass trying to drive around the city. I keep my car in storage unless I need it. I’m basically dependent on Uber and the subways.”

“Well, you’re not missing much here. If I didn’t have the shop in Riverhead, I wouldn’t left Long Island by now.”

“I passed the movie theater on my through town. It looked different but it was hard to tell with the fog.”

“That’s because they sold it. It’s a place for spin classes now.”

“You’re kidding me. That’s a heartbreaker. I saw my first movie there when I was a little kid.”

“Things are changing around here, Nate. You should see this place in the summertime. It’s worse than the city. It’s a zoo. So many tourists that come and trash the place. No respect.”

“I guess I’m lucky I came in the fall. Are you ready to do this?” Nate asked, jingling his keys.

“Ready, Freddy.”

“Thanks, by the way. Nobody else wanted to help. Not even my family.”

“Ah, don’t mention it. So, how’s life outside of Montauk?”

“It took a while to adjust. But the city has its charms.”

He fumbled with the keys until he figured out which one opened the front door. The door creaked as it blew open and kicked up a cloud of dust.

They passed through the spacious living room, with its retro blue-and-white checkered wallpaper and vintage furniture. The walls were adorned with various paintings, all creations of Gordon Gray himself.

Gordon was a recluse. He disappeared a year ago, but it took months for anybody to notice. Despite his reclusiveness, he was a successful artist up until the time of his disappearance.

His uncle’s painting were different, to say the very least. Nathan’s mom called them unique. His dad called them psychotic. Gordon Gray had talent and skill and grace. But his paintings were dark, shocking, wicked.

Nathan couldn’t help but look at them as they passed by. One painting depicted a scenic picnic, but the background was morbid and depressing. The trees were all rotted and decayed, the sky pitch black, rows of headstones slightly visible in the distance.

Nathan’s favorite was the one of the Merry-Go-Round on fire. It was an oddly beautiful painting. And thankfully his uncle didn’t paint any people in it. He shuddered at the painting of the creepy clown with smeared white makeup and black, rotting teeth.

“I really like this one,” Craig said, admiring a painting aptly titled Shipwrecked. In it, a sea monster with myriad tentacles was devouring a large ship. “Your uncle was a very interesting fellow. Does mental illness run in your family, or was it just him?”

“Uncle Gordon was different to say the least. Now come on, you can check this stuff out later. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”

“Where to?”

“Let’s start in the basement. That’s where most of the clutter is. I brought some empty boxes with me.”

Craig went ahead, but Nathan stopped at the last painting on the wall. For some reason, his uncle called it Genesis. A beast of unimaginable terror. No matter where he stood, it seemed to stare directly at him with its narrow red eyes and jagged, uneven teeth. Its had spikes covering its entire exterior, all varying in size and shape.

There was a story that went along with the painting. Only Nathan couldn’t remember it. A lot of his uncle’s paintings had creepy stories attached to them that he used to scare Nathan and his brother growing up.

Nathan finally tore himself away from the painting and joined Craig in the kitchen. He unlocked the door to the basement. He ran his hand up and down the wall until he found the light switch. Nathan went down first, Craig following behind him.  

“So what’s the story with your uncle? I mean there’s plenty of rumors floating around town. But what do you think really happened to him?”

“Nobody in the family knows. He just disappeared one day. He didn’t call anyone. Didn’t send any letters. He just vanished. But my dad came to check out the house. He said it didn’t look like any of his stuff was missing. You mentioned the summer of 2002. That was the last time I was here too. My parents bought a place out here after that and we moved here full time. And my dad didn’t want me coming over here anymore. The whole family kind of cut my uncle out of my picture. His paintings used to be normal. Sunsets and oceans, bowls of fruit, flowers in vases. But in 2002, everything changed. His work started getting darker and more intense. He sort of lost touch with reality.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“A year or so before he disappeared, he was convinced that his paintings were real, that they had taken on a life of their own.”

“The old life imitates art cliché. Or would that be art imitating life?”

“I think it would be the latter, if he thought what he was painting was real. But that was the last time my dad talked to his brother. Before he disappeared, my dad was thinking about having him involuntarily committed.”

They stumbled around the basement, trying to find room to move among all the clutter. The basement was indeed a mess. His uncle had been a bit of a hoarder. They started sorting through everything, dividing things up. They had one box for photo albums and other sentimental items that Nathan’s family might want to keep or look through.

The other boxes were for junk. How depressing, Nathan thought. When you die somebody just takes your stuff and hauls it off to the dumps or Goodwill.

They spent several hours clearing out the basement. In all that time, they never noticed the door. It blended right in with the wall. Craig finally spotted it when he was moving an old nightstand out of the way. He tried to open it, but the door was locked.

“Is this where your uncle kept the lotion and the basket?”

“Very funny. I have no idea what’s in there. Probably a utility room or storage closet.”

He went through all the keys on the ring, but couldn’t find the one that unlocked the door.

“I guess your uncle didn’t want anyone to see what was in there.”

“Thanks for the help, Craig. I think we should call it a night.”

“Where are you going to crash?”

“Here, I guess. I’ve got some fresh bedsheets and pillows in my car. I can rough it here for a few days until I’m done cleaning the place out. Then it’s the real estate agent’s problem.”

On the way out, they passed Genesis.

“Whoa,” was all Craig could muster at first. Then he added, “That’s pretty fucking metal. Your uncle was one twisted dude. You think he’ll ever turn back up?”

“If he does, it won’t be any time soon.”  

 

 

***

 

 

Nathan barely slept that night. His mind kept going back to the painting, back to Genesis. He wondered what could have possessed his uncle to paint that monstrosity. If the thought wasn’t enough to keep him awake, the noisy pipes in the basement did the trick.

The incessant thumping noise was maddening. If he didn’t know any better, he could swear it wasn’t the pipes at all. He could swear something was pacing back and forth, stomping around down there.

And that made him think about the door and what could possibly be behind it. Why was it locked? What was his uncle hiding?

He tried not to think about it anymore. Just shut his eyes and waited until morning. He knew it would be a few days there, so he came with food and supplies, including coffee. He made a fresh pot and called Craig. But Craig didn’t answer. So he got to cleaning; dusting and sweeping and polishing the furniture, clearing out the bedrooms. By noon, he still hadn’t heard a word back. He was starting to get concerned.

So he called Craig’s mom. He could tell from the muffled sobs on the other end of the phone that it wasn’t good news. Craig was dead. Apparent suicide. He stopped at a bar after he left Nathan, came home late, drunk and disoriented, mumbling something about a painting and a creature that was following him. She found him in his room that morning, hung by his neck. She said he left a note, long and rambling. None of it made any sense. But it implied he was doing it to prevent this creature from getting to him.

Nathan got very quiet. He offered his condolences and ended the call in a hurry. He stared at Genesis and tried his hardest to recall the story behind it. He couldn’t deny the painting was terrifying. But paintings don’t kill people, or drive people to kill themselves. What was it about this painting that scared him so much?

Art imitates life.

He considered, for a moment, the possibility that his uncle was right. That his paintings were real. That were inspired by things he saw, or things only he could see. Maybe that’s what drove him mad. Maybe he was seeing visions.

Nathan stopped himself from thinking too much about it, before he drove himself insane. He called it a day. He had done enough work. And after the news about Craig, he didn’t feel like cleaning. Didn’t feel like doing anything at all.

 

  

***

 

 

Nathan didn’t sleep a wink that night. He couldn’t stop thinking about Craig, about his poor mom. His whole family was devastated. And Nathan couldn’t help but feel responsible.

The pipes were sounding off again, the noise so loud Nathan could feel it inside his skull. It’s just the house, Nathan thought. The house is old. Old houses make strange noises all the time. Old…old?

That word seemed to trigger Nathan’s memory. The stories his uncle used to tell came flooding back. Genesis was a creature that had existed since the beginning of time. It outlasted the dinosaurs, and according to his uncle, it would outlast us too, because Genesis cannot be killed. Genesis can only be contained, locked away. But it cannot be destroyed.

The door in the basement…

But he had to stop himself again. He realized how absurd all this sounded, even inside his own head. The painting was just a painting. Craig’s death was tragic but it had nothing to do with his uncle. And there were no monsters hiding in the basement. And to prove, Nathan decided to put an end to it once and for all. He went down to the basement and sorted through his uncles tools until he found a crowbar. The door was metal but he worked feverishly to pry it open. It took some work, but the door finally gave.

The room was dark and damp. And the smell hit him like a punch to the throat.

He used the light on his phone to inspect the room. It went back farther than he had imagined.

Nothing at first. Then, spots of dried blood on the floor.

Then, he identified the source of that foul, pungent odor.

The body of a man that was likely his uncle, though it was impossible to tell. It had been so many years since he last saw him, and there wasn’t much of his body that remained. Something had been feeding on him for a while, long after he had rotted away.

Trembling, he moved forward. There was only so much of the room that the light on his phone could cover. But he didn’t have to go far to see it.

It lurked in the darkest corner of the room. The creature from his uncle’s painting.

Its narrow red eyes were locked on Nathan. Spikes covered practically every inch of its body. But that wasn’t what scared Nathan the most.

The spikes were moving. Pulsating. As if each spike was its own living, breathing organism. Paralyzed with fear, Nathan couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. He could only think. He thought about his uncle. How his family would never know that he was telling the truth. His paintings were more real than they ever could have imagined.