The Painting

She stood in the middle of the great living room, looking at the spot where she had found her grandmother, lifeless, only weeks ago. Ironic Grandmama died in this room out of all the rooms, she thought. Her grandmother had been living alone for quite a while, her tiny person lonesome in the fairly large manor that had been passed down to the first-borns of the Harrison family for many generations now. Grandpapa had been the second-born child in his family, but a tragic accident to his brother at a young age made him the heir of the manor, a title he took on with pain but nonetheless with dignity to do right by his brother. Abby never got the chance to meet her grandfather's brother, but she had often visited his empty grave with her grandmother and father.

And now I’m the only Harrison left. She tried to push it away, but the somber thought kept creeping into her mind. Yes, Abby still had family, a lot actually – cousins and aunts from her mom’s side. But she was the last to carry any Harrison blood, the only hope to keep her lineage going.

She had gotten especially close to her grandmother after the passing of her father. Or more like his disappearance many years ago. He had never come back from a trip visiting his mom at this same mansion Abby now stood in. He vanished with no warning, without a trace. Abby grew up with the constant whispers and speculations from the people of her town about the mystery of her father:

Perhaps the stress of being a single father finally got to him.

Maybe he jumped in the lake, like many others who felt trapped in their small town that could no longer offer them anything.

Maybe he met someone and ran away.

He abandoned his little girl…

When the rumors became too much too handle, Abby would leave her aunt’s and look for comfort at her grandmother’s. The older lady would brew a hot pot of tea and they would sit by the fire, recounting the fun and lively stories of her father. Her grandmother would always tell her to ignore those people who would speculate about what happened. Her dad was an amazing man and loved Abby more than anything in the world. Abby never believed that her dad had abandoned her. But that terrified her because that only meant that something terrible must have happened to him. She never stopped thinking about him, she never stopped replaying the thousands of scenarios she believed to have happened to him, she never got closure. There will always be a glimmer of hope he comes back to her…

A tear dropped from Abby’s eye and dripped onto her her sock. She took a deep breath. She had finally gotten the strength to get her grandmother’s things in order but every step she took, everywhere she looked, she was reminded of some beautiful yet painful memory. Her grandmother helping her knit a hat by the fire, she and her dad playing catch indoors and breaking a lamp, her grandmother scolding them for that by starting a pillow fight. Abby tearfully laughed.

She packed that broken lamp in a box of things to keep, grateful her grandmother had kept it. Living in the city, she had no need for this mansion in the countryside and had decided to sell it. She got to work.

Evening fell and Abby found herself instinctively pouring a cup of tea like she had done millions of times before. But everything was different this time. She could only imagine the soothing voice of her grandmama in her ears.

Abby sat on the couch in the now empty living room looking once again at the spot on the floor where her grandmother had passed. With a heavy heart she recalled the moment she had walked in and found her lying there. Abby had thrown all the books she was carrying and ran to her grandmother, burying her head on her chest.

The doctors had said it was a heart attack. Grandmama had been anxious for a very long time. The stress weakened her poor heart. After the passing of her son, she was always extra cautious, always on edge.

Neighbors had started saying she was losing her mind. Grandmama would often sit right where Abby sat drinking her tea. Straight across from the couch was a large painting of a majestic black owl. She would get down on one knee and look up at the painting. Then, she would talk to her son. She would talk as if he were there, right in room. She would talk as if he were the painting. Abby always thought it was sweet and even joined her once or twice. It was Grandmama’s way of coping, of feeling near dad.

Abby just never understood why she chose this painting, out of all the paintings in the house, to remember her dad by. It had been painted by a great great great grandfather so many years back, at a time when the manor was being built. In fact, it was a self-portrait of that ancestor. The beautiful strokes of paint depicted Abby’s great grandfather standing tall and strong, firing an arrow at a very large, magnificent night owl that flew above the trees. The story in the painting was passed down from generation to generation. Abby had heard many times the tale of her great grandfather following the owl’s screeches in the night, determined to catch it with one shoot of his arrow. Skilled archer, her grandfather has always taken pride in showing off his skills to the town.

The owl had swooped down in an attempt to disorient Abby’s grandfather who took his shot, killing the creature in one swift movement, arrow right through the heart. Abby’s grandmother had always said the owl was painted with such fury and anger because their ancestor had taken out the last of the species of this big beautiful owl.

The owl towered over at least a dozen people, painted very small, almost covered by trees, who cowered in fear. Grandmama always said the owl’s anger could be felt in the painting, danger almost came alive in the art.

When she was younger, Abby got the chance to look at each cowering person through a magnifying glass. Each human was drawn with great detail. Some had blood covering their shoulders, others had pierced chests, some were so white they seemed frozen in fear.

That day, her grandmother had run into the room screaming that Abby was too close, too close. She had yanked her back so forcefully Abby tumbled over. She had never seen her grandmother so filled with fear. Once she had calmed down, she explained she didn’t want Abby looking at the gruesome images of those small people dying.

Her whole life, Abby was told to avoid the painting, to stay very far from it. Her grandmother had even placed a large table in front of it so that no one could reach it. Not even the cleaners were allowed near. The old painting hung on the wall and collected dust.

Abby sipped the last of her tea and stood. She got closer to the forbidden painting, the table now removed. She shook her head with a sigh. There was such a thick layer of dust she could barely make out her great-grandfather pointing his bow. Right at her eye level, she observed the fearful villagers. She didn’t really remember them from the last time she had gotten a good look. They formed a line under the trees, hidden in the shadows. Each character was dead, or in fact, dying. Some were drawn in pairs, bows laying at their feet. Some were really young, like the second to last boy painted. He seemed to still be in his teens, balls in a fist, seeming to have succumb after a fight.

Abby squinted. She held her mug with both hands behind her back, unconsciously still following the no touch rule. Something seemed off about the painting. She got this feeling, this eerie feeling she couldn’t quite place. The more she squinted, the more she felt the right side of the painting was less dusty than the left. Her imagination? The light? But there’s no sunlight, it’s nighttime. It made her think of a timeline. Like the painting had slowly been created from left to right, accumulating dust accordingly.

Abby gasped. With a closer look she realised she might actually be right. But how can that be? It’s impossible. No one has touched this painting in decades, maybe centuries. The first little man all the way to the left looked like he was wearing breeches and one of those old-timey hats that had fallen off his head. Move up the line a little and the woman in the center wore a Victorian style dress and pointed a gun as if she were prepared for this. And the second to last young boy was dressed in shorts and a white shirt. What was most curious was the wooden toy plane the boy carried in his hands. There was no way a great great great grandfather could have known and painted that.

Shaking now, Abby leaned in the see the last man. He was wearing jeans and his arms shielded his face from an invisible attack.

Abby froze and couldn’t breathe. There was barely a speck of dust on the last man. She could clearly see his carefully knitted hat.

Abby stumble backwards. The mug fell and shattered to the floor. Abby didn’t know what to do. She thought maybe the stress of the past few weeks had finally gotten to her. She thought maybe the strangeness surrounding this musty painting had finally gotten to her. She thought maybe she was dreaming. I just need to pack and get out of here, she thought. After years of obeying the off-limit rule, she grabbed the painting firmly with both hands.

In an instant she found herself on the floor. Dark fog of the night sky blew off the painting and filled the room. A chilly black tornado spiraled before her eyes. The lights flickered. An outline was forming in the shadows. The air spun and spun but she could see it. The huge wingspan of a bird twice her size. The wings rose from the fog, were being formed from the darkness surrounding her. Two bright orange eyes pierced through the storm. The air got stronger and stronger, and the bird towered over her. Sharp claws the size of her entire leg emerged from the fog. Abby froze in terror. The night owl had come alive and come for vengeance. In one swift movement, with no hesitation, it plunged for Abby, passing its sharp beak right through her heart…

…

“And last but not definitely not least, this is the living room.” The realtor stopped right in front of the couch and waved an arm in demonstration.

“It’s amazing. Really amazing, this house.” The mom acclaimed. Her son wandered towards a large painting on the wall and admired it with his big bright eyes. “Why is that painting still there? The rest of the manor was completely empty?” The mom asked.

“The last owner who was going to sell the place, she disappeared ten years ago before she had time to finish clearing everything out. It’s unfortunate. No one has seen her since.” The realtor looked around in worry. “Not that anything bad happened in this house!” He exclaimed flustered, not wanting to lose a sale.

“Oh I don’t believe haunted houses or curses if you’re worried,” she reassured him.

“phew! We dusted off the painting and kept it here. Could be of good value. It would be yours to keep.”

They walked off to the side to discuss further. The boy, still parked in front of the painting, ran his finger over the last small person of the painting; a young women laying on the shards of a broken mug, bleeding through her heart.