The Dreamer

Lloyd Templeton could not remember the drive.

That realization arrived as he stood before a wrought-iron gate at the end of a narrow road, staring at a house he did not recognize.

He remembered receiving the commission.

He remembered locking his studio.

He remembered placing charcoal, paper, and drawing boards into the trunk of his car.

Everything between those moments and standing at the gate seemed missing.

Not forgotten.

Absent.

As though it had never happened.

Lloyd frowned.

The feeling should have bothered him more than it did.

Instead, it drifted away almost immediately.

Beyond the gate, the house waited.

Tall.

Silent.

Dark except for a single light burning somewhere inside.

A folded card in his pocket carried the address.

It matched.

Portrait commission.

Tonight.

No client name.

No phone number.

No instructions.

Just an address.

Before he reached the porch, the front door opened.

A woman stood there.

Gray hair.

Dark dress.

Expressionless.

“Mr. Templeton.”

It was not a question.

“Yes.”

“You've arrived on time.”

“Have I?”

Something about the answer sounded strange even to him.

The woman merely stepped aside.

“Please come in.”

Dust and linseed oil lingered in the entrance hall.

Portraits lined the walls.

Dozens of them.

Perhaps hundreds.

Lloyd slowed.

A young woman gazed from one charcoal drawing.

Something about the eyes felt unfinished.

He looked away.

Looked back.

The eyes appeared complete.

His pulse quickened.

“Who painted these?”

The woman continued walking.

“I don't know.”

The answer felt rehearsed.

The corridor stretched farther than seemed possible.

Every few steps Lloyd became convinced it had grown longer.

Yet when he stopped and looked behind him, the front door appeared only a short distance away.

The geometry refused to settle.

At the end of the hallway stood a pair of wooden doors.

The woman opened them.

“Your client is waiting.”

The room beyond resembled an artist's studio assembled from fragments of memory.

A skylight occupied one corner of the ceiling.

Heavy curtains covered windows along another wall.

Bookshelves climbed toward shadows overhead.

Nothing seemed arranged correctly.

Yet nothing appeared obviously wrong.

At the center of the room stood an easel.

Across from it sat a sleeping man.

A white sheet covered his body.

His hands rested motionless upon the chair.

His head tilted slightly forward.

Lloyd studied him.

A peculiar familiarity stirred.

Not recognition.

Something deeper.

The sensation of having forgotten someone important.

“He's asleep.”

“Yes.”

“Should I come back later?”

“No.”

The woman watched him carefully.

“You must finish before he wakes.”

The words settled into the room.

Lloyd waited.

No explanation followed.

“What happens if he wakes?”

For the first time uncertainty touched the woman's face.

“I don't know.”

The doors closed behind her.

Lloyd found himself alone.

The silence felt unnatural.

No wind.

No distant traffic.

No creaking wood.

Nothing.

Only the soft sound of breathing from the sleeping man.

Lloyd unpacked his materials.

Work helped.

Work always helped.

He positioned the drawing board and began.

The first lines came easily.

The curve of a shoulder.

The suggestion of shadow.

The angle of the head.

Years of practice guided his hand.

Several minutes passed.

Or perhaps hours.

Lloyd could no longer tell.

When he leaned back to examine the sketch, he frowned.

The drawing seemed farther along than he remembered.

Details had appeared.

Subtle details.

Accurate details.

The sort that required careful observation.

Yet he had no memory of creating them.

He shook his head.

Fatigue.

Nothing more.

He resumed working.

A scratching sound drifted through the room.

Charcoal on paper.

Lloyd froze.

The sound stopped.

He listened.

Nothing.

Slowly, he returned to the drawing.

A moment later, the scratching resumed.

Not from the sleeping man.

Not from the hallway.

From somewhere behind him.

Lloyd turned.

No one stood there.

The room remained empty.

Silence snapped back into place.

His hands felt cold.

He focused on the portrait.

Something else had changed.

The subject appeared less defined.

The room itself looked remarkably detailed.

Bookshelves.

Curtains.

The easel.

The chair.

Everything.

Everything except the subject.

The place where the sleeper should have been, seemed strangely incomplete.

Lloyd stared.

Surely it had not looked that way before.

He reached for charcoal.

An answering rasp came from somewhere behind him.

Closer now.

Working when he worked.

Pausing when he paused.

Empty no longer seemed the right word.

It felt occupied.

Hours passed.

Or minutes.

The distinction became meaningless.

The portrait continued changing.

Every corner sharpened into impossible detail.

The sleeper grew increasingly vague.

Lloyd looked toward the chair.

The man remained there.

Breathing softly.

Unmoving.

Yet on the paper his outline seemed to dissolve.

The blank space expanded.

A human-shaped absence.

As though reality itself resisted recording him.

Lloyd stood.

“I think we're finished.”

His own voice sounded distant.

The sleeping man did not respond.

Lloyd moved toward the doors.

He opened them.

Beyond lay another studio.

Identical.

Same easel.

Same chair.

Same sleeping figure.

Lloyd stared.

The doors behind him slammed shut.

When he spun around, he found himself back where he had started.

His drawing board waited on the easel.

The portrait had advanced.

The blank space was larger.

His pulse hammered.

“No.”

He crossed the room.

Another door appeared beside the bookshelves.

He was certain it had not existed before.

He opened it.

A hallway stretched beyond.

Relief surged through him.

Then faded.

Portraits covered the walls.

Every portrait depicted the same room.

The same studio.

The same easel.

The same sleeping figure.

In each drawing, the blank space where the sleeper should have been appeared slightly larger.

The farther down the hallway he walked, the larger it became.

Near the end, the chair stood empty.

The absence remained.

Waiting.

Lloyd turned and ran.

The hallway lengthened.

The portraits multiplied.

Somewhere behind him, countless hands worked paper with frantic urgency.

Not one artist.

Many.

Hundreds.

Drawing.

Recording.

Advancing.

He burst back into the studio.

Or perhaps another version of it.

The distinction no longer mattered.

A mirror hung beside the bookshelves.

Lloyd caught movement inside it.

A figure stood behind an easel.

Drawing.

The artist's face remained hidden.

Lloyd approached.

The reflected artist approached as well.

Charcoal moved rapidly across paper.

The drawing showed Daniel.

Not standing before the mirror.

Standing before the sleeping man.

Daniel's stomach tightened.

The reflected artist lifted the paper.

A second drawing lay beneath it.

Then another.

Then another.

Each depicted the same room.

Each slightly farther ahead.

Lloyd watched with growing horror.

A crack appeared in the ceiling of one drawing.

Moments later the crack appeared overhead.

A stain darkened the floor in another.

Seconds later it appeared beneath his feet.

The drawings were not recording events.

They were causing them.

The reflected artist continued turning pages.

Each image moved farther into the future.

Lloyd saw the sleeping figure shifting beneath the sheet.

Then sitting upright.

Then standing.

The face remained hidden.

The next drawing revealed it.

Lloyd stopped breathing.

The sleeping man was him.

Not a twin.

Not a resemblance.

Himself.

Older.

Waiting.

The certainty struck like a physical blow.

Every impossible detail suddenly aligned.

The familiarity.

The missing memories.

The blank space.

The refusal of the portrait to capture the sleeper.

Lloyd had never been painting another man.

He had been trying to draw himself.

Something vast shifted beneath reality.

The mirror cracked.

A deafening chorus of charcoal erupted throughout the studio.

Hundreds of artists scratching simultaneously.

Walls trembled.

Portraits folded inward.

Bookshelves twisted.

The room collapsed into layers of paper and shadow.

Lloyd stumbled backward.

The sleeping figure rose from the chair.

Its face remained his own.

Its eyes opened.

The world tore apart.

Darkness swallowed everything.

The scratching became unbearable.

Lloyd screamed.

Then opened his eyes.

Relief flooded him.

He had awakened.

He knew it instantly.

The nightmare was over.

Except he could not move.

He could see.

He could think.

But he could not move.

A bright room surrounded him.

People wandered past.

Soft conversations drifted through the air.

A gallery.

Daniel's relief evaporated.

His field of vision remained fixed.

Flat.

Impossibly flat.

Panic surged.

He tried to blink.

Nothing happened.

A small brass plaque hung beneath him.

The angle allowed him to read it.

THE DREAMER

Charcoal on Paper

Artist Unknown

Visitors paused before the portrait.

Studied it.

Moved on.

Hours passed.

Or days.

Lloyd could not tell.

At some point, a woman entered the gallery.

Gray hair.

Dark dress.

The woman from the house.

She stopped before him.

For a long moment she simply looked.

Then she smiled.

Not warmly.

Not cruelly.

With recognition.

Her gaze drifted toward the unfinished corner of the portrait.

She nodded slightly.

As though confirming something.

Then she said:

“It's almost finished.”

The lights dimmed.

Somewhere nearby, charcoal touched paper.

And began to move.