Portrait

The Portrait
By Scot Bloemendaal

"What in the world is this doing here?" Rick muttered. He kept the pine branches bowed, creating a pathway for his companion, Lisa. Her slight form slipped beside Rick, her mouth agape.

"I don't know, but...weird. It looks so old. What a strange, strange house," she said. There was nothing in the trail book describing what the two hikers had discovered: the ancient relic, that strange two-story Victorian mansion cradled within the deep valley.

It was on a single's hike that the intrepid couple had met. Lisa: among the troop of singles weaving along the hillside, tripping over rocks, and tripping through conversations, she was among the band of solitary strangers trying to merge into couples. She had been wearing a pair of tight blue jeans, which immediately caught Rick's eye; but moreover he was ensnared within
her curly blond hair and deep blue eyes. Besides, he had a thing for girls in glasses. Lisa was an accountant, news that had immediately made Rick's heart sag. Thoughts were conjured up of stodgy old ladies, mind-numbingly boring numbers, and a sort of sputtering chicken strut that he assumed, for whatever reason, that all accountants possessed.

Lisa, in short, was a joy. Her blue eyes sparkled when she teased. Her categorically sharp mind astounded Rick's own librarian ways-she even went as far as alphabetizing everything in her purse. But what really piqued his interest (aside from the blue jeans) was her ability to name a Bronco football player when given the jersey number-not just the big names, but the trench players, the linebackers, the holders, the punters, everybody. Her Bronco passion equaled even Rick's fanaticism. From then, things had gone splendidly and now, just two months later, the couple was back among the mountains, back among the ghost towns, and pleasantly lost.

Rick, the bearded and flannel-wearing adventurer, was the first to set foot on and to climb the stairs to the porch. Commonly, the old mining sites were just rotted foundations or great pits of opened earth beside a mound of sulfurous rock tailings. Boilers or pumps, rusting a brilliant red, sometimes accompanied the remains. However, this house was completely different, a creaking anomaly, an oddity that didn't belong in between the trembling pines of the Colorado back country.

Crooked, yellowing columns connected the porch to a sloping roof. The front door was short, threatening the head of anyone above five and a half feet tall, and intricately carved with swirling rivulets. A drooping roof sat atop the two stories, a small section had even caved in.

"Why would someone want to live out in the middle of nowhere? There's not a town for miles. And look, no sort of mining anywhere to support whoever lived here." Lisa said as she stood before the porch.

"Sun's getting way too low hon, maybe we want to hit this one later. We gotta make camp before it gets too dark."

"What? Ranger Rick's chickening out?"

"What are you talking about? You know what hell it's going to be setting up camp in the dark? If we can avoid it, we avoid it."

"We will avoid it," she smiled, "This will only take a sec. Come on, don't be a fraidy cat." She laughed, bounded up the stairs, winked behind her glasses and disappeared through the door.

"Fraidy cat, my ass," he quietly muttered as he followed her, "Let's see how she likes it setting up in the...." The rest was lost beneath his breath.

Darkened shadows danced along the walls; a cold clammy feeling seemed to crawl itself over their spines. A dusty smell of rot permeated the heavy air. The front door slammed shut. Darkness quietly murdered the remaining sunlight. Together they found a quaint foyer whose sullen grey paint was peeling in long, curling strips. This small room opened into a larger dining
room. A rotting staircase, some steps broken and clinging to their supports, spiraled down from the ceiling. Still, the interior's condition was remarkable. Lavishly patterned wallpaper, faded and peeling, still adorned the room, covering the walls in their rich reds, mollifying purples, and sallow, bitter yellows. Remnants of furniture remained: broken tables, the steel-springed
skeletons of sofas, and smashed remains of what could have been chairs. All was silent, except for the footfalls of the two trespassers. Gingerly, the pair of explorers stepped through and, while each marveled, unknowingly separated into different adjoining rooms.

Lisa walked into what might have been a sitting room. Oddly, though, a rusting shovel was set on a small, dusty coffee table. Against the wall the wooden framework of a sofa vainly clutched its coiled and rusty springed innards. Squirrels or mice probably ripped out the upholstery for their nests, she thought. Even bears were known to drag cushions or blankets to their hibernation dens. Something to definitely watch out for, she told herself.

Through the window, the dying sun flickered underneath the horizon and spilled its burning blood across the sky. Lisa, thoughts of bears evaporating, stood briefly to admire. The last of the sunlight lingered through a large glass window, deepening shadows that extended from the furniture remains. Curiosity almost quenched, she turned to leave, but something in the far corner of the room attracted her, drew her in. Hidden within the inky recesses of shadow was a dark stain as if something had pooled across the floor and dripped through the surrounding floorboards. The pool was also smeared towards the door.

Lisa sank to one knee and obeyed the irresistible urge to touch the dark blot. Thick dust and greasy dirt coated her light fingertips. Splinters tugged at her skin before her fingertips fell into a set of three grooves, about an inch apart, grooves that neatly fit her fingernails. She stood up quickly, wondering, grinding the grit between her fingers. Darkness continued to close in about her, trapping her against that grime-covered window. Suddenly, a chill clawed its way up through her stomach. Her fingers tingled and burned. Oil? No, maybe. Maybe something else. Her fingernails slid easily within those grooves, as if someone had purposely clawed into the boards. Blood? Uneasiness continued to grip her. She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, wiped her hands across her jeans, and stepped quickly through the night and back into the hallway. Something
wasn't right. She knew it; she had to get out. She had to find Rick.

Rick stood staring, face pale, beard twisted around one of his fingers. The crooked portrait that clung to the dilapidated wall devoured his attention. Two figures within the portrait looked back through swirled black eyes of paint. A man watched him with deep set, shadowed eyes. But the woman, she looked as if she still breathed, as if there was still life within those red lips. Her cheeks even seemed to blush beneath Rick's staring. An unnerving chill ran up through him, and all at once Rick found himself beneath her eyes. He glanced about the room to avoid the stare. He chuckled a second later when he regained his composure. It was just a painting. Why was he concerned? And why was his face flushed? Still, there was closeness, a sort of electricity, a spark that rattled his heart when his eyes met her long, unblinking stare. So Rick stood, the old dusty floorboards bowing beneath him, and the wallpaper, which had peeled in withered curls down the wall, blanketed the room in its sallow, yellow stain.

"Rick? God, thank God I found you. Everything's so dark. We have to get out of this house. Something doesn't feel right. Something's...something's in the other room. Blood, blood or something. I touched it."

"Lisa, a portrait, a magnificent portrait. Beautiful. Why didn't they take it? Why hasn't anyone taken it?" Rick said. Lisa, agitated, sweat upon her forehead, clutched Rick's arm. "Hold on Lisa, hold on, just stop and look."

"No Rick, now." She scowled and dug her nails into his arm. Eyes never leaving the portrait, Rick brushed her aside with one quick jerk. She huffed, her eyes transfixing him in a murderous glare. She turned to leave but instead hastily regarded the portrait, and those two sets of eyes looked back at her. Immediately, her panic ebbed from her. Her breathing slowed; her face relaxed.

Two figures regarded her with cold, dark eyes. There in the portrait sat a woman upon an ornately carved, high backed chair, her hands clasped in her lap. Scarlet was the color of her dress, which seemed to flow over her slight form. Her brown hair curled above her slim shoulders, and her light hair coiled just above the hand of the tall man who stood besides her. A
clever smile twisted her lips, as if she alone shared in a little joke. The man by her side had stoic, classical features. Raven hair matched his black suit, and if it were not for his stark-white face, he would have almost disappeared from the portrait completely. The contrast gave the appearance that shadows were engulfing him, or he was on the verge of breaking from their
stygian grip. True, he was much older than the olive-toned lady, but he was well aged and established. Striking was his gaze, and striking was his manner. It was if he had carved himself from marble. For some reason, the artist included the dark circles that haunted his intelligent gaze.

"My word, what is this?" Lisa whispered. Rick was silent. She continued, her voice breaking the suffocating silence. "Beautiful. Just beautiful, but...what is something like this doing here?"

"I'm not sure, I'm thinking we should take it with us, don't you think?"

"No, oh no, I don't think that's a good idea."

"But just look at the brush strokes and the composition of the figures," he said as he leaned closer to the painting, "This isn't one of those pictures today where they can just take a photograph and make it look like a painting, you know?" Rick carefully, and very slowly, swept his acute attention over the woman in red. Lisa didn't miss a single stare as she watched his wandering eye. She cleared her throat.

"Yeah, this is a painting alright, and by the looks of it whoever did it sure knew what she was doing."

"Hm?"

"Yeah, look at the attention she paid the man: The thoughtful look, those chiseled features, and look at those eyes. She definitely captured something in those eyes. I bet she was quite fond of this handsome fellow." Lisa glanced back to see Rick's blank reaction and walked briskly out of the room.

"Come on, let's get out of this place. Leave the painting alone." She hollered back, rubbing her hands together. Something black was smearing across her palms, almost extending to her wrists. Eventually, slowly, Rick peeled from the painting, turned and walked out with heavy feet, all the while looking back over his shoulder, watching that portrait.

"Think about taking it, will you?" Rick called after her, she was quickly heading for the door, "I know a great place to put it."

"Yeah," she stopped, "Right above your bed." She was rubbing both of her hands against her jeans.

The two made their way back to the foyer to watch the last glimmers of light fade away into darkness. Rick unslung his backpack and started unpacking.

"What are you doing?" Lisa asked.

"We can't hike anymore tonight. We have to make camp," Rick said.

"If you think I'll be sleeping inside of this house, you're crazy. Am I the only one who thinks that this is just damn creepy? Where's the vandalism? Why aren't any of these windows broken? Or initials carved into the walls and doors? Why hasn't that painting been ripped off that wall?" And with that said, Lisa was gone, and with the slam of the front door Rick was left staring with his pack, a leaning staircase, and a shocked expression. Then, silence, thick as the dust upon the floor, crushed the sound. And Rick was made very aware that he was very alone.

"Wait!" Rick was suddenly beside her. The night was moonless, only needlepoint stars poked through the dark. But he could see her lovely frame within the clearing. Rick flipped on his flashlight, turning its beam on Lisa. "Ok, you're right, we won't stay inside. Here, right here is a nice clearing. We'll make a fire. It'll be nice, real nice." He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her in close. "Besides, we can't hike anymore tonight. We'll be ok. And bright and early tomorrow we'll head off back to the car. Come on, it's just a house, a house."

"And the painting?" She said. Rick stiffened a little, but relaxed as he rubbed her shoulders and caressed her blond hair.

"Forget it. Just forget it." He rubbed his bearded chin against her cheek; a trick that he knew would ease her; and it did. She smiled in the dark, nodded her head. She reached up behind her to stroke his chin. The light of his flashlight caught something. Her nail brushed his chin just before he jerked away.

"Holy crap, what's all that?" He said, on the verge of shouting, but not wanting to alarm her he added softly, "It's all up and down your arm, arms, both of them." He held the light to her arms; she drew back.

"Yeah, yeah I know. I touched something back there in another room. I was going to get some water and wash it off. Looks like I touched more than I thought. For a little while, I thought it was blood. Silly, don't you think?"

"I'll say. And it's almost past your elbows. I'll bet it's just grease, or oil. Blood dries, you know. It doesn't stick around."

"Yeah," she said as she tried wiping it off. Instead the inky substance spread further around her arm. Her brow furrowed with nervousness. "Yeah, grease. I bet you're right. It's even greasy. For a while I really thought it was blood. Just silly of me. Where's the water?" Rick walked past her and started removing items from his backpack.

"Nah, no water. We've got a long hike back. We'll need it tomorrow. It's just a little grime."

"But...look!"

"Nah, it's all the fun of camping. Hey, why don't you go get some firewood?" He handed her another flashlight, then turned his attention to the pack.

She scowled, began to point a finger in protest, but instead pushed up her glasses and stamped into the forest, a circle of fast moving light leading her way. Her mind raced, whipping out a torrent of things to scream and holler at that flannel-wearing buffoon. She stopped though, and breathed deeply. Closing her eyes she imagined that she was a balloon, a nice, big deflating red balloon, just as she was instructed in her stress relief class. Another couple of long breaths and she felt better and even managed to shrug her shoulders and grin. Rick was still going to get it. Lisa began going to the bases of trees, gathering small, dried up pine branches. She was very careful, though, not to stray too far from the camp. She could hear Rick fumbling through the packs, and she fumed and glowered at the sounds, helping her forget about the blackened, towering pines.

She perked her ear. Strange, though, there were no other nightly sounds, no animals, no wind, nothing. Perhaps all the animals were asleep. Perhaps she had scared them away. Lisa shrugged her shoulders and moved further into the forest. The trunks of great pines loomed out of the darkness before her, and spiny shrubs and thistles snagged at her jeans. She had moved too far from camp, Rick had faded away. Or something had made him stop his rummaging. Her heart began to quicken, and she was just about to turn back when she almost tripped over something odd: a ditch, a trough set about four inches into the earth between two dying pines. The air was especially cool at this point, and she stabbed at the trench with her foot, chuckling at the thought of falling into it.

The groove was about five and a half feet long. It looked like the old sunken graves at Central City. She swung the light back and forth through the forest for any other clues but found nothing. Something wasn't right about this. Something deep down inside of her fluttered, and her skin bubbled up into goose bumps. She shivered and took one faltering step backward but
was suddenly bent over in pain-tear-jerking pain. Seizing pain, like that of electric shock, crisscrossed over her body. She tried to scream through the pain, but the breath had been wrenched out of her. Her firewood fell in a heap beside her. Blinded by hot white agony, she sank to one knee. The flashlight slipped out of her hand and fell. All at once, the light went out, and darkness consumed her.

Rick scratched his chin as he set about his task, flashlight in one hand or clenched between his teeth as he feverishly grappled with the tent, the tent stakes, the sleeping bag, the cooking supplies, or anything else that was strapped in their packs. There was something tempting about that house, tempting and terrifying with its untouched glory. He hadn't even seen the upstairs yet. Perhaps that was the bedroom; perhaps that's where that beauty in the painting slept.

Eventually, the camp was set up, and time continued to pass. Still, no sign of Lisa. Between glances at the house, he now turned his attention to the woods where Lisa had disappeared. He thought about calling out; but the night was so still, so suffocatingly silent that he dared not break it. Instead he stood, gripped in his worry. He couldn't bring himself to call out. So he paced. A stick snapped. Rick gasped in surprise. Lisa had returned from the night.

It was not long before they had a crackling little fire. But neither said a word: Rick fearing that Lisa was still mad, and Lisa simply sitting close-lipped with a mystified blank stare. Not a word was said as they watched the shimmering dance of the fire. Rick sat tracing his beard around his chin, thinking of some way to get back into Lisa's good graces when he felt something, that sort of shifting air or the sudden looming feeling of closeness, of someone drawing near. Her slender hand touched his thigh, and he turned to peer into warm, brown eyes. He paused, waiting for her to start yelling. Her glasses were off. She only took her glasses off when she was feeling amorous. He decided not to jinx it. Silence continued, only disrupted by their heated breath and the crackling fire as Rick cupped her chin to bring her eyes into his own, and for an everlasting instant everything else didn't seem to matter, everything else was just a shade. And for a split second, Rick wondered how the light could trick those brilliant blue eyes into turning dark brown. But the flickering shadows cast by the fire had a way of playing tricks. He found that his hand was brushing her hair, revealing her ear and neckline, and hair whose color had deepened
into brunette, almost ebony. But his puzzlement was forgotten when her lips suddenly met his. In an instant, it was gone; and his lips were left yearning for the touch. All he received was a cruel giggle, the wafting breeze that stole her scent, and the abrupt sound of the tent's zipper. Rick opened his eyes and found only cold night air, the zipped up tent, and his sleeping bag, which had been thrown out onto the ground. He sighed, grumbled, and once more turned his attention to the old, Victorian house.

Calm, a saturating quiet, still presided over the house. Rick breathed in the musty odor of mildew and earth as his footsteps echoed over the floorboards. The light from his flashlight zigzagged over dining room. He was just about to head down the hall toward the portrait when the outlaying light from his flashlight touched upon the base of the stairs. The spiral staircase.
Rickety and slanting slightly at a tilt, at first glance he hadn't dared to try them. Now, however, they led to the unexplored portion of the house. He peered up, his flashlight leading the way. The stairway ended at a platform. It looked sturdy enough. Beyond the platform there was only a darkened doorway. What could be up there? The bedroom? Most probably, he thought. But what else could be up there? Treasures? Knickknacks that perhaps she had left behind? Clues about the dark lady? Boyish anticipation raced through him, the kind that once kept him wide-awake on Christmas Eve. Besides, he smiled, it was either this or go back to camp with the ice princess. Plus, after a little investigation, he had the rest of the night to study that beguiling portrait. Quietly killing his nagging caution, he tentatively set his foot upon the first stair and slowly shifted his entire weight upon it. The wood groaned, bowed, but held. So far so good. Step after step, each one held his weight. He felt the staircase start to tilt, start to sway, but he bounded off the last step and onto the platform. The flashlight led the way.

Twilight spilled through a large hole that had been punched through the ceiling; smashed support beams leaned against the floor. Within this long expanse of room, scattered piles of pine needles lay intermingled among the filthy debris of wrecked shingles, mounds of tattered cloth, and unidentifiable, dirt covered rubbish.

A filth-covered bed, still made up in a grimy blue bedspread and bedecked by pillows, was just beyond the hole, and so was spared any real destruction. Beside the bed was a small wooden nightstand. Flashing his light among the piles of filth and up along the edge of rift in the ceiling, Rick carefully stepped toward the bed and nightstand. A rotten floorboard and a misstep could sprain an ankle or create a collapse that would send him spiraling below. Still, the floor felt solid enough. If it wasn't for the amount of dust and dirt, he could've sworn that the bed had been made that very morning. White lace pillows were stacked against the railed headboard. He smiled, trailed his finger over the bedspread and flashed the light over the nightstand - two drawers. He opened both and discovered a small black book, a diary. He sat on the bed and eagerly opened it. Most of the pages had been torn out. What pages were left, he read.

Trip to town went well, and ended up trading for some badly needed supplies: Dried meats, salt, etc. Still, my retirement is still going well, splendidly in fact. I have not missed or longed for the company of my fellows, nor do I miss my companions at the Argo. My personal resources remain substantial. Issabelle remains as radiant as ever. She was quite eager to go to town with me, and I didn't have to bait her with the promise of new dresses, bonnets, or any other sort of frilly femininity. While at town I said some things that I shouldn't have. I was a bit too firm. But she needed to know that I did not like how she acted around other men. Nor do I like how men act around her. What they want is quite clear, and none seem to respect the sanctity of marriage, nor do they respect my position. She needs to remain silent and by my side. Things would be different if I was back in Denver. One thing I do miss.

So it was the man's journal? He flipped, skimmed, nearing the end he read on. Odd, though, the journal was not dated. But the paper was almost brittle to the touch. He carefully flipped through the pages until one near the end caught his eye.

Is it my fault? How could I even let such a delusion enter my mind? I have forgotten that there are some just born with baser instincts. Perhaps her beauty overwhelmed my judgment. Still, I remember. No, it's over. Daniels confirmed what I expected. And it hardly cost me anything, a lot cheaper than if I was to keep her treacherous hide. He saw them together. A sniveling youth. She is lost to me. To confront her, how I long with that. I burn for it. And still, she treats me lovingly, as if I was completely stupid. How can she stroke my cheek and not dissolve into tears when she knows what she has done? What sort of vile creature is this? And how can I continue to let her lie beside me when I know she thinks of another man? A serpentine hatred, cold and enlightening, has coiled itself about me, and I am glad of it. I will confront her when the time is
right. Daniels will continue to watch. When the time is right, I will see them together. I will play her little game, and continue to lavish her. She will drown in her own guilt.

Weeks have past, and still she does not suspect. Whatever made me wake up to her - my suspicions, perhaps a sign from the most merciful God - whatever it is, I am very glad. Serious damage was not done. She still takes her afternoon rides; no doubt she meets Trevor. I've even let her go to town alone. Oh, how this thrilled her! First she was a bit mystified, as if she didn't know what to do. Another clever ploy by my lady. But oh how she was eager to take the wagon and leave me. How a lady would just want to go to town by herself, I don't understand. Understand, she is not a lady. She continues these base mannerisms, not once thinking that she should be accompanied. Perhaps it slipped her mind because dearest Trevor will be waiting for her. I can see through her now. Now it's easy. And I'm waiting. Let her slip up; make her confess her infidelity. She'll grow careless, even more so. Then I'll take it all away from her, put her in the gutter where she belongs. She'll beg for forgiveness, and I'll cast her into the fire.

The game continues! How I revel in her confusion, her perplexed look when I ask her about her adventures in town, or if she has met anyone interesting, anyone that she might want to bring over for an evening. Still, she claims to know not what I talk about. Telling me that she has made friends with the local ladies. Lies. I scorn her touch. Time together has a chill to it, a
vivid silence to it, a tangible feeling of uncomfort that keeps us justly separated. She still asks me what was the matter. Explains that I need my rest. We even had a visit from the doctor. How innocent! Still, she pretends not to know of the game we play. Although I know it very well.

****

Today, they slipped, and I was there to catch them. I returned from getting supplies early today. I told her two days before of my plan, to add a piece of cheese for the mouse. I returned to discover a black horse hitched outside my house. I had known this time would come. A sense of perverse giddiness over took me. My hands shook, with eagerness, with excitement, and a
mammoth smile overtook my lips. I beamed like some sort of jackal. She was easy enough to find, reclining in the sunroom as if nothing was happening. The anguish exploded. I accused her, confronted her. She stood and defied me. She denied it! I rushed out, the horse was gone. Of course, of course he had slipped out when he heard me enter the house. I should have been quieter. But I still had her, and she still stood fuming in the sunroom, mouth open, finger pointed and ready to lay into me. I struck her. Simply put, simply done. I'm not sure when I had grabbed the fire poker, but I struck her. She collapsed, silently. Her blood. I can still see the sight in my mind's eye. Do I feel sorry? Not at all, but was invigorated by the surge of power. My right. My vengeance! How small she looked, how fragile. In one blow, I had ended it all. The cheating, the infidelity, the inhumanity. But not yet. She breathes still. My hit was not solid, but instead glanced. I grabbed her legs. She suddenly awoke by my touch, and began to thrash around with such ferocity that I almost let go. Instead she lapsed into a stupor, babbling incoherently. When she went unconscious, I do not know. I started digging. As it turned out, the result of my labor was exact to my designs, something very similar to a shallow grave. I laid her inside, but kept her neck erect so that I did not bury it. When her body was covered, all that was exposed was her head, which now looks as if it had grown from the ground itself! I stood out there awhile in the twilight admiring what I had done. Now that I think on it, I feel remorse.
To see her like that, her once beautiful hair clotted in blood. I will sleep and think on it. She sleeps even now.

Daniels. I know it now. How deep her treachery goes. My money, my lifelong, hard-earned savings that was to keep me until God takes me, is gone. Vanished. Stolen! Not all, but a sizable sum. I'm not so stupid as to leave it all in one safe. Yet my safe was locked, as it always is, but when I opened it, everything was gone. Besides myself, only on other might know the
combination, Issabelle. Issabelle has had opportunity to observe me working the combination. At least, that's what I thought. This morning, I went to ask dear Issabelle what she thought. Of course she was in the clearing where I had left her. She was even awake. Dazed, a bit confused, but awake. I knelt down and calmly explained what I had discovered. First she pleaded with me. Then lies, telling me how Daniels had befriended her, been her confidant. Daniels did have the opportunity; he was there when I opened the safe to pay for his services in gold. I will seek him out, but not before business is done. She had left me soft. In one final effort she had sought to attack me. But no more. I was hardened. I was myself again. I asked her, a little more forcefully. This time, she showed herself. She cursed me, spat at me, wild eyes, face flushed, head shaking. I turned to leave. Daniels. She said Daniels. Daniels had offered to take her away to California. Said he'd just come upon some money. But she refused him, so she says. Refused him to stay with me, to help and ease my suffering. Those were her words! I started to walk away. Again she pleaded for her life. Save her from what? Herself? I could only laugh! How she screamed when I left her. She screamed and yelled all day beneath that bitterly hot sun. How she screams even now. Screams amid the howls of the coyotes. Daniels too has betrayed me.

****

There the diary ended.

"Oh my God," Rick whispered, "Oh my God. He just left her out there to die? What is this? This can't be true."

"You weren't thinking of leaving without me, were you?" someone said.

He quickly darted the flashlight upward. Lisa stood at the edge of the doorway, a smirk cocked on her lips.

"Lisa, leave? Maybe that's a good idea. Something isn't right here."

"Oh I don't know," Lisa said as she approached, "This place grows on you-"

"No, you were right, we need to leave. Look at this, read this-"

She leaned over as if to kiss, but instead stared deeply with her large dark eyes, "When you've been here as long as I have, you learn to love it," she whispered.

Rick never realized that it was coming, but sat mesmerized by those two large pools of dark. From behind her back she had carried the hatchet from the campsite. The blow, coming from the backside of the hatchet, crashed into the side of his head, spilling him across the bed. Rick groaned, tried to stand up, but couldn't get the room to stop spinning. He tried getting up but
couldn't lift the weight of his head. He saw her looking down at him. A saber-like smile, wicked and gleaming, showed through his spinning world right before blackness swallowed him.

Rick immediately flinched and shut his eyes against the piercing brightness. There was the sudden smell of earth and grass. A dull, throbbing pain pulsed in his head. Something was crawling across his cheek. He instinctively tried brushing it off, but couldn't move his arms or his legs, something heavy, something all-embrassive like wet cement, pressed down on top of
him. He blinked his eyes. Warmth, daylight, he was outside, and his chin was just three inches from the ground. From what he could tell, his body was completely buried in the earth. He was lying down, with his head propped up, so he could've seen his toes if they weren't underground. But he did see, from between little tufts of grass, that his campsite was directly ahead of him and that the house was to his right. Hot breath suddenly spilled over his ear, and a sudden purring voice whispered to him.

"Delicious, isn't it?" Lisa stepped in front of him, and knelt down to get a better look at him, "Nasty bump on the head." She still held the hatchet.

"What the hell are you doing - get me outa here!"

She was upon him. With a fist full of his hair, she wrenched his head back. Black eyes pierced him, her face a wrenched visage of hatred. She smiled in malevolent pleasure at Rick's cries of pain as she yanked his head around. She leaned closer, her clenched teeth just inches away from his nose.

"You come back and ask me that? After what you did? Could you ever forget! You left me. You left me. But now, here I am. And now you've returned to me as an added bonus!"

"Returned to you? What the hell are you talking about Lisa?" Her face floated near his ear again.

"Why don't you tell me: who is Lisa?" She whispered. She continued to kneel in front of him, running her nail up and down his cheek. Rick looked up, a bit perplexed. Amid the winces of pain, he couldn't help but marvel how dark Lisa's fair skin had turned, almost to an olive, how black her eyes now looked, and her glasses were gone. She had a devilish look, a crooked and hungry smile, a razor grin that appeared whenever he grimaced or winced. This wasn't a play of the shadow, this was really Lisa; or rather, it really wasn't Lisa.

"Lisa...what?" He asked.

She produced the hatchet and drug the blade down the middle of Rick's forehead, producing a sliver of blood in its wake.

"If you call me that once more, Bernard, I'll make sure I cut a little deeper next time. Now really, what is this game you wish to play? For someone in your position, you're quite calm. Are you hoping that I be merciful? Surely you can't be thinking that. After you left me here. And not once have I heard you utter a word about affairs, proper manner, or anything about your precious, precious money. This is so unlike you. So then, what are you plotting?" She ran her hand up and down his bearded chin, and her smile diminished into a little cat-grin.

"Oh my God. This can't be. This is impossible."

"Who else could it be? You are so perplexing."

Rick panicked, dread swept through him. He thought to ask what happened to Lisa, but he wisely silenced himself as her hand clenched around the hatchet.

"Hey listen, this has all been some terrible misunderstanding. I'm not whoever you're looking for, Bernard. Really, I'm not. So if you could just let me go, then see, I'm not really Bernard. Really I have no idea what you're talking about, I swear to God."

"Not so calm, not so collected now. No, far from it. I've dreamed about this, yes I have. My thoughts filled with visions, seeing you just as you saw me. You shouldn't have left. I got away. You didn't win. And I will stay and watch, there is no chance of escape for you my beloved husband. I will stay, and I will savor your suffering."

Rick struggled. In one instant he gritted his teeth and summoned all his strength. He saw the ground move around him but just a little. He was buried too deep. But the ground had moved. In her haste, perhaps he wasn't buried deep enough. He couldn't have been out for too long. He couldn't try again, not while she was standing in front of him.

"How can this be happening?" He glanced around, looking for any hope of escape. He wondered, could there be any part of Lisa still in there? She still looked somewhat like Lisa; there was that same slender face. Is she gone forever? Looking at how her appearance had changed, and that maniacal smile on her lips, she might forever be lost. His eyes began to well with tears. Despair sank into his stomach.

No, she could be rescued. He had to believe it. She touched something; he remembered her complaining about it. She could be saved. Focus. First, he had to save himself. His mind began to race. He had seen the ground around him move, he could feel it even now raise and lower when his chest expanded with air. Hope remained. But she remained also, carrying that wicked hatchet. And in sight of that, hope began to glimmer and fade. He sighed as heavy resignation began to weigh down his spirits. A warm liquid trickled down his nose and past the corner of his mouth.

"I can't believe this is happening, how can this be happening?"

"Bernard," she said soothingly, "I know it, I know that's exactly what's racing through your head. You can't believe it at first, and then you start wondering if it's a trick. You think, you ease yourself by saying, 'he'll be back, in just a few hours, he'll come back and he showed that he's serious, who's in charge. There's no possibility that he could be this ruthless. Then the sun sets, and the chill, the cold. And all around you, you can here the little pitter patter, and the rustling of branches all around you," her words slowed as she spoke, and her eyes glazed over in confused memory, "and you hear it all around you, and you can't see them. And the howling, oh God the howling. And then they're there; they take little nips at you when you fall asleep. You don't dare go to sleep. And the sun starts to rise and you can see them, all with their hungry eyes looking at you, waiting for you to die. I did, I did escape didn't I? Here I am...I'm free...but how? Did Daniel return and free me? Why does it seem so long ago? Why is it so hard to remember? It's there, but so distant." She paused. Her face scrunched up in puzzlement. She glanced down at her dirt-covered hands, and kept turning them over and squeezing them into fists.

A sudden surge of thoughts raced through Rick's mind.

"Listen to me," he said, "I was sent by Daniel to free you. Yeah, you've got the wrong guy. Daniel sent me." That broke her wonder struck state, and Rick was once again subject to that cold and malevolent stare.

"No, no, no, I know exactly who you are, Bernard. Bernard, but something's missing."

"But I don't know what you're talking about. You doubted it too. Daniel sent me; he's safe; he wants you to join him. I gotta take you to him."

"Daniel...but didn't he already come back for me? How did I get out? Why can't I remember?"

"I know things are confusing now, but everything will be straightened out. Daniel sent me to help you. Just let me go and I will bring you to him. He'll explain everything."

"No, Bernard. Daniel? Why can't I think. I'm, I'm seeing things, flashes, flashes of Daniel, Bernard, screaming, flashes of teeth. What, what's happening to me?" She stood up, the hatchet clattered to the ground. She held her head gingerly between her hands. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Listen to me, focus on me - on me, nothing else. Look at me, yes, see? Daniel is waiting for you. He's close, he's close right now."

"Daniel?" she whispered.

"Yes, do you remember?"

"He wanted to run away together. I refused him, had to help Bernard. He was sick. Run away from him, and away from this terrible house. All he needed, all we needed...."

"Yes, yes, you're right. He's close now; I can take you to him. Daniel has come back for you," Rick spoke slowly and methodically, trying to keep his lie alive, beads of sweat glistening, "Look at me, you know what you have to do. Let me go. I swear I'll take you to him."

Her face torn in confusion, her tear-filled, inky-black eyes regarded him.

"You will take me to him?"

"Yes, you have my word."

Immediately she fell to her knees, she sunk her hands into the earth and started slowly pawing the dirt off of him. Rick felt the weight lightening. He strained against it. No good. But soon, soon he would be able to free his arm. But she slowed her pace, and that glaze of confusion came over her. She stood.

"No, come back, don't stop!"

"Those eyes. They lick their chops. The sun, the hunger, the maddening thirst; I can still see them coming, all around me. Waiting, always waiting, closer. Struggle...I'd struggle and scream when they got too close. They'd run. But they were always there; they'd always be back. Black eyes always watching me, licking their chops. In the end, it didn't matter how much I screamed. Tearing...ripping...I can see them peeling the...." Wide-eyed horror blanched her face as she touched her face, "Daniel didn't come back. They all left me. Daniel left me."

Rick had already freed one arm, and was busy working on the other. Once freed, he furiously pushed the dirt off of his chest.

"Lisa, come on, snap out of it."

She turned once more, a mad glint and a full-moon smile. With a high-pitched wail, she snatched up the hatchet. A split second feeling shot through Rick: this time, she meant to end it.

Rick was sitting up, the maddened woman almost on top of him. The first blow was clumsily aimed for his head. The handle struck against Rick's forearm, he was spared the blade. What she lacked in aim, she made up for in animalistic ferocity. Blows rained down upon him. He could swivel, but he could barely dodge. The hatchet sunk into his shoulder, cut into his forearms, hammered into his back. He could see the flurry of the weapon, the sheen of the steel. He knew he was bleeding, but not from where nor the severity. But parts of him, mostly his right arm and left shoulder, hurt. She continued her attack, stepping forward to overbear him. In doing so, she moved within Rick's reach. In one desperate move, Rick struck out and connected with something. He couldn't see, blood had run into his eyes. He heard a groan, and heard her topple. The blows stopped. He quickly rubbed his eyes clean. With his squirming, he had helped free his legs. He crawled out of the hole that was to be his grave. Lisa, blond hair turned black, was on one knee. Kneeling there, gasping for air, she hardly looked like a threat, if she hadn't been holding that bloodied hatchet. Rick blindly lashed out with a kick directed at her head and felt it
connect. She lay still, unmoving, save her chest, which rhythmically rose with breath.

Rick, bleary eyed, stumbled his way to the campsite. His head hurt. His shoulder hurt with a stabbing pain. Blood was running into his eyes. He grabbed the kerosene and blankly headed for the house.

Once inside he popped open the container and trailed the liquid through the foyer, around the staircase, and finally into the portrait room. Those dark, and almost living eyes were waiting for him. He sucked in his breath. Forgotten was his pain; everything was forgotten besides the shadowy face of Issabelle. He stood for a moment, lost. Rick traced a solitary finger over her red lips-beautiful, full and red. She wore a clever grin - the kind he had seen when Lisa had glowered over him.

Lisa. He remembered how they had first met, the awkwardness of the moment dispelled as she thrust out her hand and politely introduced herself. How dumbfounded he'd been, and how he'd grown to adore her. With her laugh, she had stolen away his loneliness. He remembered her smile, and how she winked whenever she kidded around. He thought of her dressed only in an Elway jersey. The awful memory of her outside flashed through his mind. It all seemed so surreal. He focused through the numbness that was encasing his mind. That wasn't her. Something else was outside. That may never be her again.

He tightened his hand into a bloodless fist. The bright, pungent smell of kerosene stung his nose. Those cold, dark eyes still stared at him. The container dropped from his hand and sloshed across the floor. In one swift movement he tore the portrait from the wall and smashed it against the floor. A slight breeze, like that of a thousand murmuring whispers, tangled around his jeans and swirled about him. The canvas lay among the splintered frame. He turned to leave but was caught. >From the floor, she continued to lurk. What beauty. How those features caused his heart to flutter. Was that truly her outside? Had she truly wanted to kill him? After all, she herself didn't know what had happened to her. Surely, she didn't know murder. Whatever was outside could not have been this beauty. She was not wicked; this house, this room with its peeling, sallow paper, that man was truly evil.

"No," he said, "It has to end."

Black smoke fed the hungry blue sky. The broken furniture made for excellent timber, and the flames had only slightly lapped the walls and floors before the house was fully consumed and Rick was forced to retreat to the campsite. As the house burned he observed that Lisa's color seemed to almost soften. Her blackened hair faded to fair blond. It was so gradual; so slow was the transformation that doubt began to creep into Rick's memory. Her olive skin and darkened hair could have been a trick of the light. He only saw her in shadow, at night, and in the early morning when daylight was just embers. Still, he had only to glance at his makeshift bandages, remnants of his flannel shirt, to remind himself his ordeal. He sat, barebacked, covered in dried blood, hatchet within easy reach; he sat and waited for any movement from Lisa. She stirred.

"Lisa?" Rick started to rise, face wrenched in concern. Soon he hovered over her, helping her sit up.

"Rick? Rick what happened? Oh my God, my head hurts."

"Lisa, Lisa are you ok?"

"No, my head hurts. Feels like someone kicked me right in the head. What...oh my God, the house is on fire!"

"It's ok, are you ok, really? What do you remember?"

"I remember, I remember going in there. It was dark, and I went into...somewhere. I don't really know. It's gone. I can't remember anything. What happened exactly?" Her breathing increased, quick little breaths. Her face flushed, and the flush spilled down her neck. She was beginning to sweat. She was panicking.

"Lisa, Lisa, take it easy, relax."

"I feel funny, my arms are all tingly. I don't feel good. I don't know what's happened, what's happening."

"Lisa," Rick's eyes filled with tears, "Lisa, relax. Relax, ok? do you hear me? We were in the house exploring. Something happened, I don't know what. But you're ok now. Everything is going to be ok."

"I don't...I don't remember. What happened to your face? You're covered in blood!"

"Just relax. I'll get everything packed up and when you're ready we'll head home. I'll tell you about it later."

He piled the blankets and sleeping bags together to create a fluffy mattress in which to help cradle Lisa. Once she was resting and comfortable, Rick began packing. Piling stuff into his backpack, he was ready to pack up the sleeping bags when his hand brushed across something, something long and rolled like one might roll a poster, and something made of canvas.

"What," he muttered, "how did this get there..."

"Rick?"

"Yes?"

"I can't get this black gunk off my hand."

"Don't worry, we'll take care of that when we get home."

"Rick?"

"Don't worry hon, we've had a couple of really good rains. And there's plenty of dirt around the house, no over hanging trees. We're not going to cause a forest fire."

"Good."

"Rick?"

"Yes?"

"Let's not do this again, ok?"

Rick chuckled, "You got that right."

Helping her up, a pair of glasses were absently crushed beneath his feet. Together, they started on their way home.

The End