The Canvas Man

Morgan Harrison

The Canvas Man

The sound of a pony and trap grows fainter as his spindly and pale fingers dash about the canvas set out before him, a slight grin turning up the corners of his thin and papery lips. A midnight breeze disturbs the stoic stance of his blood-red curtains. The full moon bathes his dangerously perfect face in light with caressing fingers. Smouldering-red glows in the irises of those normally sea blue eyes; the colour of coals on the brink of death. He turns his head away and his fingers continue their macabre dance across the ivory cotton.

The flame-blackened gas lamp by his side was slowly starting to die, the fuel no longer feeding the hungry fire, whose appetite could never be sated, much like his greed for power. A long-winded sigh blows out of his nose, indicating his impatience for his wicked deed to be done. The crisp December night holds its breath as the final detail is splashed onto the linen sheet. The church bell, not far away, chimes the hour; twelve o’clock and all is not well.

Without much more ado, he flings his rickety stool and paints away and falls to his knees before his much desired masterpiece. Bowing his head, his raven hair falls past his eyes, partly obscuring his perfect night vision. With all silent around his quivering frame, he begins to chant a spell of primal power and a brutal history; “When peril comes, where shall I hide? Deep in the paint, where dreamers reside. How shall I get there, answer me, please? By speaking these words whilst down on your knees. Locked in the canvas, what shall I see? Your pursuers confounded by this mystery. And when they have left empty-handed what then? On these vital words your freedom depends...” His voice trails off as the wind around him picks up, chilling him to the bone yet setting his blood on fire.

A tricky spell in the form of questions and answers, Quilp (for that was indeed his name), has spent the best part of a decade digging it up out of occult libraries that time had forgotten. Light crackles from his fingertips, reaching out for the masterpiece, seeking to cling to the damp paint. The light intensifies with the first touch, almost burning Quilp’s eyes from his sockets. The light latches onto the corners of the canvas and lifts it high into the air. Quilp was lost for words. When the light dies down, the surface of the canvas was no longer solid, but a viscous sea of paint and mystery.

“Could my work be rewarded after all these years of bitterness and sorrow? One could never imagine grasping so much power, but I can and I will take it!” Quilp mutters to himself, the promise of power finally breaking his fragile mind. He calls out to his beloved possession with a voice almost unable to carry his excitement. Quilp quickly finishes his spell. “On these vital words, your freedom depends...release me now, hear my plea; release me from painted misery!” The words come out as a shriek but they were faultless since Quilp had been rehearsing these lines religiously for many months now

Then he came. The very person this entire charade was centred on. Keeping his face hidden from the naked man shivering on the floor, Quilp licks his thin lips eagerly. “Make yourself decent will you?” Quilp snarls, throwing a blanket at him with perhaps more force than necessary. The man nods meekly and wraps the cloak around him, new eyes blinking rapidly. “Peculiar that you came out un-clothed, perhaps I need to investigate.” Quilp taps his lips with his first two fingers in wonder. “But that doesn’t matter now does it? You won’t have long to ponder the question.” Quilp draws a knife from his boot with a sigh. The man cries out and scrambles over to the other side of the room. Quilp follows him at a leisurely pace. His calm demeanour is more horrific than if he was foaming at the mouth and tearing his own hair out like a rabid dog.

Quilp steadies the man and finally shows him his face, lit up by the moonlight. “No!” The man cries out, knowing the true identity of his personal Grim Reaper. Quilp places the knife over the man’s jugular. “Any last words...father?” Speechless, the man can but gawp like a landed fish. “Do not worry father of mine, mother will be spared, that I can assure you. And let us not forget my dear sister. Oh darling Gretelda who always was the more favoured child. Alas, she will not die…tonight.” Closing his eyes, Quilp swiftly sweeps the blade across his father’s throat without hesitation. The scent of hot and meaty blood snaked its way up his nose and tickles the back of his throat.

Quilp’s father, now a doomed man, utters his last word, a word that has inspired terror and has written countless horror tales to be told at bedtime to children who clutch their thin bed sheets as a primitive means of protection. Although barely audible, the birds out in the night hear it and take flight with a savage cry; “Skinwalker.”