Unforgettable. Molly Rice
She unfolded her legs and got up to go to her easel. The studies she’d done were taped along the sides of the tall, studio-style wooden easel. She glanced from study to painting and back again.
All of a sudden she snapped her fingers. “There it is!” She tore the study from the easel and carried it up the ladder. There was no doubt about it, the painting on the wall was slowly changing, no longer a copy of the watercolor sketch. She’d remained true to the colors but added things that weren’t there. Like a gnarled tree alongside the road, and from the highest branch...
“What is that?” She leaned forward, touching thick wet paint. “A rope?” She slid down the ladder, still clutching the watercolor, and bounded across the room to get perspective on the oil painting.
It was a rope! It dangled from the limb, but she had a sense that it was about to be knotted into a noose. And she had put it there.
“Why?” She frowned. “And when?” Her words, spoken aloud, seemed to echo in the quiet studio.
A tremor of fear swept over her skin and she staggered back to the couch.
Had someone come into her studio and played a practical joke? Was she losing her mind? She rubbed her arms and stared at the painting. It had to be one or the other, because she couldn’t remember making those changes.
Suddenly she snatched up the phone and tapped out a number.
“Kelly here,” a male voice answered.
“Millman here, and I don’t think you’re very funny, Jack! I would have thought even you would be too mature to stoop to messing with another artist’s work.”
“Whoa! What’s this all about? Someone’s done something to your work?”
“As if you didn’t know.”
“Wait a minute, Stacy. I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Stacy’s breath went out of her like a balloon deflating, and she realized that she’d actually been praying this was all part of a prank played by one of her friends. Given Jack Kelly’s propensity for practical jokes, he’d been the likeliest suspect.
“You really don’t know, do you?” Her voice had lost its fervor.
“You wanna tell me what’s happened, Stacy?”
She thought about telling him, and realized that it was going to make her sound like she was losing it. She tried forming the words in her mind. Someone or something has been making changes in my painting and I have no memory of doing it myself.
She’d just as soon tell him about the strange dreams she’d been having of late.
“Forget it, Jack, it’s nothing. Really.”
“Come on, Stacy, you didn’t call me up ready to hang me from the nearest tree for nothing.”
Stacy gasped. Had his choice of words been deliberate?
“What does that mean?” she snapped.
“Look, we’re not on the same wavelength today. Maybe you want to hang up and call me back and start over.” His injured tone sounded sincere.
“No, thanks. Sorry I bothered you, Jack.”
She hung up the phone and closed her eyes, taking long, even breaths. When she opened them, the rope and the gnarled tree would be gone and she’d be able to attribute the whole scary thing to exhaustion.
But when she opened her eyes, the changes in the painting were still there. If anything, they seemed brighter, more dominating than before.
She jumped to her feet and snatched up her brush. “I’ll paint them out!” She climbed to the scaffolding, muttering affirmations as she went.
“It’s just one of those things that happen in such a large painting. However they got here, this is my painting. I’m in control, and they’ve got to go.”
She worked feverishly for hours, continuously reminding herself of the goal at the end of the year. Her own show, a chance to move her work and her name into the mainstream. Her pictures hanging in the homes of well-known art collectors and distinguished museums, feature articles on her work in the leading artists magazines.
The sun was just dawning through the windows on the east side of her studio when she stumbled down the ladder and, unable to summon up the strength to go to her bedroom, toppled onto the couch where she fell instantly asleep.
* * *
BETH HARRI made a last check in her compact mirror, tucking a stray blond wisp behind her ear and removing a tinge of lipstick from the corner of her mouth with her little finger. She was just replacing the compact in her Gucci bag when she spied Stacy getting out of a taxi at the curb in front of the garden café.
“It’s about time,” she called over the hedge that lined the sidewalk, “you’re only twenty minutes la...” Her sentence trailed away in a gasp of horror as Stacy turned full face toward her.
Clenching her fists in her lap, she waited until Stacy had seated herself at the table before leaning forward to whisper urgently, “What the hell has happened to you?”
Beth rested one fist on the tabletop, and Stacy placed her hand over it, pleading for Beth to calm down. Stacy’s hand was cold as ice.
“It’s nothing, Beth. I’ve just been working too hard.”
Beth stared at her friend, speechless for a moment. When she found her voice it was hoarse with anxiety.
“You’ve got almost nine months till the show, Stacy. Why would you be pushing yourself to the point of looking like a...”
Stacy’s laugh was a short bark of self-derision. “Like a ghost?”
“Or like you’ve seen one. Have you been sleeping? Eating? You look as though you’ve lost twenty pounds.”
“Eight. No big deal. And yes, I’ve been sleeping. Only...”
“Yes? Only?” When Beth leaned forward she could smell turpentine on Stacy, though for once her friend and client was wearing regular street clothes rather than her usual paint-stained overalls. Her nose twitched at the smell.
She might have commented at the odor but then Stacy’s composure gave way. Her mouth twisted wryly and her eyes widened as if she were seeing some horrific vision. Tears slid from them as though they’d been bottled up just behind the lids and waiting for this very moment to pour forth.
Beth reached into her bag for tissues and handed them across the table to Stacy. “Do you want to go to the ladies’ room?” she asked in a whisper.
Stacy mopped at her eyes and nose and shook her head. “Just give me a minute, Beth. I have so much to tell you and I want to think about how to start.” Her tears seemed to be abating. “How about ordering me a gin and tonic.”
Stacy was in control by the time the waiter brought her drink. After a healthy swallow of it, she began to enlighten Beth as to what had passed in the last few weeks.
“I thought I had painted all of the changes out,” she said, “but when I woke up the next afternoon, not only were they still there, but other things had been added.” She reached for her drink and took another gulp, barely noticing when Beth raised her hand to signal to the waiter for another round.
“Other things?” Beth prompted.
Stacy’s eyes were huge and round. “Another rope alongside the first one, and further into the painting a doll lying on a path and moonlight streaming down onto the path. Th-there was a group of men standing beneath the tree. And Beth...they...they had no faces.” She shuddered and drank from her glass again.
“Wait a minute,” Beth ordered. “Isn’t that painting a day scene as all the others are?”
Stacy’s voice cracked. “Yes. But the moonlight is in the interior