Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Found My Father's Paintings. I Don't Like How They Look At Me | Scary Stories

Episode Date: September 19, 2023

You won't believe me.   Story from SirUlrichVonLichten Make sure to check out more of their work at u/SirUlrichVonLichten                            Original Post: I never knew my father was such a good painter. : r/nosleep                                     Original YouTube link: I Found My Father's Paintings. I Don't Like How They Look At Me.             For more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube  Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | Patreon Merch: lighthousehorror.com  Music: Lucas King - YouTube Myuu - YouTube  Incompetech Darren Curtis Music - YouTube  Thank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every day, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

When I walked through the fence door and didn't hear the familiar creaking noise, it was the first moment of unreality I'd felt since returning to Dutchville, Wisconsin. That creaking noise had been a mainstay of my childhood. I'd hear it when I'd run out to play in the road as a kid. It was there when I would run away from home every weekend as a teenager, swearing each time that I'd never come back, but of course each time I did. And that creaking noise greeted me almost sarcastically every time I returned. "'Knew you'd come back,' it almost seemed to say.

"'Let's do this again tomorrow. Same time, yeah?' And it was there when I finally left home at the age of 18. Even as my father was shouting behind me, I could hear the fence door creaking as it slowly shut. "'You sure you mean it this time? I'll be here when you come back. I'll always be here.

Only it wasn't. There were two things I would never hear again. My father shouting, and the fence door creaking. I fixed the door, Mr. DeMille said, coming in behind me. Always told you, Dad, he should get it fixed. Well, with him gone and all, I just sort of took the initiative. And with you planning on selling the home, I figured it couldn't hurt. I hope that's okay.

Edward DeMille lived down the road from my father for about as long as I can remember. He was the closest person around, here on the outskirts of Dutchville, and he was the closest thing my father had as a friend. It was Mr. DeMille who had found my father. Every day, Mr. DeMille would go out for a walk during the early morning, and he'd see my father sitting on the front porch, drinking coffee. Sometimes they would chat, and other times Mr. DeMille would simply wave. But he always saw my father.

And then one day, he didn't. When my father wasn't there the next day or the day after, Mr. DeMille went to the house to see if everything was all right. He found my father sprawled on the kitchen floor. I imagined his coffee cup was shattered around him, like the world's saddest jigsaw puzzle. It'd been a cardiac arrest. I didn't cry when Mr. DeMille called me and told me the news.

I noticed, I said. There was a part of me that wanted to yell at Mr. DeMille, to let him know he had no right to fix the fence door, that its awful creaking noise had belonged to me in some way, had belonged to this terrible home, had been the only constant thing during my childhood, besides how much I'd loathe my father. Instead, I gave him a weak smile. It's okay. Probably better that way, like you said, since I'm selling the place. Standing outside the home with Mr. DeMille, there was a part of me that wanted to turn away. I would tell Mr. DeMille I would stay at a hotel until the funeral.

I would tell him that I should never have come back here, that this was a huge mistake. In fact, to hell with the funeral. I would just turn around and leave that night. But if Mr. DeMille could sense my hesitation, he didn't show it. He slipped his hand into his coat and brought out a key. He put it into the front door, turned it, and we both stepped inside. When you leave, and Mr. DeMille said, handing me the key. Right after the funeral, I said, looking around the home I'd not seen in 14 years. A huge wave of nostalgia washed over me as my eyes looked.

across the foyer. The house looked almost exactly the same as the day I'd left. Smelled the same, too. Although, there was another smell hanging in the air. A kind of pungent, plastic smell. It was coming from down the hallway. Are you really planning on selling the home? Uh-huh. But it was your grandfather's home originally, as you know. Then your father's. He did leave it to you in his will, and it's all paid off, and... Mr. DeMille, I live in work in New Jersey. I interrupted. I don't understand why my father left me this place.

He knew I hated it here. Maybe that's why he did leave it to me. One final F-U. But I don't plan on being here any longer than I need to be. Well, all right, Mr. DeMille said, frowning. What will you do with his paintings? His what? His paintings.

Mr. DeMille repeated. There was a nervous tenor to his voice that I didn't like. You gonna sell those too? He continued. Some of them might be worth something. At my confused expression, Mr. DeMille led me down the hallway. The same hallway I used to play in as a kid. Racing my toy cars, downed on some imaginary speed chase.

That was until my father. halfway on his fourth beer, would yell at me to stop making so much damn noise, and that if I scratched his floor, there'd be hell to pay. Oh, yes, there'd be hell to pay. There were never any scratches, of course. But that didn't stop him from kicking the toy cars, like Godzilla rampaging through a miniature city. All he needed was the lizard suit, and we could have given Toho productions or run for their money. Now, the whole, The whole way was empty of any toys, and as I walked down it with Mr. DeMille, it felt longer than it had when I was a kid.

Much longer. Another moment of unreality washed over me, and I felt like a death row inmate making their final walk to the big chair. For a moment. I almost did turn around and run out of the house. I wish to God I had. We reached the room that used to be my father's den. It was where he'd plop himself down on an ugly brown couch and eat TV dinners while watching

the Brewers or the Packers. One of the few good memories I have with my father was watching the Packers win the Super Bowl against the Patriots. It was one of the few times I remember him being really nice to me. We ate ice cream that night and laughed. One of the worst memories was the next year when the Packers lost the Super Bowl to the Broncos. My father stared at me with such intense hatred that night. You would have thought I was the one who helicoptered into the end zone and not John Elway.

The ugly brown couch was no longer there. Neither was the television. The carpet had been ripped up and replaced with floorboards. Whatever morbid nostalgia I'd felt when I entered the house quickly left my body when I saw what became of my father's den. It was instead replaced. by an even more morbid curiosity. The room was filled canvases.

Some of them were propped up on easels, while others were lined up against the wall in rows. There were some blank canvases here and there, but most of them had been painted on. There were paintings of lighthouses, of mountains, of farm fields, of windows looking into packed restaurants. There were paintings of men, women, and children.

There were dogs and cats and farm animals of every kind. There were vintage cars and towering skyscrapers, crystal blue lakes, and harsh yellow deserts. Some paintings were incredibly vivid and lifelike. Others were abstract and experimental. Some were dense and layered. Others minimalist and sparse. Colorful and bright, muted and gray. There seemed to be every kind of painting. I walked around the easels like a man walking through a dream. He never told you, did he?

Mr. DeMille said. I noticed that Mr. DeMille had barely stepped into the room that had once been my father's den, but had now become a bizarre shrine to color and brush. He hung back by the door, shuffling his feet in a nervous manner, not unlike a child who'd been brought into the principal's office. office and wanted to do nothing more but leave. No, I said. He never did.

I'd only spoken to my father a handful of times since leaving Dutchville. Those conversations had been on the phone, and had always been brief. He never mentioned he'd started painting. My father and art couldn't have been on more opposite ends of the spectrum. Or so I'd thought. I came across a painting of a window cell. The window looked out into a green lush field where a man was riding on horseback. The man on the horse was waving towards the window, as if he could see the person on the other side of the canvas.

I turned towards another painting. This one showed a cheerful group of people sitting at a restaurant table. They were clinking champagne glasses together, and one of them, a man in a green fedora, was staring at the woman across from him with a little. deep affection. He started up a couple years ago, Mr. DeMille said. Wasn't that great at first, but he got real good, real fast. If you're gonna sell the home, you really should consider selling some of these.

There's a guy I know in Milwaukee he could help you with. Mr. DeMille's voice started to fade away, as I noticed something in the back corner of the room. There was a canvas there, but it had been covered by a black cloth. It was the only canvas that had been covered. So black was the cloth, it looked like slick oil. As I approached the canvas, I felt as if every painting in the room had spread apart from me, like the Red Sea. Oh, that one, Mr. DeMille said somewhere, a thousand miles away.

He was still talking about some connection of his in Milwaukee, but his voice had become white noise to me at that point. A pleasant buzzing sound to my ears is all I could focus on was the canvas in the back corner. I pulled at the cloth gently, and it fell off almost immediately, as if it were waiting for an excuse to come off. The cloth coalesced at my feet, and now it really did look like dark oil. The painting was astonishing. It made all the other paintings in the room look like crayon drawings. There was a vivid portrait of a woman on the canvas. She stared back at me with eyes that were deep pools of blue. Her skin was so white, it might as well have been porcelain. And I could have sworn the light in the room

was reflecting off of it, actually reflecting off of it. Her lips were turned in a way, where she could have been smiling or frowning. Her hair was a cozy autumn red. And as I stared at the portrait, I thought I could almost see her hair blowing in the wind. There was a kind of breeze that only existed within the canvas. I could faintly hear wind chimes coming from somewhere behind her. The more I stared at the painting, the more it began to fill my vision, as if it were growing. Or I was shrinking, falling deeper and deeper into it. I felt an icy cold sensation run up my back, and I thought I saw the woman's mouth begin to open.

There, within her half smile, half frown, were the hints of sharp yellow teeth, only just the tips. But they were there. My father really painted this? I asked in a chalky voice. I felt a gasp rising in me that I thought would turn into a scream. If not for the fact that I was starting to feel out of breath. The painting completely covered my vision now. Her mouth was opening wider and wider and the days was broken. When Mr. DeMille's hand touched my shoulder, It was as if I'd been sleeping, and someone just threw a bucket of cold water over me. I stared back at him in shock.

Did you see? I began to say, pointing at the painting. But when I turned back to look at it, it was the normal size again. The woman's hair wasn't blowing in the wind, and her mouth was closed in that not really a smile, not really a frown. There were no wind chimes, of course, only the sound of my heavy breathing. It was just a painting. Mr. DeMille picked the black cloth off the floor and threw it over the painting, like a man extinguishing a fire.

I thought I saw. I thought I heard. I began to say again. But Mr. DeMille put up a silencing hand. In the soft light of the room, I noticed how wrinkled. that hand was. How old Mr. DeMille looked. A far cry from the spry middle-aged man I'd last seen fourteen years ago. He looked so very tired. Another expression came over his face. It was one of deep sympathy. And an understanding was shared between us during that brief moment,

one that seemed to say, I may or may not know what you saw. Maybe I saw. Maybe I saw it. at once too. But I'm sure as hell not gonna talk about it. Not here at least. The look came and went. Then his eyes became dark and hooded over. Your father was a really good painter. I'd sell these paintings as soon as you can. Through the living room window, I watched as Mr. DeMille walk down the front lawn and even winced when he walked through the fence door and, and he went through the fence door, And I didn't hear the creaking noise. Even in the house this far back from the fence, I would still have been able to hear it. In the old days at least.

But this isn't the old days anymore, is it? I thought to myself. Wasn't that a good thing? I continued to watch as Mr. DeMille shuffled down the road, and eventually he was out of sight. I fingered the piece of paper in my pocket. On it was a number for a man that Mr. DeMille claimed. could help me with selling the paintings. Some kind of art financier in Milwaukee by the name of Charles Buck. I was considering calling Mr. Buck right then and there, but it had been a long

day of traveling. I suddenly felt exhausted. Already, the experience with a painting was fading away to something more rational. I was tired from a day of traveling. I was a little shaken from being back in my childhood home, and I was shocked at discovering my father's secret hobby. Those factors combined caused me to have a brief hallucinatory spell when staring at the painting of the woman. That was all. Completely explainable. Totally rational.

But then why did Mr. DeMille cover it so quickly? Why did he look so scared? Why did he... Already the sun was dipping below the horizon, and dark inky shadows began to fill the corners of the living room. I'm going to sleep now, I said out loud to the shadows. Somehow I'd reverted to a defense mechanism I had as a kid. Back then, whenever I was lying on my bed, afraid that some monster was waiting underneath.

I would say to the room out loud, I'm going to put my foot over the edge of the bed, thinking that if I said it out loud, the monster wouldn't reach up and grab me. It couldn't grab me. That was against the rules. As long as I said it out loud, but if I didn't, God, I really am tired, I said again. Out loud. I turned away from the window and made my way up the stairs. I didn't take a second to glance down the hallway. I didn't want to think of the den that waited on the other end of it. I originally thought of sleeping in my father's room, since he had the larger bed. But the thought of sleeping in that bed that he drunkenly shambled onto every night made my skin crawl. I walked into my bedroom that I'd not seen in 14 years.

Whatever nostalgia I should have felt when entering my childhood room had been thoroughly drained from my body. I collapsed under the bed. and almost immediately fell asleep. But not before I whispered something to the room. I'm putting my foot over the edge of the bed. I awoke to the sound of conversation. A quick glance at my phone showed me it was 302 in the morning. I didn't believe what I was hearing at first.

I thought maybe it was the pipes in the walls. Sometimes pipes and water have a way of making noise that sounds something like a person talking, at least when your head's against a pillow. But when I perked my head up, I was sure of it. There were people downstairs, and they were talking. Loudly. I made my way down, conscious of every creek the stairs made. The sound of conversing grew louder. I could hear silverware clacking against plates. They were eating food. The noise was coming from the end of the hallway, from my father's den, but then why weren't the lights on?

Who eats in total darkness? Another wave of unreality, this time mixed with panic-stricken fear. Who's there? I said down the hallway. Laughter came from the den. It echoed down the hallway towards me, like a burst of human. humid air. It was the kind of high-pitched, contagious laughter that comes from you after hearing a particularly good joke. It didn't even sound directed at me. Again, I heard the sound of

silverware clacking against plates, and the sound of food being chewed and savored slowly. I heard the unmistakable sound of liquid being guzzled down, parched throats. All this I heard, in between loud and joyous conversation. It sounded like a restaurant in there. I said, who's there? Show yourself. I shouted again. And again, I was met with laughter and conversation that ignored me. I was afraid, but also becoming angry at being so thoroughly ignored in my own home. Except this isn't your home anymore, I thought. I should have taken my phone out and dialed 911, but panic mixed with muscle memory from ages past took over.

I slowly made my way down the long hallway and opened the closet that was nestled halfway down. I was worried that it wouldn't be there. Afraid my father might have thrown it away. But it was still there. Even after all these years, My baseball bat. My Excalibur.

I hadn't played Little League for very long, but as I got older and the fights with my father worsened, that baseball bat sat in the hallway closet like a promise waiting to be fulfilled. The creaking noise of the fence didn't fulfill its promise of being here after all these years. But at least the bat did. I pulled the bat out like Arthur pulling. sword from stone and rushed into the den yelling, I'm coming in! When I flipped the light on, I was met with total silence.

It was as if the conversation I'd been hearing before was playing on a track that suddenly shut off. There was nobody in the den. There were only my father's paintings. I stared into the den, my mouth slack-jawed, for what felt like in eternity. I know I heard people in there. I stupidly looked under the easels and moved some of the canvases aside, as if anyone could hide behind them, let alone an entire group of people.

There were no plates of food or silverware to be found either. The room was empty, but for the paintings and myself. The house was now in total silence. I was already starting to rationalize the situation in my head as I did. done earlier. Then I saw it. It was the painting I'd seen earlier that day, the one with the people in the restaurant. At first, I wasn't sure what bothered me about the painting. And then I realized something horrifying. Everything about the painting had changed. For one, the plates no longer had as much food on them. Their champagne glasses were now empty, and they were no

longer clinking them together. The people sitting at the table had satisfied looks on their faces. The look one has, after eating a particularly great meal. The worst was the man in the green fedora. He was no longer looking at the woman across from him. He was looking at me. A frozen smile on his face. One month later, I was sitting in a son. small cafe in Dutchville. As I twirled a stirring stick in my coffee, I noticed my reflection on the surface of a napkin dispenser. I was not shocked to see how tired I looked. Not sleeping well will do that to a person. What did shock me was how pale and gaunt I'd become. Pale didn't really describe it. My skin had turned as white as a brand new canvas, and my cheekbone

stuck out like the hard corners of an easel. My hair was bristled like a brush. I barely recognized the person that stared back at me, and I noticed with some irony reflected onto the square metallic surface. I looked somewhat like an abstract painting my father might have made. Since the night I'd heard the restaurant goers, hearing noises coming from my father's den, had become a nightly occurrence. It wasn't always the restaurant people. Oh, far from it. All my father's paintings seemed to come to life at night. Sometimes I would hear the sound of a horse-naying as it was being broken in, or cars making their commute through traffic, beeping and honking, or a rushing waterfall pouring itself onto sharp rocks that existed just outside the canvas frame.

Then there were the portraits. I would usually wake up to the sound of a person screaming. Is anyone there? Hello. Hello. I know you're up there. I know you can hear me. Come down here.

Please help me. I'm stuck in here. I'm stuck. Come down here. Come down here right now. Sometimes the portraits would say, simply cry or laugh the entire night. When I'd come down the next morning, their expression was almost always different from what they'd been the day before. Any attempt to record these noises with

my phone would simply result in white noise being played back. When I took a picture of one of the paintings with my phone, the image shown back was always the original composition of the painting, even if I took the picture after it had changed. The worst noise, though, the one that caused me to break out in goose flesh without fail was the sound of wind chimes. When the woman behind the black cloth stirred, all the other paintings went silent.

You would think that after the first night I would have left Dutchville. But a strange thing occurred within me. I dug in, I dug in hard, almost stubbornly. I think because a part of me still wanted to believe that none of it was real, that if I left the house screaming in terror, wearing nothing but my boxer briefs, that somehow the house would win, that he would win. So I stayed. Even after my father's funeral, which had been a paltry affair,

Mr. DeMille had not showed up to the funeral, and when I went to his home to inquire, a kind woman answered the door. She said she was his caretaker, told me that he suffered a stroke just days after our meeting, and had been moved to a hospital in Madison. I don't know what he was talking about, the caretaker said, as I was about to leave Mr. DeMille's house. Beg your pardon? I asked. For months, Edward's been telling me he's been having trouble sleeping. Something about wind chimes, but he doesn't have any. I looked at your house when I went past this morning. You don't have any either, she said. Charles Buck walked into the cafe, right as I was taking a big gulp of my coffee.

He was shorter than I was expecting. He wore a fine three-piece suit that seemed to clash with the quaintness of the small cafe. He had close-set eyes, framed by thick black glasses, and it gave his face the appearance of a hawk. I waved him over to the booth. First, let me say I'm truly sorry for your loss. Edward told me a lot about your father. Had even put me in touch with him once or twice, but I could never convince him to work with me. Naturally, I was beyond excited when you reached out. Yeah, Mr. DeMills in the hospital, I replied. Yes, it's truly terrible, the art financier said, pouring three packets of sugar into his coffee.

Then for good measure, he added a squirt of honey. He started with his finger and then licked his finger when he was through. He took a sick and then gave a satisfied ah noise. But let's not focus on such bad. had tidings. Edward is a strong fellow, and despite the circumstances that have led us here, this is a moment of celebration. Your father was a remarkably gifted man. His work should be shared with the world. And from what I understand, he started so late in life. What did you think when he first told you about his artistic endeavors?

He never told me, I said. Thinking of that day I first saw the paintings. How enigmatic, Charles Buck said. And he tittered in the cafe booth, like a child who just found out he's receiving an extra gift on his birthday. A secret artist, hiding his work even from his only son. How utterly romantic! They'll eat this up in New York.

Positively eat it up. If you say so, I said. Charles Buck took another satisfied sip of his coffee. Now let's get down to brass tags here. Based on the photos you sent me, I think I've come up with a fair prize for what it might all be. You can just take them, I interrupted. What followed? was a brief moment of silence, where the only noise was the sound of the barista's hard at work

behind the cafe counter. Then, Charles Buck let out a high-pitched laugh. Oh, come on, let's be serious here. I am being serious. You can just take them, I said. The smile slowly drooped away from Charles Buck's face and turned into a confused frown. I must admit I'm confused. You want nothing for them? You're just going to give them to me. Just like that. It wasn't my first choice.

After much thought, I'd come to the conclusion that I should destroy the paintings. If I was going to sell the home, the paintings would have to go. My first thought was fire. Yet any time I lit a match in front of the paintings, a cold breath of the paintings. a cold breath of air would shoot out from the canvas and extinguish the flame, when I eventually got a fire going in the fireplace, and I threw one of the paintings in. The fabric didn't burn, and I watched in horror as the flames slowly died out, as if the canvas was consuming the flame, and not the other way around.

Then I tried tearing the paintings with a knife, but no matter how sharp, up the blade. It would never cut the canvas. It was as if the soft fabric would suddenly turn into hard concrete right as the blade made contact. I'd attempted to throw them away, but when I tried to carry the paintings out of the house, they suddenly felt as if they weighed 500 pounds. I couldn't lift them past the front door. I came to understand that the paintings could not be destroyed, would not allow themselves to be destroyed, nor would they allow themselves to be thrown out onto the curb. But maybe they could be given away. Perhaps they would allow themselves to be carried if they knew they were being taken to a new home, a new den to come alive in at night.

I thought of the painting sitting in some art gallery in Milwaukee or New York. thought of some custodian going about his work after hours, when suddenly he would hear wind chimes coming from the new exhibit, the custodian would think. That's odd and investigate. What would he see? What would become of him? The idea of making money off these paintings made my stomach churn, but they needed to go. So I decided to simply give them away. Just like that, I said, "'What's the catch?' Charles Buck asked. And now it was his turn to speak flatly.

He looked me over with his hawkish eyes. "'There is none,' I said. "'There's always a catch. I've worked in this business long enough to know that.' Another silence broke out between us. Now the only sound was the pitter-patter of rain that was beginning to fall outside. I looked out the cafe window

and saw purple thunder clouds overhead. Mr. Buck, I began. Charles, please. Okay, Charles. You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Try me, Charles Buck said, spreading his hands in a dramatic manner. Okay, well, I said,

embarrassed at how to approach. approach this. Have you... Have you ever heard of paintings making noises? Once. His response was so immediate. It shocked me. So much so that my hand jerked and almost caused my coffee to spill on the table. I studied it just in time. There had been no hesitation in his response and not a hint of mock bravado. He'd sounded completely sincere. The art finally Nansir met my gaze. And for now, the hawkish look had left his face. It was replaced with a more solemn look. And perhaps there was something else in his eyes, too. Something that looked a lot like fear. A couple of years ago, a woman in La Crosse reached out to me. Her husband had fought in the

war in the Middle East. He'd become good friends with the men in his unit. A lot of them died over there. When he returned home, he suffered terribly from post-traumatic stress disorder. You're familiar with PTSD? He asked. I am. I mean, I guess I am. She says that they tried everything to help him overcome his PTSD, he continued. Therapy, group counseling, etc. And then, after a recommendation from a fellow soldier, he took up painting. He was very good. Not as good as your father, but pretty darn good, especially at portraits.

He liked to paint his friends who died overseas. Outside, the rain was falling even harder. I took a quick glance and saw that the purple thunder clouds had moved quickly over us. The clouds were bulbous and, disgusting to look at. She had no problem with us, of course. He continued, as it was helping him. I mean, genuinely helping him. Since he'd started painting, he'd begun to seem happier, more like his old self. He wouldn't wake up screaming every night at least. It didn't even bother her when he began to talk to the paintings. He'd tell them how he was doing, how much he missed them. How much he missed

them. She saw this as another form of therapy. No, no, what did bother her is one night she woke up to find that her husband wasn't in bed next to her. She crept downstairs and found him in his little studio, conversing with the paintings. She was going to head back upstairs when she heard paintings talk back. Lightning flashed outside. turning everything for a brief moment into a white canvas. At first, she thought he was the one speaking for them, putting on a voice, you could say. Although if it was an impersonation he was doing, it was eerily good.

But when she looked, she saw his mouth wasn't moving. The paintings were facing away from her, so she couldn't see them, but she heard them. She heard her husband's old army unit talking with him, like they hadn't been blown to pieces overseas, as if they'd just come over for a nightcap and to talk about old times. At least that's what she told me when she called and asked me to take the paintings for. What did you do? I asked.

Well, naturally, I took them and I sold them. The hawkish look returned to his face. But what happened to the woman? I asked. And her husband? Oh, I don't know. I didn't follow up. Charles Buck said, with a bite to his voice.

She didn't want me to. She just wanted me to get them out of her sight. I'll tell you this much, though. I never heard those paintings utter a single noise. Not when I drove up to her place to get them and put them in my car. Not when I had them stored in my own studio. Not when I displayed them at the Milwaukee Institute for Fine Arts, or the various New York galleries they went to.

Not a peep. Not one. So if you're telling me you've experienced something similar, and you'd like for me to take your father's paintings off your hands, free of charge, just like that, then I will take them. Yes, I will. The rain had not let up by the time we reached my father's home.

We drove separately, and when Charles Buck got out of his Mercedes, his fine black shoes made a horrible squelching sound as he stepped under the wet mud and grass. He looked down, and a brief look of annoyance passed over him, as if to say, I just bought these. A quaint home, Charles Buck said, when we stepped inside the house. He made sure to wipe his shoes on the front mat in an exaggerated manner. It's just down this way, I said. The den, my father's studio, I mean.

Outside, thunder clapped like an orchestra tuning their instruments right before the big show's about to start. We made our way down the hallway and entered the den. The expression on Charles Buck's face was one of cartoonish, shock, and awe. I imagine it was the same look I had on my face when Mr. DeMille had brought me in. "'Morveless,' Charles Buck said, looking over the countless paintings. "'I mean utterly marvelous. Truly.' Buck waved one hand in the air, as if imagining a banner hanging. from the ceiling. I can see it now. The reluctant artist, that's what we'll call the exhibition,

a man who wanted to hide his mastery from the world. Do you still have the photos I sent you? I asked. Of the paintings? Well, yes. I'll say those photos you took didn't do the paintings justice. They really did not. Could you take them out for me? I asked. Charles Buck produced his phone, and after some scrolling, found the images I'd sent to him. Do you notice anything? I asked. I'm not sure what you're getting at. Look at this photo here, I said. And I enlarged the photo I took of the man and the horse. It showed the painting in its original position, with a man standing by the horse, waving at the window cell. Yes, what of it?

Buck said, a clear annoyance in his voice. Now look here at the real painting, I said. I pointed up at the canvas a few feet away. It was the same man and the same horse, only now the horse was bucking on his hind legs, and the man looked frazzled, trying to calm the horse down. You see it, don't you? I said. The paintings change.

Well, that's clearly a different painting. It isn't, I said. It's the same one. I'm telling you, it changed. I proceeded to show him the differences between several other photos and their real-life counterparts, but Charles Buck rebuked it every time, waving off the differences as being a trick of the light, or even that I'd taken the photo from a bad angle.

bad angle. You're really not going to listen, are you? I said. You're choosing not to see what I show you. All I see is the work of a great artist, he began. I'm not going to let go stories stop me. I've heard it all before. I'm not trying to stop you.

I just want you to know the truth, that's all. I don't want you to take them without knowing the truth. I just need you to understand." The truth, Charles began. His voice was so thick with contempt. I thought he was going to spit on the floor. What truth? Did you think there was a man in Peru who thought by painting a portrait of his dead wife

with his own blood he'd bring her back to life? All he did was ruin a perfectly good canvas and create a potential biohazard. The only truth is that people will believe whatever they want to believe and... Buck cut himself off. His eyes were suddenly drawn to something in the back corner of the room. The black cloth. The canvas. He tilted his head to the side, like a cat observing a mouse it caught between its paws.

He began to walk towards the canvas. I was going to lift a hand to stop him. him, but something caused me to hesitate. I understand what it was now. I needed him to see. To understand. Now what do we have here? Oh, that one, I said in almost a whisper.

Even if I'd yelled it. I knew Buck wouldn't hear me. All he was focused on now was the canvas and the back rum. The den was completely silent. Other than the sound of Buck's still muddy shoes, making their way towards the back, he hadn't wiped his shoes properly. When he reached the canvas, he slowly lifted a hand and touched the black cloth gently, nearly caressing it.

As it had before, the cloth fell off almost immediately. Charles Buck gave a sharp gasp. You, you never told me about this. this, Buck said. It's incredible. I'm putting my foot over the edge of the bed, I said. I looked away from the portrait. What did you say?

Buck asked, without turning towards me. Wind chimes began to fill the den. I could almost feel the soft breeze coming from the portrait, but I imagined Buck was getting the most of it. Oh my God. God, Buck said. Oh, my dear God. The wind chimes were so loud now.

They even drowned out the thunder roaring outside. I was going to cover my ears with my hands when I heard a loud cry. It was Buck. He was screaming. I looked over in time to see Charles Buck stumble backward. He was holding his right hand. and I noticed something was dripping onto the floor. It was paint.

Red paint. No, not paint. Not paint at all. When I looked up, I saw the woman in the portrait. Her half smile, half frown, was full of sharp teeth. The tips of them covered in red. I ran forward and threw the black cloth over the canvas. And the wind chimes ceased immediately.

I turned towards Buck, who was whimpering. She bit you, I said. Nonsense, Buck exclaimed. There was a deep gash. No, not gash. A bite mark on the side of his right hand. It was bleeding profusely. Buck grabbed a handkerchief from his suit and held it against the wound.

I cut myself as all. You still won't admit it, I said. You saw it. You saw her. Nonsense. I'd have a nonsense. He said, sounding no longer like a hawk, but more like a parrot. Buck began to walk backwards, and as he did, the den suddenly came to life with a cacophony

of sound. It was as if every painting in the room had awoken. Can't you hear it? I pleaded. Tell me you hear it. No, Buck said. I don't hear anything. He bumped into the painting of the restaurant goers. And just before the canvas toppled over like a dominole,

I saw that every face in the restaurant, not just the man in the green fedora was staring back at us, smiling. Buck gave a shout as he turned and almost ran into the painting of a semi-truck. Previously, the painting had shown the truck driving off into the distance, but now the truck was turned. Its bright cabin headlights barreling towards Mr. Buck, it gave a loud honk. Buck stumbled backwards again, this time nudging the painting of a dog. Yesterday the dog had been sleeping, both its paws resting over its eyes.

Now it was sitting up, its face frozen in a growl. I'll come back for the paintings, Buck said. He waved his wounded hand and his blood splattered on some of the canvases, like some demented version of Jackson Pollock. Remarkable work, truly remarkable. He turned and ran. I haven't seen or spoken with Charles Buck since that day. When I tried to reach out to Mr. DeMille to see how he was doing,

I was informed that he'd passed away. I'm back in New Jersey now. I haven't attempted to sell my father's home, which sits dark on the outskirts of Dutch. Wichville, Wisconsin. Dark, but not silent. No, not silent at all. If you ever find yourself out there on the outskirts, you might come across a house with an old fence that used to creak something terrible.

If you drive by at night, you might even hear sounds coming from inside the home. All sorts of sounds. I only hope to God. that if you hear what sounds like wind chimes, that you keep driving.