Paintings line the walls of the otherwise empty room, each one depicting a different thing. Precise brush strokes and deliberate splots tell stories that not many people would be able to grasp. They send messages few would be able to decipher.
Most of these paintings have utilised a warm colour palette. Deep red is the main theme I see repeated among the many canvases, a stark contrast to the gentle white and green hues of the room.
My footsteps echo, unusually loud due to the still environment. The walls themselves are a pristine marble, accompanied by several lush pot plants scattered around. The innocence of these features is ironic next to such gory works of art. I’m not sure if they are meant to come off as such, but the uncontrollable red that dominates almost every inch of their surface speaks volumes.
It reminds me of rotting flesh.
This is the workspace of the recently deceased Peter Samuels, renowned artist and an incredibly rich man. Most of what I know about him revolves around his absolute refusal to talk to the press. He didn’t like the constant questions, or even hearing others’ opinions on his work, positive or negative. The information I’ve been given as the person responsible for his estate now that he has passed doesn’t give me much more.
He died without any next of kin, both his daughter and wife having passed on about 15 years ago. He has no other living relatives, nor anyone for his possessions to go to. Most of the money attached to him has already gone to the state, an opportunity they were eager to jump on.
So I’m here to look through his unnecessarily large house at all the things – both of value and not – that he owned.
I approach a particularly small painting about halfway down the room and stop in front of it. Oddly textured red paint has been used to create a childlike face. I say child because of its large eyes and chubby little face, but its skin is mutilated and it looks more like a corpse. At the bottom of the canvas, scrawled messily in blood-red ink, is the name ‘Madelyn’.
As I trace the strained letters with the tip of a finger, I contemplate what mental state a person has to be in to name a picture like this after their daughter. I didn’t realise who it was until I looked at the title, but now that I think of it, the face itself has an unsettling resemblance to Madelyn Samuels.
The poor girl died at the age of 7 in a tragic accident. It was never released to the public what happened, but I do know that it led to the death of her grief-stricken mother, Jannette Samuels, only three weeks later. The only information reporters received on this matter was from a distressed Mr Samuels, cornered in a pharmacy apparently purchasing syringes. He stated that his wife’s death was an impact of their daughter’s, that she hadn’t managed to recover from it.
To be honest, I suspect that Mr Samuels wasn’t exactly right in the head. It may be due to his losses, or simply something he’s always lived with. Whichever it is, these paintings are certainly displays of quite off-putting things.
As I pace further along and run my gaze over all the pictures surrounding me, I notice that they all seem to have someone’s name attached to them. I recognise most of them.
Caleb Runner, a lawyer who disappeared a few years ago.
Synthia Turner, a reporter who died when her car crashed into a lake.
Ryan Dunder, a doctor who ironically overdosed and was never found after that.
The list goes on and on. He seems to have painted people who suffered deaths and disappearances within the confines of our small town. I wonder if it’s his own twisted little tribute to them. Maybe he even knew them all personally.
I stop at yet another one. I’m not overly knowledgeable in art, but I think that all these works have been coated in a thick layer of resin. Perhaps to preserve them? The face in this one is particularly contorted, stuck in eternal agony. The blend of deep to light reds presents yet another picture I find quite conflicting. The only way I could think to describe it is that these people have been painted without their skin.
My eyes fall to the name at the bottom.
‘Jannette’.
I lift my gaze back up to meet the eyes of the woman I can now attach a name to. Is it worse or better if he created this after her death? Surely after, right? Painting it then is at least justifiable, considering the mental state he would have been in. It could easily be linked to his trauma and labelled as a way of expressing his emotions. But…
Her eyes.
I can’t look away from them… they communicate so much emotion… so much pain…
They look… real.
The eyes on all these paintings…
They’re the only things not simply in red, the singular burst of color in all of these works. But not just that, they look 3D. I hadn’t noticed it before due to the resin coating, but the eyes aren’t painted on, they’re all embedded in the canvas.
In fact, the more time that I spend looking at each of these, the more I notice.
The strange texture. The uneven tint. The odd way that they all seem to smell faintly… strange. The way the eyes can stare right back at me.
I stride around all of them again. Observing each one carefully. Something seems off. So incredibly, sickeningly off.
I find my way back to poor little Madelyn. If she hadn’t died, she’d be my age by now.
She stares right back at me, her innocent little face stricken with a silent desperation. Her eyes are icy blue, and they plead with me. Begging for something that I will never be able to give her.
I reach up and gently take the painting off the wall, the biting edges of the frame assaulting my palms. This one is the smallest of the bunch, so at least it’s easy enough for me to lift. I place it down on the marble floor with a soft clank before bedding down next to it. I know this is stupid, seeing as this painting alone is worth far more than I could ever imagine, but I need to know. I need to let Madelyn have a chance to speak.
I flip it over to look at the back. I’m getting a strange vibe from the material of the canvas, I need a better view.
It’s the strangest color, uneven and certainly not what you would expect. There are blemishes in random places all over it, little brown spots, and dented patches. The texture is perplexing too, appearing much thicker than a normal canvas and with a softer quality. The back is glazed over, I’m assuming again it’s a means for preservation. Another factor in my steadily growing unease is that under all the layers of chemical smells, I catch a hint of something rotten.
My skin itches and my heart races, an effect prompted by the scent hitting the back of my throat. I want to get as far away from here as I can, distance myself and get rid of the sickening sensation growing in my stomach. But it only increases, because I can’t leave without answers. As much as I want to flee and never look back, I’m terrified that if I go without knowing, the feeling will follow me out.
I scramble to my feet, an impulse prompted by my closer inspection driving me to frantically remove all the paintings and lay them down along with Madelyn’s. Once they are all arranged so that the backs of them are face up, I walk between them, inspecting them with the same scrutiny I did the one before.
The material for all of these canvases are different. Not one of them is the same shade. From brown to pale, all with their own unique spots.
I’m plagued by the feeling that something is wrong. So much so that my breath is uneven and my limbs tremble, my body ready to act if necessary. I know the answer is right there, just a little beyond my reach, and this alone is enough to anchor me here for a little longer.
I scoop up Madelyn once again, feeling a strange connection to the girl trapped forever in anguish. My mind spins, I feel repulsed now by touching it, something I wasn’t experiencing before. If I could move right now, I’d put it down, wash my hands over and over until I’m sure that my hands are clean. I’m disgusted by all of this, but my swirling mind has resorted to freaking out, and I can’t organise anything.
I want Madelyn to speak. I actually want this painting to talk to me. That somehow seems so much more appealing to me than the unnatural silence of the room. She looks like she could, she looks like she’s meant to speak, but something made of color and canvas can’t communicate.
It hits me like a slap in the face, my hands immediately recoiling, moving instead to cover my mouth as I suck in a sharp gasp. The clatter that reverberates around the room as Madelyn’s portrait drops to the floor sends shivers down my spine. My blood has run cold, my hands are shaking as if the earth were too, but everything around me is still. The absolute horror I’m experiencing renders me unable to move.
I need to leave.
I really, really need to leave.
Yet, I can’t draw my gaze off the painting at my feet. The little girl, whose dead eyes are still staring up at me, empty of the soul she once possessed.
Abby Coates – Year 10
