Stories by the Staff – The Night Paintings

Welcome back to Stories by the Staff! Today’s story was written by Mary Lang, Features Editor and News Production Student.

The Night Paintings

        “I have another one for your father.” The old man across the counter set down the flat, wrapped package one edge at a time and stood waiting for his money. Aaron counted out the bills carefully, set them down in front of the old man, and swung the paper-wrapped package under his side of the counter.

        “He’ll be real pleased,” Aaron said cheerily. “He’s been planning a place for it over the fireplace.”

        “Mph,” the other grunted, without looking back at him. “I hardly looked at the darn things.”

        “That’s — unfortunate,” Aaron said. “They sell very well.”

        “Not that I have any talent,” Cranmer muttered, stuffing the bills into a leather bag.

        “What do you mean?” Aaron asked curiously. He knew the old man’s worth — the skill of his seamed hands painted light itself.

        “I have no talent in painting,” Cranmer snapped.

        Aaron was used to the old man’s ways, but he still drew back and his face tightened. “What do you mean?” he said.

        “I don’t paint at all,” Cranmer said. “And stop asking nosy questions and get back to your work.” He pushed out the door, adding, “Tell your father if he wants to come by and look at another canvas that’s been started, he can come on Monday after lunch.”

        The jingle bell on the door clattered as Cranmer exited. Aaron remained still for a moment, then leaned back on the counter with one elbow. Cranmer had always been odd, half-intriguing and half-scaring the small town. Aaron mused over the old man and hummed to himself as he closed up shop, sweeping and rearranging the shelves. He brushed nutmeg and cinnamon off the lowest shelf, licked his hands, and wiped the beer tap with a rag.

        The rocking chair swayed in its rightful place beside the stove, the apron swung on its hook, and Aaron hefted the painting and knocked on the office door with a free elbow.

        “All ready,” he said through the crack.

        “Fine,” his father’s voice answered. “I’m about done here as well. How much did you pay Cranmer today?”

        “Fifty.” Aaron paused, then added, “It was what you had in the money box in the envelope with his name on it.”

        “I know,” his father said shortly. “Come in.”

        In the small heated office room, his father was playing with his pen. Aaron set the package down by the door and asked, “Is there something wrong, sir?”

        “The money isn’t adding up correctly.”

        “Perhaps you put too much in the envelope,” Aaron said tentatively.

        He looked at Aaron sharply. “No, I don’t think so. Still, it’s most likely better to make sure you didn’t put more than enough money into his hands. You’ll take Hermie over to Cranmer’s tomorrow at morning and then be back here as soon as you can.”

        “Yes sir, I will. Oh, and he said that if you want to come have a look at a new painting of his, Monday afternoon would be a good time for him. Sir.”

        “Well, you just take a look at it when you go by tomorrow.” His father settled the papers together and took the money box under one arm, Aaron emptied a cup of water on the fire and closed the stove door, and they exited the shop the back way, his father pausing to lock it behind them.

        Ahead down the main street, the sun was throwing colors against the sky; pink clouds strayed in front of the sunburst. Not far ahead of them, the pub door was open and music strayed out into the street and drifted to Aaron’s ears. The piano player was decent, but the singing was bad.

        They got into the wagon. His father clucked to the horse and snapped the reins.

        “Walk on, Hermie, there now. Step on, walk on, step on, there boy!”

…

        Next morning it was Aaron coaxing the plodding horse to move out as he made his way to Cranmer’s house to check the money. When he wasn’t clucking and talking to the old bay horse he tried, unsuccessfully, to distract his mind from the old man who he was shortly to be seeing.

        It wasn’t that he was completely frightened of Cranmer, or even that he disliked the old man, but there was a certain gruffness in Cranmer’s habits and speech that put off most people, Aaron included.

        He was curt and angry and lived alone in the woods. He was certainly not weird in a dark sense, but there were walls around his exterior that hardly anyone saw down.

        The only thing that set Cranmer apart was the skill in his hands. He always denied his talent, but the works he completed sold for the highest prices anyone set, not that anyone set prices very high. Cranmer did not set his own prices but sold the works of art to retailers, who swindled and cheated him. He let them. He was odd that way too.

        Aaron whistled to the slow-moving animal in the traces, thinking that the town would be both worse and better off without the old artist. It would certainly be deprived of an odd old man and a sense of intrigue, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

        They were just entering the woods now, a deep shaded place with the mossy type of undergrowth that was most commonly seen in the northern climates. The path turned from packed dirt to grass.

        Cranmer’s house was well back in the forest, in a nicely shaded clearing. The path led straight by it, and Aaron halted the horse and left him standing there by the gate.

        The wooden fence, ironically, needed painting and the patched gate squeaked. The flowers in the garden, though, made up for the disrepair, and Aaron was pausing to admire them in the fresh dew of the morning when the large butterfly bush in the back rustled. Cranmer, garbed for digging in sturdy pants and warm gloves, appeared around the side of it.

        Before the old man got a chance to speak, Aaron said, “Hello, sir, I think I may have overpaid you yesterday. May I check the money I gave you?”

        Cranmer stripped off his gloves and let them fall to the ground. They landed on a patch of flox, which bounced.

        Aaron added, “My father was adding up the money yesterday and, I mean, it didn’t add up correctly.”

        “Fine, come on then,” the old man muttered, and jerked his head toward the house.

        Aaron toed his way through the flowers, aware of Cranmer’s distrustful eye, and stepped into the house. It was low and dingy except for the paintings on the wall, none of which were Cranmer’s — they were old but originals by other, perhaps less-talented painters. The floor was a little uneven, the walls needed a coat of paint just as badly as the garden fence, and the light came from the windows with that look that comes in unused houses, where the sunlight slants in and falls on dingy furniture.

        Cranmer rooted around in a cupboard, then handed the still-unopened envelope to Aaron. The boy slit it open easily and took out the money.

        “Take it all back if you like,” Cranmer said unexpectedly. “It shouldn’t be mine anyway.”

        “Why — why not?”

        “I don’t do the work for it.”

        “You mean you buy the paintings from someone else?” Aaron put the money back in the envelope. It was all there, at any rate — no more or less than what should have been. His father must have totted up wrongly.

        “No one else does it.” Cranmer was standing by the window over the kitchen sink, with his back to Aaron, hands clenched on the edge of the counter.

        “Who does, then?” Aaron asked. “Where — where do the paintings come from?”

        “I don’t really know,” Cranmer said. “All I know is that they’re here, every day I need them.”

        “They just…appear?” Aaron laughed, but falsely. Cranmer was crazy, all right.

        The old man nodded. He was taking it all as serious as could be.

        Aaron said, “The money is all here. I suppose Father counted it wrong at home — I’ll go check.”

        “Fine, then,” Cranmer snapped, outraged at Aaron’s behavior for some inscrutable reason. Fairly shoving him out, Cranmer showed the boy to the door and closed it behind, shutting the house and its mysteries away from human eyes.

        Aaron arrived at the gate without noticing the garden.

        Hermie was snorting. Aaron patted the horse’s neck,  murmuring, “Hermie, old boy, you might have to come back later.”

        He mounted the wagon and flicked the reins. The path ahead was shady and cool and Aaron made a sudden discovery that it was perfect for a hiding place. It was near Cranmer’s place, too, not far away at all. He would come back later, then, and see what the old man meant. Cranmer had revealed a little too much this time.

        Back at the shop, Aaron manned the desk and plotted, when he could, anyway, because the store was busy with customers purchasing food for the weekend and supplies to start off on small vacations for the summer months. Aaron handled the change absently and gave his mostly-patient patrons the wrong amounts. His father had been only slightly disappointed at the news Aaron brought from Cranmer’s money envelope, but Aaron had been punished for giving wrong wrong change before, and he knew that tonight would be no different.

…

        The sting of his father’s words was soon forgotten that evening when the tall dark trees engulfed Aaron. The forest smelled cool and moist, and Aaron was free to enjoy it because he had no troublesome horse to attend to: Hermie was off to the city with his father. The trees rushed overhead in the last soft evening breeze. A star or two blinked through the leaves.

        Aaron almost tripped, in the dusk, on Cranmer’s privy. Muttering to himself under his breath, he retreated a few feet, and skirted the area to stake out a post by the old man’s workshop, where he guessed that the painting was done. There was a back window, which he peeked through to catch sight of paint bottles and brushes scattered around. No one was there, though. Dust had settled on many of the shelves, but the countertops and some of the cupboards told plain stories of their usage; they were free of dust and their surfaces were scratched and stained with oil paints.

        Aaron twisted his lips into a frown. It was plain that someone had used this place recently — but how recently, and would they show their face tonight?

        Well — he scooted his back down against the building to hunker down in the middle of a rosebush. At least roses didn’t rustle much.

        It was past dusk now and almost but not quite dark. The looming forest could just hardly be seen.

        An owl hooted. Bats shot through the air.

        Aaron adjusted his position, and peeked around the side of the studio. A light in the house just flickered off as he caught sight of it. Cranmer went to bed early, apparently.

        To pass the time, the boy in the rosebush recited some lines of poetry to himself.

        “Bright star, would I were as steadfast as thou art…”

        The stars were coming out by the tens and twenties. The owl in the woods was happy to be awake and was hooting every few minutes.

        Aaron began to shift his feet more often. Perhaps it was pointless to be there — no one was coming, and perhaps — no, most likely — no one would come, at least tonight.

        The rosebushes beside him gave off a sweet, musky scent, but he was neither interested in them nor willing to recite poetry anymore. His irritation was irrepressible and scratched at his chest.

        Then a daring plan occurred to him. He could — it might be risky — but he could, carefully, sneak over, open the door of the studio, and look inside. Well, for what?

        —Clues, of course, to see and find out his painter’s identity. But it wasn’t justified, though.

        —But Cranmer is old, and this mysterious person has apparently been sneaking into his property for years now. What if, one day, this stranger decides to go inside Cranmer’s house? He could hurt him. Or, at the very least, destroy or steal the poor old man’s property.

        —Well, yes, perhaps that justifies things. But have this intention while you’re at it, not a bad intention. No sneaking around other than to learn this person’s identity and what he’s really up to.

        The boy, his conscience thus placated, began to feel a real sense of duty. He rose quietly, stealthily, and began to hunker around the side of the wooden shed. The door was just around the corner…it was not locked. Cranmer’s house remained dark.

        It did not occur to the boy what scandal would come about if he were caught.

        He stepped in; he almost expected dramatic music to play, but it was (inside and out) completely silent. He felt guilty now, because the owl outside was judging him, and by the disapproving silence had found him guilty.

        He reassured himself with a quick thought of what he’d come there for, and opened his eyes again to study the dusty interior of the small studio. Most of the shelves — what he could see of them by the white moonlight — were dusty. The far shelf, though, was relatively clean, and paints were scattered about, as he had seen through the window. Someone did use this place.

        He drifted a finger across the dirt, picked up a small brush, and gazed over it. The horsehair on the end was thick with dried paint. He set it down again and walked forward. His footsteps sounded dry on the wooden floor.

        There was no more indication of the truth from the inside than there had been from through the window. It felt eerie to be in here alone in the middle of the night, when all had turned silent. The boy turned to leave, abruptly.

        The door of Cranmer’s house opened. A short figured stepped out and left the door open. Ghostly, it stumbled through the flower patch. Light from the moon touched its clothing but not the face — the limbs remained as dark as Africa.

        — Aaron, caught in the shed, was pinned to the spot. Rigor froze his legs and a paralyzing fist gripped his chest.

        The slow-moving ghost was advancing towards him. Now, as it approached, the owl hooted — the boy dove beneath a shelf and his breath was not needed.

        The ghost in the garden reached the studio, and with one hand on the doorframe, reached for where the knob of the door would usually be, but his hand grabbed air: the door was already open.

        Puzzled, the ghost’s hand clawed the air, searching. Aaron’s body beneath the shelf was still completely paralyzed. Every cell in his body was spiked through with tiny needles of adrenaline and horror.

        The ghost finally gave up the mime and stepped in, fumbling. It closed the door with a snap and a click, and the boy was left inside with it.

        It was dark. Footsteps sounded over to the countertop farther from the door — the countertop that was most used. Aaron was unable to but hug his bent knees in fear, but as he heard a queer sound, his fear was pushed aside by curiosity. It was water trickling into a metal container, perhaps the basin that was standing on the counter when Aaron was studying it earlier.

        Something swished in the bowl — Aaron still held his breath, but now his curiosity was aroused. He dared to lean out just a little, to poke his head out from under the counter — only to almost have it sideswiped when the ghost (or whatever the solid form was) swung around to clutch something off the side counter.

        Even after this fright, the boy slowly moved to look at the being in the small studio room. It was about two inches shorter than himself, and much thicker. The arms were quite strong. The back, rounded.

        The clothing, though was what held his eye. Loose, almost a drapery, in an age when the style was very practical and close-fitting.

        And even odder, the ghost was barefoot, Aaron realized, As it moved about its work, the feet walked closer and finally, in the space of a few seconds, came but a few inches away from Aaron’s eyelashes.

        Fear dashed through Aaron’s blood again. His chest needed only a few breaths of air — no, he ceased to breathe. If the figure had suddenly bent down and looked him in the eye, he most likely would have fainted away from shock.

        He could not bear it after this — when the ghost moved back to the other counter again, Aaron scrambled recklessly out and shot through the open door into the night; yet when he crashed through the forest and his feet thunked on the packed dirt path, he stopped abruptly and began to laugh at the stars overhead.