Visitations Read Online Free Page B
Painting
Matt tried to keep his hands below the table so his wife wouldn’t catch on, but it was hard to eat dinner that way. His hands were shaking so bad, he was surprised she hadn’t noticed yet.
He sliced another piece of meat and dipped it in the HP sauce. While chewing, he dropped his hands out of sight again.
It would be an uncomfortable experience to be questioned about the source of his anxiety.
After empty conversation, Matt left his salad on the plate, stood up, and placed his dishes on the counter - to his relief, without dropping or breaking anything. He told Fran that he’d do the dishes while she was out on her run. Then he retired to his office.
Twenty minutes later, he could hear Fran getting ready to take her evening jog along the nature trails in the woods behind their house.
A buzz of energy passed through him when he entered his den. He looked up at the picture hanging on the wall.
That fucking picture.
He willed the painting to move like it did yesterday. He was sure he’d seen it actually moving: the water in the creek running, the trees billowing softly in the imaginary breeze that traveled through the painted landscape. He tried to convince his weak stomach that what he’d seen the previous night had to be an illusion. Pictures that hung on the walls of people’s homes didn’t have moving parts. At least this one didn’t…until last night.
He’d bought it for a five-spot at a garage sale two years ago. What impressed him was the deer sipping the creek’s water, and the trail behind the deer. It looked like the trail behind his house. It was so close a replica, in fact, that a few guests over the years had commented on it, wondering if it was a landscape painting of “out back”. Many times Matt had wanted to tell them it was, just to mess with them.
He turned from it and crossed the small room, where he sat in his leather chair. He was still close enough to be able to watch the painting for any sign of movement.
Last night, while sipping his scotch whiskey, he’d felt the same buzz of energy in the air. When he looked around to see what had changed, the painting was moving. The creek ran through the center of the canvas, flowing into the frame. Upon closer inspection, the leaves lolled slowly, and after a few moments of staring, Matt felt himself being physically pulled into the landscape.
He’d rubbed his eyes, checked how much scotch he’d had and looked again. The painting was a still image once more.
The telephone had rung, forcefully yanking him back to the here and now. The call went unanswered, as he’d needed a few moments to collect himself. For reasons unknown, the painting that hung in his den for years had transfixed him hypnotically.
No, it had moved. Like it was a window to the back creek.
Now, sitting before the canvas with Fran out jogging, just as last night, Matt stared at the picture from his reading chair. A part of him wasn’t just nervous, he felt fear too. Would it repeat itself?
After ten minutes of intense scrutiny, Matt looked away, assuring himself that nothing as ridiculous as a moving picture was going to happen tonight. A feeling of foolishness caused him to frown.
What the hell am I doing? Sitting in my chair, waiting for a painting to move? So stupid.
He looked around for something to read. The new Koontz novel sat on his desk. He grabbed it, flipped to the bookmark and stared at the words.
A noise startled him. He cocked an ear to listen better.
Someone was yelling his wife’s name. Goose bumps covered his arms as he sat still, trying to hear the voice again. Fran was out and he was alone in the house. Where could the voice be coming from? It didn’t sound like it came from outside.
He edged forward and then stood up from his chair.
The silence around him was absolute. The house was empty. The proverbial pin could drop in another room and he’d
Matt tried to keep his hands below the table so his wife wouldn’t catch on, but it was hard to eat dinner that way. His hands were shaking so bad, he was surprised she hadn’t noticed yet.
He sliced another piece of meat and dipped it in the HP sauce. While chewing, he dropped his hands out of sight again.
It would be an uncomfortable experience to be questioned about the source of his anxiety.
After empty conversation, Matt left his salad on the plate, stood up, and placed his dishes on the counter - to his relief, without dropping or breaking anything. He told Fran that he’d do the dishes while she was out on her run. Then he retired to his office.
Twenty minutes later, he could hear Fran getting ready to take her evening jog along the nature trails in the woods behind their house.
A buzz of energy passed through him when he entered his den. He looked up at the picture hanging on the wall.
That fucking picture.
He willed the painting to move like it did yesterday. He was sure he’d seen it actually moving: the water in the creek running, the trees billowing softly in the imaginary breeze that traveled through the painted landscape. He tried to convince his weak stomach that what he’d seen the previous night had to be an illusion. Pictures that hung on the walls of people’s homes didn’t have moving parts. At least this one didn’t…until last night.
He’d bought it for a five-spot at a garage sale two years ago. What impressed him was the deer sipping the creek’s water, and the trail behind the deer. It looked like the trail behind his house. It was so close a replica, in fact, that a few guests over the years had commented on it, wondering if it was a landscape painting of “out back”. Many times Matt had wanted to tell them it was, just to mess with them.
He turned from it and crossed the small room, where he sat in his leather chair. He was still close enough to be able to watch the painting for any sign of movement.
Last night, while sipping his scotch whiskey, he’d felt the same buzz of energy in the air. When he looked around to see what had changed, the painting was moving. The creek ran through the center of the canvas, flowing into the frame. Upon closer inspection, the leaves lolled slowly, and after a few moments of staring, Matt felt himself being physically pulled into the landscape.
He’d rubbed his eyes, checked how much scotch he’d had and looked again. The painting was a still image once more.
The telephone had rung, forcefully yanking him back to the here and now. The call went unanswered, as he’d needed a few moments to collect himself. For reasons unknown, the painting that hung in his den for years had transfixed him hypnotically.
No, it had moved. Like it was a window to the back creek.
Now, sitting before the canvas with Fran out jogging, just as last night, Matt stared at the picture from his reading chair. A part of him wasn’t just nervous, he felt fear too. Would it repeat itself?
After ten minutes of intense scrutiny, Matt looked away, assuring himself that nothing as ridiculous as a moving picture was going to happen tonight. A feeling of foolishness caused him to frown.
What the hell am I doing? Sitting in my chair, waiting for a painting to move? So stupid.
He looked around for something to read. The new Koontz novel sat on his desk. He grabbed it, flipped to the bookmark and stared at the words.
A noise startled him. He cocked an ear to listen better.
Someone was yelling his wife’s name. Goose bumps covered his arms as he sat still, trying to hear the voice again. Fran was out and he was alone in the house. Where could the voice be coming from? It didn’t sound like it came from outside.
He edged forward and then stood up from his chair.
The silence around him was absolute. The house was empty. The proverbial pin could drop in another room and he’d
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