A Criminal Portrait is a work of fiction. Characters, names, place, incidents, organizations are a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
A Criminal Portrait
Robert Tangiers
Copyright © Robert Tangiers 2011
Published by Hellfire Publishing, INC. at Smashwords
www.hellfirepublishing.com
All rights reserved. No part of this document or the related files may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by any means (electronic, photocopying, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Digital ISBN: 978-1-937179-81-6
Cover art by: Dara England
FOR
Clive,
Clarke,
&
Karloff
A CRIMINAL PORTRAIT
by Robert Tangiers
The estate stood empty for nearly fifteen years. It was secluded, aged, weathered, and overgrown with weed and brush. It was expensive, the primary reason for its vacancy. Some said it was haunted, another reason it stood empty. No one was really certain. There weren’t any reports of strange events in the house; no one had run screaming from poltergeists. No creaking stairs or rattling chains. Just a rumor. A large empty house in a state of dis-repair, that everyone seemed to ignore or avoid. Except Beth Franklin.
Beth took the place. Temporary rental to get away from it all and get her head straight. She had the painter’s equivalent to writer’s block. She called it painter’s block. Still, she had the strangest feeling of being led to the old estate. Something unseen. Something unsaid, except for the soft voice in her thoughts. First she thought it was her subconscious, but then she wasn’t so sure. Perhaps another voice. A male voice. It started about the same time she bought that old painting. It was a country cemetery scene. She thought she’d been led to the painting.
The cemetery painting she found in an out of the way back street corner shop that sold artwork by relatively unknown artists. Art Curios, the shop was called. The proprietors were a strange, quiet and eccentric couple. It was a small, dusty place. Apart from the art that hung on walls, framed and unframed work was stacked in corners, and on the floor, and against the surrounding walls. It was a dark and moody work depicting a grave robbing scene that had captured Beth’s attention. Old World, country cemetery, a wooden beveled coffin being dragged from a freshly dug grave. Beth, by some morbid fascination, just had to have it.
So, she bought the morbid art work, hung it on the wall above the fireplace mantel in her new study, and stepped back. She stared at it, and the painter’s block suddenly vanished.
* * *
Painter’s block was gone. Beth jumped into painting with a focused one track mind. A few days went by. She hardly noticed. She had to paint, no matter what it was. And she did, without knowing, without seeing. Something formed on the canvas, but it was beyond her recognition.
A soft flickering light played upon the far wall. It caught her attention. She paused and lifted a brush in mid-stroke from the canvas. Her eyes trailed from wall to window. An orange light played upon the night. Something was out there, flickering like a torch. Like many torches, bright, but distant. Beth laid the brush aside and went to the window.