The Glimpsing (23 page)

Jack stood at the bay window, peering out at the fury of a storm that was undoubtedly the worst he’d ever seen.
 
The rain was falling in tempestuous sprays of water and mist, pushed almost sideways by steady winds of more than 75mph, gusts that exceeded 100mph.
 
The sound it made was deafening.
 
The gale beat at the house, uprooting shingles and mercilessly harassing the two massive trees that sat in Jack’s main yard.
 
Visibility had shrunk to only ten or fifteen yards, making the street lamps that lined the parking loop look like distant beacons.

Jack peered over his shoulder at the painting, which he had sat upright against a pillow on a sofa.
 
He wondered how such a small and seemingly inconspicuous object could have brought on such a frightening situation,
then
realized that Janice had virtually predicted it would happen.
 
She’d warned him that the painting might be causing him to
glimpse,
and that if it was, he could be in grave danger.
 
He now understood that she had been right.
 
The damned thing was cursed.

Jack turned from the window and casually strolled to the fireplace. He took hold of a black poker and jabbed it inside, stoking the flames.
 
He had spent almost a half hour trying to turn what had been intended as a romantic aside, into a blazing furnace.
 
And to be sure he had succeeded.
 
It both looked and felt as hot as hell.

Undoubtedly, the painting held even greater horrors.
 
He had already glimpsed two of its entities, and if the pattern held true, the last one, the younger man to Rose’s right, promised to be even more of a hellion than either of his companions.
 
Thankfully, he’d never see the light of day, because in a very short time there would be nothing left of him to see.
 
There would be nothing left of any of them to see.
 
For tonight they were going to burn.

He racked the poker and then sat down on a velvety couch directly opposite the painting.
 
He put his hands behind his head and then gazed at it meditatively, mentally shutting out the continuing pound and rage of the storm.

Janice had also been right concerning Portia’s motives.
 
Far from an innocent gift, the painting’s real purpose had been revenge.
 
And why?
 
Because quite obviously Portia
knew.
 
It was what brought her to his house that night, what made her stand outside, brandishing that sick smile.
 
Somehow she’d discovered his affair with Gabrielle.

There was something about the scheme that Jack could almost appreciate.
 
That night she’d played her part so well, feigning that sheepish innocence, becoming gushy and sentimental when he’d at first refuse to take the painting.
 
It was clever.
 
Almost brilliant.
 
Far slyer than he could ever have imagined.
 
He wondered how many of her friends and adoring fans would have thought the woman capable of such deceitful behavior?

Fortunately for him, Portia’s little plan had backfired.
 
Rose had, for some strange reason, allowed Thomas to depart the painting, and Thomas had wasted little time doing what Thomas clearly loved to do best: commit murder.
 
Whether that barbaric act had occurred in a dream, or a glimpse, or perhaps some weird combination of both, didn’t matter.
 
Jack was on to the game now.
 
No, he couldn’t fathom why Rose would take such a foolish risk. Clearly she had to know that his first reaction would be to immediately destroy the painting, but he could figure that out at some other time.
 
Right now, he had more important business to tend to.

He stood up from the couch, went to the fireplace, and stoked the flames once more.
 
When he’d finished he turned, addressing all three of the painting’s characters.
 
“It’s time,” he said plainly.

He began toward it, but as he approached he began to slow.
 
There was something peculiar with Rose’s dress.
 
Its texture seemed different.
 
Most of the detail was gone.

He bent and picked the painting up, taking a closer look.
 
The dress almost seemed to gleam, as if it was wet somehow.
 
He wondered if the humidity of the storm, combined with the heat of the fireplace might have caused some condensation on the canvas, but then a metallic odor wafted past his nose.
 
It was vague, and yet also familiar.
 
He brought two fingers to the dress, touched it, and then peered at them.
 
Two bright red dots peered back.
 
He rubbed the liquid in his fingers, testing its consistency, and then brought them to his nose.
 
He reared in disgust.
 
It was blood.

There was a sudden moaning throughout the house, as if it was an old and creaky warship.
 
The gale outside had gusted sharply.
 
The rain was now pounding the bay windows so hard that for a moment Jack thought its glass might shatter.
 
He did his best to ignore these things, proceeding toward the fireplace, but then a thunderous clap of lighting struck.
 
It was so loud and so close that the shock seemed to rattle his very bones.

Then the lights flickered.

They immediately came back, but seconds later they flickered again.

He tensed.
 
He took a deep breath, exhaled,
then
took another step toward the fireplace.
 
He stopped cold as the lights went out completely, came back momentarily,
and then went out once for all.
 
Jack Parke found himself standing in a house that had gone pitch black.

He then noticed something very strange.
 
He could no longer hear the blare of the storm, like he’d passed into the eye of a hurricane.
 
He gazed outside of the bay window, and saw that the trees were still being battered helter-skelter by the wind, that the rain and mist were still blowing by with unrelenting fury, but there was no sound.
 
Nothing.
 
Absolute silence.
 
Except for the soft snap and crackle of the logs burning in the fireplace.

He looked at the painting, firmly believing that Rose had something to do with all of this.
 
She knew what was about to happen, he reasoned.
 
She knew she was about to burn.

Now almost gleeful, Jack moved to the fireplace, grabbed the poker, and hurriedly jabbed it inside the fireplace.
 
He then tossed the poker aside.
 
Then he thought he saw something move in the corner of his eye.

He snatched his head around and gazed out of the bay window, toward the area of the cement pathway.
 
He saw nothing at first, but then thought he could make out a form standing just outside.
 
It was composed almost entirely of shadow.
 
He squinted at it, questioning whether the thing was real or just some illusion of the blustery wind and rain.
 
But then a silent, strobe-like flurry of lightning illuminated the phantasm, making Jack’s eyes widen in amazement.
 
It was Portia.
 
Her hair was sopped and matted to her head, long strands of it crisscrossing her face. Her dress was waterlogged, glued to her body, loose portions of it flailing wildly in the gale.
 
Her right hand was extended toward him, and her face seemed weighed with great pain.

The crisp smell of smoke drifted past his nostrils and Jack briefly turned away.
 
The poker was lying on the floor, singeing the carpet.
 
He turned back to the window, but Portia was no longer there—if she really had been there at all.
 
“It’s not going to work,” Jack grumbled.

He kneeled at the fireplace, turned the painting lengthwise, and edged it into the fireplace.
 
He smiled as the flames licked at the frame, waiting anxiously for it to catch fire.

But then a very sudden and powerful sense of trepidation seemed to explode from his gut.
 
Immediately, unthinkingly, he yanked the painting out.

Dumbfounded, almost bewildered at his own actions, he put the painting back in.
 
And as soon as he did, he not only felt the sensation return, but almost as if he was standing outside himself, saw the painting once more being removed from the fireplace.

He reared a bit, confused and astounded.
 
He turned the painting to himself and peered at it dumbly for a moment, and then, as he stared at Rose, realized what was stopping
him.
 
Deep within the bowels of his being he knew that he was about to destroy the one thing that could actually bring him Portia.

But no, he thought, fighting the feeling off.
 
The painting was not good, but evil.
 
Cursed.
 
And it wasn’t only his encounter with Thomas that proved that.
 
Even Gabrielle, although she had no knowledge of the painting and was more than three-thousand miles away, could sense that something strange was going on, could feel the approach of some great and wicked event.
 
And now he sensed it too.
 
Something truly evil was coming.
 
Something horrible.
 
And destroying the painting was the only way to stop it.

Once more Jack urged the painting toward the flames.
 
But with a swiftness that startled even
he
himself, he yanked it back again.
 
Summoning all of his will, he urged it toward the flames yet a third time, but brought it back once for all, this time hugging it against his bosom as might a mother her most precious child.

He couldn't do it.
 
He couldn't make it burn.
 
Because doing so meant destroying Rose.
 
 
And destroying Rose meant destroying the only opportunity he’d ever have to sleep with Portia.

Great fear swept over Jack at that moment.
 
He now realized that he had been trapped, caged like a dumb and unsuspecting animal.
 
Rose had offered him Portia, offered him something that she knew he could not resist.
 
And like the proverbial moth to the flame, he was being drawn, knowing the he would burn, but finding its light so warm and sensuous that he simply couldn’t help himself.
 
He had to have Portia, even if it meant his life.

Only then did Jack understand why Rose had allowed Thomas to murder him.
 
It was because it really didn’t matter.
 
She could play all the games with him she liked.
 
She knew he was never going to destroy the painting because he was too obsessed.
 
It didn’t matter if Thomas murdered him a thousand times over, he’d gladly endure it, as long as he knew he’d someday have Portia.

Jack stood in the utter silence, and hung his head in shame.
 
Finally he turned away from the fireplace and left the living room.
 
He knew that the next time he slept, he’d see Rose.
 
She’d then become Portia in her face and, carried along by his
lusts,
he’d do exactly what she wanted him to.
 
Then, undoubtedly, would
come
the evil: the thing both he and Gabrielle feared most.
 
And sadly, disturbingly, there wasn’t a single thing he could do to stop it.

Jack moped despondently up the staircase, and passed down the hallway like a shade, like a man resigned to his own death.
 
He entered his bedroom, moved to the gallery, and re-hung the painting, a garland of certain evil.
 
He then brought his hand up, covered his face, and cried.
 
“My God,” he said.
 
“What have I done?”