The Painted Darkness Read Online Free PDF

of the steam boilers he cared for at work. They even had names. Always girls’ names. Hillary, Matilda, Gertrude, Amelia. That’s probably why his father saying his most important duty was to “drain the fat bears” always made Henry laugh as a child.
After fifteen seconds, the water spitting from the spigot is relatively clear and the bucket is full of the thick black goop. Henry twists the valve back in the opposite direction until the steam and water stop; the pipe bucks and groans. He then lets the bucket sit for a few moments so the metal can cool.
While he waits, Henry considers the potential danger if he ever fails to heed the boiler’s warnings and needs. Eventually the system would overheat and burn the whole house down—or, if things went really wrong, the boiler could explode. There were no safety shutoffs on models manufactured when people were still dependent on horses to make the trek to town, after all. No gauges or emergency breakers, either. You have the unit OFF or you have it ON, and if it’s ON, you’d better be paying attention because it can get mighty hot and mighty pissed off, as Henry’s father would say.
The third step is a lot like the second step, only sort of in reverse. Henry reaches up to the top of the boiler’s main body where a pipe from the outside wall runs into the unit. There’s another rusting shutoff valve there and he cranks it clockwise from the CLOSED position to OPEN—or at least as open as the calcium-filled pipes get these days. There’s a cold hissing sound as clean, clear mountain water rushes into the boiler’s system. Henry can’t see the water, of course, but he can imagine it. Imagining things has never been a problem for him. Quite the opposite, as Sarah reminded him last night.
After fifteen seconds—he counts in his head, no need for him to look at his watch with the flashlight—he twists the valve to the CLOSED position. Now that the system has fresh water, it’ll be good to go for another twelve hours.
Just two more steps and Henry’s work will be completed.
Next he places his flashlight on the dirt floor and he picks up the bucket. He shuffles his way toward step number four, which is to carefully tip the contents of the bucket into the circular metal grating covering the drain in the middle of the dirt floor. The drain is merely a pipe leading into a pit under the house dug by the original builders. A reasonable amount of liquid can be poured into the pit, but if you put in too much, it’ll simply back up into the cellar. And, as the former owner cheerfully explained in his handwritten instructions, Don’t piss in the drain unless you want the funk to linger for weeks.
Henry carries the steaming bucket of black sludge water with both hands, one on each side of the broken wooden handle. Steam rises, condensing on his flesh. He follows the beam of light from his flashlight and he carefully sets the bucket next to the rusted metal drain.
Henry wipes his hands on his shirt, and after another moment of rest, he tips the bucket forward as gently as he can considering he’s using the broken handle for leverage.
That’s when Henry sees the big red eye blinking up at him from the bottom of the drain, and that’s when he hears the growl of the beast for the first time.
That’s also the last thing Henry remembers until he awakens on his kitchen floor hours later, ice cold and bleeding from the forehead with burns on his scalded right hand.
THE BIRTH OF THE ARTIST (5)
M

s. Winslow was deeply immersed in a
    game show less than ten minutes after she arrived to watch Henry, but those were the longest ten minutes of his life. He tried to concentrate on other things to pass the time, but all he really wanted to do was sneak into the woods and explore the icy landscape. To anyone observing him, he might have looked just a tad bit crazy as he quickly paced around the backyard, his bright yellow rain slicker and boots reflecting the morning sunlight all around