The Painting Read Online Free PDF Page A

do.
    But he placed a chair in front of the back door just for good measure.

    Donny sat with his head in his hands on the table, this time facing the window. He’d seen them, he was sure of it. They were right in front of him, tapping thin air, and then they were gone.
    He pulled his phone out of his pocket with his sweating hand—no signal. He just wanted to check in with Sara; see how she was doing. The tension mounted in his chest. I want to go home. But no—the book. Last night had been majorly productive, the most productive writing session he’d had in years. If he could just stay for the day, maybe then he’d make sure he had a clear plan and then head back in the evening. If things got too creepy, he’d walk to the nearby pub just up the road, contact Sara, and leave. He was safe. It wasn’t like he was in the middle of nowhere, not completely anyway.
    A yawn jumped out of his chest. He could murder a coffee right now.
    Fatigue . Of course—fatigue. Why hadn’t he even considered it? He hadn’t slept much the night before. Come to think of it, he’d been sleeping shittily for a few weeks now. Sometimes fatigue made you see things, messed with your senses. It wouldn’t be the first time.
    It was all in his head. He just needed some sleep.
    He opened his eyes and moved his fingers away—nothing at the window. You’re being stupid. There’s a logical explanation for this. Just get some rest. He kept his eyes on the window and shook his head before stepping out of the kitchen and back up the stairs.
    Get some rest.
    Donny shut the bedroom door and placed his phone on one side. He could set the alarm for eleven AM, get a few hours’ sleep, and then he’d be ready to get to work. He’d have something else to eat when he woke up and then spend the afternoon writing. He could even head down to the pub at the end of the road for a celebratory pint when he was finished. It didn’t look too hard to find on Google Maps.
    He leaned back against the pillow and stared at the painting in front of him.
    He wasn’t sure whether it was his eyes, or his mind playing tricks on him, but he could’ve sworn the figures had grown a little larger.

    He tossed and turned in bed. No matter how tightly he squeezed his eyes together, they just wouldn’t rest, the muscles rock-solid in his skull. He tried to relax his legs but whenever he did, something rattled outside or the wind battered the window in the kitchen, forcing them to tense up again.
    The boys. Tap. Tap. Tap.
    Who were they? Or rather, what were they? Was he just hungry? Tired?
    He threw his bed sheets to one side, letting the light from the window hit his face. The curtains were useless, a withered, scraggy red shade peppered with holes. Donny sat on the edge of his bed and held his head in his hands. If I could just write a few more pages, I’d be able to rest. A few more pages and he’d be closer to his dream.
    Tap. Tap. Tap.
    Just the window in the kitchen. There were no kids round here. Just the window. He was making it up. In fact, he was wasting time. All of this imagining could be put to better use. He reached over for his notepad and picked it up, flicking through the filled-in pages. His shoulders eased off when he saw them. You’re doing great. All this at the expense of sleep. It might leave him a bit delirious from time to time but it was worth it. Sara would be so proud.
    He bit the lid off his pen and looked up at the painting. Those six trees, crispy brown leaves coating the ground, and the six silhouetted figures.
    Were they bigger than before or was that just him remembering things differently?
    That said—bigger figures were the least of his concerns today. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d seen something out of place. Besides, he hadn’t even seen them there in the first place. Who knew what other optical illusions the painting had up its sleeve? He chewed on the plastic of the pen lid and let the words flow.

    It was only when his