The Painting Read Online Free PDF

wrist began to ache and his tongue poked through a hole in the chewed-up pen lid that he realised he must’ve been writing for a while.
    He skimmed through his notes—another four pages. Not quite the same level of progress as in the early hours of the night but progress nonetheless. At this rate, he’d have the bulk of it drafted soon. He’d at least have something to deliver to his publisher; a couple of serial installments, perhaps.
    And if all went to shit, he could self-publish.
    He stretched his arms out and a yawn escaped his body. He really could do with getting some rest now. Couple of hours’ power nap, lunch, then back to it. You’re doing great. He hopped to his feet and pulled the bedroom door open before walking into the bathroom. As he stepped in with his bare feet, he felt something wet and hairy tickling his toes. Shit —the dead mouse. He’d have to get rid of it, at least give it the—
    When he looked down at it, he stumbled to one side.
    The mouse was lying on its back and covered in blood. Its guts were spread out in front of it; thin white intestines noodling out of its body. Donny placed his foot to the side of it, steadying himself. He hadn’t stepped on it with that much force, had he? His stomach turned as he stared down at it and stepped past. He must have, simple as that. That was the only logical explanation for it. Anyway, the house was probably filled with insects, too, which hadn’t had the privilege of a snack for years.
    Yes, insects. That was it.
    Donny unzipped his fly and sighed as he took a leak. He was surprised he had much inside himself. It was as if he was pissing away the last bit of fuel in his body, letting it all go.
    Tap, tap, tap.
    Just the window. Just the window.
    Tap, tap—bang.
    His body froze.
    Tap, tap, tap.
    Just hearing things. Just tired and hear—
    Bang .
    He looked up at the door, his hands shaking and his breathing shallow. The tapping had stopped; in its place repeated bangs.
    Bang. Bang. Bang.
    He saw the boys in his head, only this time they were holding both hands up and thumping the air; their eyes wide and angry. Bang. Bang.
    Just the wind. Pull yourself together, Donny. Pull yourself together.
    He stood motionless over the toilet, staring at the bathroom door until the banging stopped. It was a good job he was where he was or he’d have pissed himself. He remained still for a few seconds after the banging receded. It seemed to come from somewhere deeper in the house—somewhere nearby. Maybe it was Manny Bates. Maybe she knew he was in her house and was fucking with him. What did she expect him to say? I’m really sorry, Mrs. Bates, but nobody’s technically in possession of your house right now so I’m not technically breaking any laws. And I’m writing a really good book. You might even be a lead role. Yes, I’ll be more flattering in my portrayal of you, honest.
    Fuck . He zipped his fly up and took a deep breath through his nostrils and into his stomach. It was an old house. Old houses made noises. Besides, he was tired. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen things when he was tired. Back when he was taking anti-depressants, he’d see things all the time. Movements in the kitchen—eyes in the corner of the room at night. It was just his head. He’d go back to bed and get some kip. If it carried on and he got too spooked, he’d walk down to the pub. Everything was fine. In fact, it was great.
    He walked back towards the bathroom door, almost tripping over the mouse’s corpse, and peeked out into the corridor, holding his breath.
    The coast was clear. Of course it was—what did he expect? He’d get some sleep, write some more an—
    The door at the end of the corridor was open.
    Donny’s knees melted. It couldn’t be open. He’d checked it earlier and it absolutely was locked.
    Someone else was in the house.
    No. Don’t be stupid. He must’ve just loosened it when he tried opening it earlier. The banging—yes, the banging.