The Painting Read Online Free PDF Page B

Maybe there was a strong wind and it knocked the door off its latch.
    He tried to breathe rhythmically as he walked towards it. The doctor always told him it was a good thing to try when he was feeling anxious. In, out, in, out. He could hear his stilted breathing rattling in his chest. A part of him wanted to walk over to the door and just shut it. His vision was blurring. He just needed to shut it and go to bed.
    But maybe there was something in there—something revealing about Manny Bates that would aid him with his book. If it was locked, it must’ve been hiding something, mustn’t it? Or maybe it was the boys. Maybe they were just fucking him around. They could all laugh it off and eat crisps whilst he penned another page of his novel.
    He bit his lip and clenched his fists as he crept down the corridor. Pull yourself together, you wuss. The tall grey walls seemed to be closing in around him; the flaky old door of the once-locked room not appearing to get any closer.
    Come on. Keep it cool. One step, two steps…
    His heart thudded as he reached out for the handle of the door. He jolted as he heard the kitchen window tapping. Just look inside. What harm could it do? It could help him. Just look inside.
    He held his breath and jumped around to look inside the room.
    When he saw the walls, his entire body went limp.

    We’rewatchingwe’rewatchingwe’rewatching.
    The room was a similar size to the bathroom, light peering through a large, rectangular window at the opposite end of the room. The floor had been completely emptied out; nothing in there but dust.
    Dust, and thousands of notes.
    All four walls and the ceiling were coated in yellow Post-it notes. On each of them, words were scribbled in angry black ink.
    Keep out keep out keep out keep out.
    The ramblings of a madwoman. That was all it was—an authenticity detail he could add to his book.
    But there was one note that did catch his eye. One note that stood out amongst the hundreds and thousands of nonsensical ramblings. He walked up to it, his muscles tight, and tilted it forwards.
    They watch me from the painting.
    His stomach turned as he thought of the little black figures approaching. There was no excusing it anymore—no explaining it. The painting had played a part in Manny Bates’ madness. He felt the sickness work its way up his chest, nausea looming in his lungs. He just needed to sleep; to lie down. No—he needed to get out of this house. He needed to pack his bags and leave because something was not right.
    They watch me from the painting.
    He whimpered and rushed out of the door, his pulse pounding in his aching head. Just down the stairs, out the front door, and up the road. Just a little walk, that’s all it was. Just a little walk.
    Keep out keep out keep out.
    He ran into the bedroom and grabbed his notepad, trying his best not to look at the painting. Just leave the room, get out of here, and head up the road. Nobody will ever know any different. Just go back to Sara, put your feet up, and let all this be forgotten. He ran down the stairs and turned the corner to leave the house.
    Three little boys were blocking the front door, staring at him with glowing blue eyes, little hands tapping the air.
    We’rewatchingwe’rewatchingwe’rewatching.
    He stumbled backwards and rushed back up the stairs. Fuck, fuck.
    He could feel the house swallowing him as he threw himself inside the bedroom and slammed the door shut. He tossed his bag to the floor and collapsed in front of the door, holding his shaking arms out and pushing himself up against it to block himself in. Then, he crashed to the floor and curled into a ball, sobbing into his hands.
    They watch me from the painting.

    He wasn’t sure how long he’d been lying on the floor when the tear dripped down his cheek.
    His muscles were completely solid, his vision totally engulfed in darkness as he held his eyes shut. The boys—three of them this time—standing in front of the door. What did