By Bonita Jewel
I cruise the upscale neighborhood looking for parking. Finding nothing near the estate sale, I settle for a space a block over.
Great, I’ll have to carry Craig’s junk all this way. My pace slows as I round the block. Pulling out my phone, I choose a filter and take a selfie in front of the gorgeous mansion. I post it with several October hashtags then remember why I’m here.
I shoot Craig a text before finding him sitting on a bench under a gnarled tree. A large picture frame leans against the bench, a scattering of leaves around it. Three overstuffed plastic bags sit near Craig’s cane. A decent haul.
Chasing down antiques is an odd interest for a veteran, but whatever. He pays me to be his personal Uber and weekend housekeeper. Living on the same block, it’s convenient.
“Amy, hope you didn’t park too far.” He stands.
“Do you see all these cars?”
“We’ll manage.” Craig angles the frame toward me. “Look.” The painting shows a skeletal man with pronounced cheekbones and thinning hair. And that smile? Full-on creepy.
“That’s what you came for?” I grab the bags.
“It looks authentic! These days everyone uses those app thingies.” He shakes his head. “There’s no way to know what’s real.”
Not everyone is beautiful. That’s what filters are for.
“I got this.” Craig holds the painting. “Where’s the car?”
***
Parked in Craig’s driveway, he opens the passenger door. I hop out and grab the wooden frame from the back seat.
“I thought he was smiling.” The frown looks sinister.
“He was.” Craig takes the painting. “That’s odd. It’s like Dorian Gray.”
“Who?”
“You know, the classic story.” Craig pulls keys from his pocket.
“I’m not really a reader.” I follow him inside, placing the bags in the entrance.
“Wait here.” Craig disappears down the hallway and returns with a hardcover book, The Picture of Dorian Gray.
The old man painted on the cover looks decrepit. Eerie.
Once I get home, I check my notifications. Thirteen likes on my last selfie. I post a picture of myself holding the book. I should take a photo of that creepy painting. That’ll get followers.
Opening Craig’s book, I start to read. Something keeps me turning the pages deep into the night. Something Dorian says near the end gives me the shivers. “The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought, and sold… poisoned, or made perfect.” Is it true?
***
I wake up late, and Craig doesn’t like me arriving to clean after noon. Guess I’m skipping my pumpkin spice latte. At least he has a coffee maker.
Outside his door, I ring the bell once. Twice. Tilting a potted succulent, I grab his spare key and let myself in, not bothering to close the door as I beeline to the kitchen for coffee.
Halfway across the entrance, I pause. Craig lies face down on the carpeted living room floor.
“Craig?” I step closer. Did he have a heart attack? I fumble for the phone in my back pocket. “Are you okay?” Please don’t be dead.
Dark liquid pools near his head. Did someone attack him? I back away.
“I’d rather you stayed,” a deep voice says from the darkened hallway.
Turning to run, I trip, falling hard to my knees over the bags I left in the entrance yesterday. I crawl toward the door, but a figure sweeps past me and closes it.
My knees pulse with pain. The rest of my body trembles like October leaves. “What do you want?” The words come out in a whisper.
He stands over me. “Look at me.”
“If I see your face, you’ll kill me.”
He laughs. A hollow sound. “You ask what I want. Look at me.”
I raise my gaze. The man is handsome. No, perfect. I’ve never seen such flawless features. But also, familiar.
“Do I know you?”
He gestures toward Craig’s still form, or at the framed portrait lying nearby.
“What did you do to him?”
“I could not use him.”
“Use him?” My mouth is too dry to swallow. “For what?”
“I only want to rest.”
“Who are you?”
He kneels before me. “The story you read—”
“How do you know about that?” His face only inches away confirms it. He should be a model—not a murderer.
“Whenever someone reads that book, it creates a… connection.”
“You’re Dorian Gray?” Saying it aloud feels foolish.
“No, I killed Gray, but I could not let Wilde know how the story truly unfolded.”
“Then who—”
“Dorian was a fool.”
It’s not just this guy’s looks. His voice holds a cadence I could listen to all day. He’s a killer, I remind myself.
“After everything I had done for him,” he continues.
It comes together. “You’re the painter.”
The murderer-model nods.
“Gray tried to kill me. I escaped and spent years painting a new subject. Myself. I confronted Gray, destroyed his picture, but he cursed me before he died.”
He stands and crosses the room, picking up the portrait. “I’ve tried to destroy this a thousand times.”
“You can’t?”
His firm jaw clenches. “This is the curse. I can’t rest until someone accepts the gift.”
“Wait, what gift?”
“Immortal beauty.”
Longing sweeps through me. I could have looks like his?
“You could obtain anything with beauty,” he says in a low voice, as if he knows what I’m thinking.
“What if I don’t want it?” Although I do. The painter emanates fierce charisma. Imagine the followers. The invitations. Open doors to everywhere.
“Your friend had no desire for such trifles.” He nods toward Craig. “Not for the price, anyway.” He turns to me. “But you. I see that longing.”
I drop my gaze, feeling my face burn. “What’s the price?”
“Your soul.”
My soul?
“Isn’t that a little cliché?” I ask, stalling. He doesn’t respond, and I look at him once more. Immortal beauty. Gray’s gift.
“Is the price negotiable?”
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Loading...ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rarely is the D.G. classic extended by other stories (compared to most other out-of-copyright horror fiction). Creepy, fun, and Wilde.