By Christy Fiskeaux 

The wooden attic floorboards cradled the dying body of Mr. Evergreen.

“What happened, sir?” I set down my candle and wicker basket, palms sweating. Long shadows raced across the floorboards, the light illuminating a knife. The smell of moth balls and old cedar flooded my senses as I knelt. This was not an accident.

He stared up at me, eyes as large as saucers. My thin frame reflected back in his pupils.

“Who did this to you?” I asked.

He gasped for air and turned his head to the left, extending a shaky finger to the far wall.

“Painting…” He inhaled sharply. “…num, number nine.”

He wheezed. His arm fell to the ground, finger still pointing.

Dead.

I swallowed the burning acid ascending from my stomach and followed the pointing finger. A large rectangular object covered in purple velvet cloth sat propped against the wall.

“Number nine” had to mean Fable Manor’s door number nine. Someone had killed the caretaker of Fable Manor to prevent this painting from going through its door. Grandmother warned me of the consequences should something like this ever occur at the manor.

Though petite, I was not one to run from danger. Leaving my basket and candle, I stood and grabbed the painting. I headed for The Corridor, red cape fluttering behind me. I needed to get this painting to its destination.

As I raced down the stairs, my mind spun, and my muscles tightened. Who lurked inside Fable Manor?

I reached the hall. Doors lined both sides. Every door had a number and a title above it. I found door nine which had the words The Picture of Dorian Gray etched on the head jamb.

Who was Dorian Gray?

The foreboding situation propelled me. I leaned the painting against the wall and yanked off the purple cloth. A grotesque black and white image of a gnarled, old man appearing more savage than a beast glared at me. I shuddered.

“Terrible isn’t it?” a voice spoke from behind me.

I spun around to find a young man walking towards me from across the hall. Never had I seen anyone more breathtaking. He seemed an angel in purest form, his golden hair crisp and red lips finely curved.

He approached me, removing his top hat. He smelled of drinkable summer flowers, the kind I picked on my strolls through the forest. He took my hand and bowed.

“Madame.”

He looked up. His eyes wore the color of the bluest sky, a canvas of perfection.

“I feel as if I have stepped into a dream so exquisite it cannot be real.” He stared. “Please tell me your name.”

My cheeks warmed.

“Miss Hood.” I withdrew my hand. “Who are you?”

“My name is Dorian.”

“You’re Dorian Gray?” I felt the walls close in around me. Was I caged with an imposter? “This doesn’t look like you.” I nodded to the painting.

He sighed. “You should never have seen that.”

“You and your painting must enter your door. Otherwise this place will be destroyed, and you will extinguish stories in the real world.”

“Suppose I didn’t appreciate my story’s end and therefore found a way to return. You see…” He paced, head elevated. “Here, I can live as a youth forever. Escape the dismal reality of age and the unattractive. Please, Miss Hood. Surely you wouldn’t begrudge me a life free of unnecessary emotional turmoil? You and I could be of great usefulness to the manor. And you’re wrong about this seeming destruction. Mr. Evergreen claimed that isn’t possible. I asked.”

“Mr. Evergreen didn’t want you to return,” I said. “That’s why you killed him.”

I took a step back.

“Mr. Evergreen possessed a small mind. I even offered to help him manage the manor. He refused.”

I turned toward the door. Opening it, I found a quaint attic with one window. Dust blanketed a stacked bookshelf and some other furniture. A mouse ran across the holed carpet.

“You and your painting must go back. Your story may have dismal pieces, but the world needs stories such as yours.”

Refusing to let my hands shake, I lifted the painting.

“I wouldn’t.”

His voice hardened.

I stepped forward. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a flash of silver. I faced him.

A knife lunged through the air.

I raised the painting up as a shield.

The sound of ripping cloth pierced the atmosphere.

“No! What have you done?” Dorian’s voice grew raspy.

The painting appeared torn directly through the middle. I lowered it and saw Dorian stagger backward, clutching his heart. He fell face down before me.

Breathing hard, I waited. He didn’t move.

The painting set aside, I turned his body over and gasped. The grotesque old man now lay before me.

The knife rested in his chest as if he had been stabbed in the heart.

Dorian and his painting must return to his story, I thought.

I couldn’t be responsible for ruining the real world and destroying Fable Manor.

I dragged Dorian’s aged body through the doorway and laid it down, knife still in his chest. I didn’t want to remain stuck in his story.

The sound of horse hooves clopping against cobblestone came from outside the window.

Going back for the painting, I found it altered. The tear had vanished, and Dorian’s young, beautiful face now stared back at me—oil untarnished. What a lie that face was. It professed beauty, but to me it had the heart of a wolf.

Hauling it through the door, I hung it on a wall in the attic and walked back through the doorway, closing door number nine forever.

Mr. Evergreen would have a proper burial as he was due. I would reclaim my basket. Then I would walk through door number three titled, Little Red Riding Hood. I had my own story to live.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Christy Fiskeaux is a fiction writer that loves world building and getting swept up into the lives of new characters. She has traveled to over thirty countries and has helped coach other writers in Hawaii and South Africa. As a creative she also enjoys music and playing with bands. When she’s not creating, she loves finding amazing coffee shops and tiny Korean restaurants.

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