Sketch

Blood red oozed silkily from the brush as the colour of life and death was added to the faint pencil sketch on the canvas. The final brushstroke finished with a flourish, and he reached out to tug on the tasselled chord hanging to one side of his workbench.

The gentle tinkling echoes of the servant's bell had barely dispelled as she appeared at the door of her master's studio, and he looked up from his easel at the old woman who had answered his summons.

"Glenda, prepare my rooms for a visitor. In approximately one hour there will be a young lady calling. You will escort her to my study."

"Does the master wish to have supper before company arrives?"

"Something light, and stay out of the way for the evening."

"As the master wishes."

The old woman bowed and moved away, casting a surreptitious glance at her master's latest painting. Flashes of colour and detail drew the eye, and she quickly looked away again, not wanting to be caught, or to see any more than she had already. The master did not like being watched.

She limped down the hall, her twisted spine giving her a shuffling awkward gait and a hunched appearance. In the kitchen she prepared a light tea for her master, placing it next to his elbow on the desk, and retired to the kitchens to sate her own appetite. Once finished, she collected her master's leavings, reminded him he was expecting company, and checked his study and rooms to make sure he was ready to receive his guest.

On the hour, the doorbell chimed and Glenda moved swiftly: it didn't do to keep the master's guests waiting. A fluttering swirl of snow leapt into the hall as an elegant brunette swept past the servant. Closing the door, Glenda turned to receive the woman's fur stole and outer garments, and showed the guest to the study. She pretended not to notice the look of distaste the young woman gave her as she looked her over, but efficiently furnished the fashionable young woman with a sherry. Muttering assurances that the master would be along shortly, she left the room and moved into the hallway.

There was a faint creak on the stairs and she watched as he stepped gracefully down from rooms above. Elegant in silver and black, he moved like a panther, controlled, predatory, darkly handsome, and well formed. Narrow hips widened to powerful shoulders supporting a perfect face.

She avoided looking at his eyes.

Only once had she met his gaze in all the years she had served him. The livid lines whipped across her back still pulled where the scars puckered the skin and ached horribly in the cold. She shuddered involuntarily with the memory of both the beating and the dark windows of insanity she'd glimpsed that day.

Dismissed with a nonchalant wave, Glenda moved away as quiet conversation and muffled giggles permeated through the wood of the door. It would be a long night...

~

Cleaning, scrubbing, and polishing: it took so long. Glenda paused, her twisted back aching abominably as she stretched. She moved to the bath and emptied another bucket of filth down the drain, watching as the blood red liquid swirled in its evil little vortex of hate to the sewers below.

Blood was so difficult to remove, but the master would brook no marks. The punishment meted out for an unsatisfactory task would only result in more stains, more blood, more cleaning, more pain, and more scars.

That morning, she had awoken early to let the young woman out, the woman's pale flesh healed and unblemished, a vacant look covering the haunted depths of her soul. She would remember nothing, except in her dreams when the menace of the past would stalk her from the stygian gloom of the darkest rooms of her mind. There was evil in those rooms as she knew to her cost.

Seemingly sated by a long night of lust and debauchery, he'd left the house as the sun rose to midday. The giggles had turned to screams come the witching hour of midnight, and no amount of pillows over her head could muffle sounds of the dark pleasures of her lord and master.

So many beautiful women had passed through the doors of the house; all had left scarred in one way or another. A few had never left.

She paused by his study. Carelessly, he had left the door open, secure in knowledge Glenda would never dare enter, never dare disobey him. Her hand seemed to rise of its own volition and she pushed the door fully open. Casting a furtive glance at the front door, she shuffled quietly inside.

His latest work was drying on the easel. Inspiration from the previous night had sent him into a fever of painting. Fresh oils glistened wetly, seductive and seeming to draw the eye to the tableau. She dropped her gaze to the floor, their natural place amid the horror. The brunette from the previous night had been portrayed all too accurately, her utter servitude and degradation plain on the canvas, the still drying paint giving the blood and gore a sickly obscenity. The old woman felt the bile rise in her throat and she gagged, breathing deeply to still the reflex. There were so many paintings now. Each one hung in gruesome tableau in the gallery across the hall: each appearing to move in the flickering lights of the lanterns when she visited with the master. The gallery; another room she was only allowed in when he was present, one darkened corner of which he tended to, a corner which she dared not visit for fear of violent and potentially fatal reprisal.

There was a rapid tattoo of footsteps outside the plate glass windows, and she broke from her thoughts, scuttling out of the study. Pushing the door back to its original position, she moved out of sight into the servants' stairway. As he entered through the main door, she moved out of the shadows to take his hat and coat and bowed deeply. Pausing long enough only to hand over the sodden garments, he swept past the woman and walked to his study. She flinched as her name was shouted and hastened to his call.

"Why isn't this room clean?"

"Master only allows me in when he is here," she said meekly, her eyes looking at her feet.

"Then why is the door ajar?"

"Master left it open when he went out."

As soon as she said the words she knew it was a mistake. The blow came instantly. He spat on her prostrate form and stood over her, talking in a low and menacing tone she knew only too well.

"You dare to suggest I am at fault? You serve me and are alive on my whim alone, remember that old woman. Now, clean up this mess."

She struggled to her feet and began to clean the room. As she worked, he sat at his desk sketching out little evils and plans; little ways to rob people and gain more money, little pleasures and darknesses which made him chuckle to himself. He drew rapidly, each of his drawings predicting an event that would come to pass, his skill and dark magic weaving together seamlessly on the pages as they flicked past under his coloured chalks and pencils. As she finished dusting the heavy curtains framing the dark windows of the study, he spoke to her again, his mellifluous tones conveying a good humour previously missing, a tone presaging misery for some other poor soul in the future.

"I met a stunning young thing today Glenda. Someone so petite and lovely I felt I had to have her. I think we should invite her round for afternoon tea."

Glenda mumbled a vague affirmative to placate him, feeling some relief he was in fair humour but, as always, uneasy as he talked about his plans. She cringed as he carried on. His tone conveyed so much more than she wanted to know, her imagination painting an all too vivid picture in her mind's eye: a picture she knew her master would happily replicate on paper or canvas.

"She was quite perfect," he mused again. "Here, I've sketched her so you can see..."

Unwilling eyes were drawn up from the floor to the sketchpad he held in front of her face, and she gasped at the sight of the portrait. A smiling face with striking blue eyes and framed by dark curls looked at her from the page. It was a face so similar to what her own had once been that she reached out a wondering hand and made to touch the page, stunned at seeing a face so long forgotten.

She gasped again as her wrinkled hand was struck by her master's, his anger rising instantly to the surface.

"How dare you!" he snapped. "You defile my work by your touch."

He backhanded her across the face and she staggered into his desk, sending materials skittering across its surface and onto the floor. The man howled in rage and slammed a hand on the workbench, catapulting brushes and pencils into the air, debris flying in all directions as he moved to hit her again.

She curled into a protective ball and bore the beating in stoic silence, knowing it was the only way to survive. Any sound of suffering would drive him to a greater frenzy. The repeated blows eventually stopped and he stood over her as he had so many times before, his chest heaving with the effort, features contorted in fury.

"Tidy this," he spat and left the room.

Breathing deeply, she sobbed quietly for a few minutes and picked herself up, wincing at the pain from numerous new bruises and cuts. For several minutes she moved around the study, clearing the mess, and looked around to make sure she had put everything back in its original place. Her eyes scanned the room and came to rest on one of the portraits on the wall.

Her own.

Its drab greyness mirrored her servitude. He had captured her bent form perfectly, as he perfectly painted everything that engendered some form of darkness. The heavy chains depicted in the portrait were invisible in reality but still shackled her soul. She moved closer, her failing eyes drawn to something she couldn't quite make out. It was only when she got close that she realised there was something wrong with the painting.

There was a rip!

In his anger, the master had managed to damage the painting, one of the many pieces of flying equipment punching a tiny tear in the canvas.

She raised a hand, the arthritic swollen knuckles matching those in the painting. Bracing herself, she waited for the pain. Previously, a touch of the canvas had brought instant punishment, but this time she stroked a tremulous finger across the oiled surface, then inserted a digit into the rip, making it larger.

The woman smiled exposing toothless and blackened gums, her first smile in what felt like an eternity. As she moved away from the picture, she caught sight of the sketch on the desk, its youthful vibrancy filling her with longing and memory.

Footsteps sounded in the hall and she moved swiftly.

"Glenda, I require a light meal and warm water for a bath. First though, we need to clean the gallery."

He entered the study and looked at her. She stood; submissive, emotionless, crooked, and he smiled grimly. The brief flash of life he'd seen in her pale eyes had been extinguished, leaving her cowed and beaten once more.

"Come Glenda," he whispered and turned, moving along the hall.

A wave of cold washed out from the gallery as he opened the door, and she shuddered involuntarily as she always did. They moved together into the long gallery room, its tortured and bloody subjects lining the walls with canvas echoes of fear and misery. The far end was in darkness as they approached, and he turned and waved her away, not wanting her close. When she failed to move, he looked back at her.

She looked him in the eyes, her blue gaze boring into his dark orbs.

He stopped, dead.

His eyes widened, and she stared hard at him despite the terror rising in her breast. She looked deep into the dark wells of his soul, deep into the evil lying in his heart. Holding him with her gaze she reached into her robes and shakily pulled out the painting of her with its ripped canvas, wordlessly tossing it to the floor in front of him, the frame breaking as it struck the unforgiving tiles. As he looked down at the painting, his mouth open in sudden shock, she unfolded a piece of paper withdrawn from another pocket and held it in front of his face as he looked back at her. Recoiling, he stepped backwards and she followed, pushing him back into the dark sanctity of his private portion of the gallery.

Looking over his shoulder, he appeared to gather some strength from the darkness and stopped, forcing a grim smile across his perfect face.

"You cannot harm me," he rasped. "Run, while you still can..."

She said nothing but, holding the paper talisman with one hand, she reached once more into a pocket of her torn and grimy shroud and pulled out a sharpened pencil. As he moved to intercept, she stabbed it through the page and he dropped to the floor, his limbs beyond his control and spasming impotently. He looked up at her and snarled, an animalistic noise that betrayed his inner beast.

She shrugged and turned the paper over. The simple stick drawing of her master had done the trick, the sharpened pencil punching through the join of neck and body, rendering him helpless. With an almost morbid fascination, she pushed the pencil into the figure's stomach, prompting a screech of pain and distress from the man on the floor. A wisp of greenish smoke lifted from him and swirled around her, enveloping her and filling her with energy and fire. She smiled and twirled the pencil in her fingers. Seemingly of its own volition the pencil sketched a face to one side of the stick figure, her own face, but as she remembered it when she'd first been drawn into his dark web.

Looking at her hands she noticed the unaccustomed smoothness and lifted one to her face, feeling the young elastic skin and full lips, the smooth cheeks and teeth. Fascinated, she twirled a length of mahogany hair in her fingers.

"And so you are undone master," she whispered into the cool silence of the gallery. "And now you shall do no more..."

Two quick stabs of the pencil into the head and heart of the stick figure followed. There was a short screech of agony and the man on the floor crumpled to dust. A cloud of acrid green smoke rose and surrounded her, and she watched as her stained and stinking clothes changed to a dress of deep maroon. The dust rose and streamed towards the back of the gallery and she followed with quick sure steps, her spine straightening as she walked.

There was a picture.

Its blackened frame absorbed the dust from her master and for a moment his perfect face leered obscenely at her from the darkened paint, screamed soundlessly, and was gone. The picture moved continuously, dark swirls oozing grossly with a hypnotic and oleaginous sinuousness. Other faces appeared but were dragged back into the mire. She moved closer, fascinated by the movements. Her hand lifted and she touched the surface. It felt warm and so alive, so inviting...

Her thoughts were interrupted as the bell signalled a visitor. Out of long habit, she reacted instantly, moving towards the door with haste.

A flicker of maroon caught her eye as she moved past the hall mirror and as she reached the door, she checked herself, looking once more at her smooth hands. She realised there was no pain either, all the aches and pains of being old had gone, as had the bruises from the beating ministered earlier. It was over. She was the mistress now, and there was no need to fear reprisal or beating, no need to fear at all. She laughed and opened the door, her smile fading as she looked at the young girl who stood nervously on the step, the echoes of her former master's conversation replaying in her mind.

"She was quite perfect. Here, I've sketched her so you can see..."

A smiling face with striking blue eyes and framed by dark curls looked at her from one step below.

"Oh, hello, I er..." The girl faltered but took a step forward. "My gosh! You look like me. Except for your eyes, you have lovely dark eyes..."

The girl stopped as the lady in front of her spun around and ran back into the hall, stopping at the full-length mirror with tears running down her face.

"My lady, I'm sorry, have I upset you?"

The girl moved to enter the house, lifting one foot to enter the outer hall, and Glenda whirled about, a look of menace and horror on her face, her expression dark and forbidding.

"Don't you dare enter this house. Run. Run now... while you still can..."

Startled into action the young girl ran down the steps, looked over her shoulder and sprinted down the street, her long dark brown hair flowing behind her as she fled.

Glenda shut the door and looked into the mirror. Blue no longer, ink-dark eyes looked back at her, and she moved into the study to sit slumped at the drawing table. Her mind lost elsewhere, she doodled idly on the pad in front of her...

~

The handsome young man stopped, turned, and walked up the marble steps to the front door, lifting the ornate brass knocker to announce his presence. Doffing his hat and holding his cane in one elegantly gloved fist, he waited until he heard steps, and passed his hat and cane to the servant standing by the door. The man was deformed, a hump twisting him, and age warping his hands.

"I wish to see your mistress my good man."

"She approaches master," croaked the old man and pointed to the staircase.

The woman glided effortlessly down the stairs, her porcelain features framed by dark curls, her figure exquisitely clad in darkest red. He watched as she approached, and kissed the proffered hand as it was raised.

He looked up into dark eyes... eyes of midnight that stole the soul...

~~~ The End ~~~