Autumn came early that year in London. The busy sidewalk across a block of badly-preserved neo-gothic homes was covered with a thick layer of long-dead leaves and fallen crooked branches under a line of naked gloomy trees, with abrasive winds pushing them back and forth till they were completely crashed by the hastened pedestrians.
It was only the first days of September, during the last months of 1882, the year David Morris- a well-known artist of his time- created the largest number of paintings. He was ceaselessly working in the attic, defying tiredness, exhaustion, and even hunger, as the hours passing imperceptibly, voicelessly, almost felt as if in the desolation of his art-realm, time had stopped. In his grimy, untidy studio all the windows were hidden behind heavy dark-colored blankets, and there wasn’t any other furniture but a small shabby couch in the corner, next to a rickety coffee table full of dust and staled breadcrumbs, with a forgotten porcelain plate on and a broken, rusty pocket-watch. The rest of the room was flooded by all the artist’s work and materials. A dozen of finished paintings -covered with overused white bedsheets slightly stained by pigments- seemed like shy, frightened ghosts on their knees, while the colorless canvases supported on the peeled-off, dark walls, looked like bright, viewless windows impatiently waiting to become lively portals to imagination. The rest of his decent-sized house, save from the kitchen, the guest room, and his small bedroom near the attic, was completely empty, bleak, and neglected.
It was nearly evening, or so he thought by the time he had spent on painting since he got up off his bed. He left his fluffy blending brush aside and took a deep breath as he looked at the wet pathway, the tall evergreens, the smoky clouds, and the depressing figures, all reflected in his steady, dark eyes. Starved by the endless hours working, he felt his energy completely draining away, and decided to walk to the kitchen downstairs, for his housekeeper seemed to have retired for the night. He carefully blew out all the candles, walked outside his secluded shelter, and found himself in the corridor that led to the stairs. There, on the left, was a big grimy window naked of curtains; he hesitated but finally approached it to look outside. It was actually very late in the evening; the night was silent and the road across was empty, with not a living soul crossing it. But wait, it was someone or something hiding behind an old abandoned carriage, betrayed by its shadow that was slowly moving under the weak flame of the street lamp. David used his sleeve to clear the glass so he can see clearer. But as he looked again out of the small circle he made with his silky, timeworn shirt, the shadow of that someone or something, was gone. He took his eyes of the window carelessly, returning to his first intention, that of going to prepare something to eat. Going to the ground floor, he lighted up a gas lamp near the main entrance and walked back, going straight to the kitchen. The door handle was broken and the hinges so rusty that as he pushed to enter a deep, loud guttural noise violently broke the quietness and it almost caused him unease. He was used to living alone, especially after the previous housekeeper’s resignation; not even a week has passed since the coming of the new maid, and he could hardly get used to her presence. She was a middle-aged, lowly, acquiescent, and descript woman with hearing and speech problems, but very capable of following through her daily responsibilities.
He decided to grab an apple from a basket filled with a few overmatured fruits and rushed upstairs. The following morning found him inside his workspace; he felt safer around his paintings than anywhere else in the world. He had just gotten dressed when he heard a knock on his door.
“Damn these maids, I specifically told her not to disturb me unless I call for her” he silently complained.
“What is it?” He shouted.
“I’m sorry for disturbing you, but there is someone, a client, who insists on seeing you now.” David seemed uninterested, almost distracted by a white canvas in front of him. He then heard his maid repeating the same words and he got quite narked. He opened the door and faced the pale tired face of Ms. Adelpha.
“Who is that client that insisted on seeing me NOW?”
“She is waiting downstairs sir” The poor maid almost whispered and immediately left. David’s interest was slightly piqued, though he didn’t have enough time for requests. Nevertheless, he wanted to meet that woman who so persistently asked to see him. He wouldn’t allow any stranger or the freshly-acquainted near his workshop -and as the rest of the house was practically unfurnished- he would bring himself to the entrance hall.
There she was proudly standing, wearing an elaborate silk brocade dress with a long-waist bodice that was holding her pretty white breasts tightly, beautifying the pearly necklace around her slender, delicate neck. A golden white lace around the corset’s busk was matching her light amber, wolf-like eyes that were sparkling like diamonds under the rays of the sun. Her velvety lips like red rose petals formed a playful smile in her unworldly beautiful face, her angelic blonde, curly hair falling gracefully on her naked shoulders. In her charming, elegant hands she was holding just one parasol in similar fabric as her dresses’.
“I want you to paint me!” She said directly without hesitation, and without even introducing herself. David blinked uncomfortably and was confused. “Forgive me, my name is Alice. I heard so much about you” She continued “…that I feel like I already know you. You are the artist who with his magical paintbrushes, shall immortalize my appearance.”
“I, I can try, I suppose…” He replied almost trembling as he was absolutely disarmed by her charm and her provoking, presumptuous behavior.
“Let’s go upstairs then; we shall not waste any more time as I need this painting completed by Tuesday afternoon.” It was already Saturday, so it was just around three days left till the time the mysterious woman wanted her painting done. Without understanding why David took her to his workspace in the attic. He apologized for the mess and asked her to sit on the couch. “I don’t draw portraits often, and… this is an old couch” he mumbled as that most certainly was a very excruciating moment; one of those he was unable to properly handle. But she did not seem to care less; she left her lacey parasol aside and sat on the dusty, decrepit couch asking him to start right away.
So, he did, he gathered his painting equipment, and with no further ado he started to paint; her thick, untamed hair, her small delicate features, her rosy cheeks and glossy lips… all the enviable youth that was blooming through the breeze of her indescribable beauty.
After an unknown amount of time, and as the sun was replaced by a silvery round moon, David took a look at the painting and he said that he has all he needed of her, in his mind and on the canvas, and that he could go on finishing the portrait, hopefully in time. The young woman smiled and prepared to leave, reminding the painter that he had to have finished the painting until the coming Tuesday, which would be on the 11th of September. That day she would be visiting again to evaluate his work and hand him the inquired reward. She then suddenly opened the door and quickly went down the stairs; David run behind her and caught her at the front door… “Wait, you said your name was?”
“Alice!”
“Yes… ah…”
“Mrs. Alice.” With that being said, she left; almost disappeared in the mist of the brisk night.
David returned in his studio as if he was deeply hypnotized, and he kept going with the painting, and going, and going until the moon died only to be resurrected on the next night, and as it fainted again with the flaming sun prevailing to once more be defeated by the dark, Monday dawned, aged and passed. It was a little after midnight; the first hours of the 11th of the month found a pallid man, thin and feeble yet bravely standing, with his eyes wide open, staring at the finished painting with an agonizing mixture of feelings between joy, depression, and obsession. He sighed with relief, placed the painted on the couch’s arm, and sat by it, longing to see her again and show her his masterpiece. Yes indeed, he considered this painting as the greatest of his achievements, and he owed that to her. Exhausted and contended as he felt, he surrendered to sleep. Laid on the couch, and under the feeble flame of the candle that was almost extinguished, he saw a woman dressed in a splendid light-blue dress, standing in front of him.
“Alice?” He stammered. But as he was opening his eyes, he realized that the lady who entered his room was smaller, with dark hair and a different silhouette.
“Brother! Oh, my dear God, you are so thin, you look… ill!”
“What are you doing here?” He replied aggressively towards her. “I am expecting someone today, I worked so hard to finish her portrait, I should become decent to receive her. She will be here anytime now. Did this brainless maid let you in?”
“No, David” She held his hand and looked at him straight in his baffling eyes. “You have no maid, David. You’ve been living alone seven years now, since, since…”
“What are you talking about?” He stood up aggravated and disturbed. Then, his sister’s eyes fell upon the painting on the couch and she howled in fear by the sight of it. The woman depicted on the black painted background was sitting on that same sofa, wearing a ripped off, dirty, soiled dress. Her dark, wrinkled, shrivelled skin was like aged thin paper wrapping her crooked bones. Her lips were bluish and her milky, foggy, lifeless eyes with no eyelids were staring bitterly seeking answers for question that had never been made. David noticed her sister’s terror; he seemed confused, so tired, so weak. After a few seconds, he collapsed and landed in his shaken sister’s arms. He took a last look on the painting and then he closed his eyes…
ONE MONTH LATER
“Come on boys I don’t have all day” grumbled the bailiff. “It seems like there is nothing valuable around.” He said and moved on going to the attic, or the workspace. Inside there were lying only paintings covered with bedsheets and dust. He then took a careful look around the room, only to experience an unexplainable feeling, a weird, creepy sense of a presence lurks in the shadows that confused his stolid mind.
“There is only that couch over there; I doubt it worth something but take it.” He said almost tremulous, whispering as if his voice was swallowed by a sense of threatening. While his men moved the couch, the bailiff noticed that there was something underneath. He went closer and saw an old, dirty parasol with black stains on its torn-out lace that looked like dried blood. Next to it was a piece of old newspaper. He picked the page and read the headline which said: September 11th, 1875: Horrible Tragedy on Fellows Road: Alice Morris, wife of famous painter burnt alive with her mother Adelpha, in their own home.
