"Painting, black dragon" [fiction] (Part two)

Mr. Morgan finished speaking and dragged a yellow envelope through his desk, which I took and extracted a bunch of color photographs. It was that picture hanging on what I assumed was the wall of his house.

Like every painting, it has a frame which marks the window towards a fantasy world created by the author. Theses worlds can be anything, but this was one singularity, the first thing that caught me was the image of a child in the middle of the picture surrounded by two girls smaller than him, and whose clothes made a lot of dissonance between them. The girls were dressed elegantly and you could say that quite pompous, while the boy was dressed in just rags. But if you looked closely at the face and head of the child, you realized that it was the face of an older man in a child body. On the other hand, the lady on the left was dressed in blue, while the one on the left was purple, her clothes were completely the same except for the colors, while their faces had a kind of necrosis. By the way, their eyes that at first sigh, you can believe that look's directly at the boy, but in fact, you will notice they are looking directly at you.

It seemed that they had just know that you were looking at them carefully. Above them, a stretched wall of bricks with big empty spaces between them where some kind of "gazes" observing the viewer; in others there were pieces of human body like ears or fingers. And above a window where at first glance there seemed to be shadows, but when you looked at it well, like everything in the painting, you noticed that it was a countless number of hands with bony and very long fingers, with hooked nails clinging either to the floor , as well as the wall or the edges of the window. The other three photographs were first of another resolution, and second were of similar pictures however, the position of their objects were changed, and this was one of those paintings in which moving a single aspect of it meant changing the work completely. Of course, other elements were not the same because in one there was a kind of emanating water on the ground, while in another there were mirrors, they were also disturbing but not as much as the first. Next, I passed the photographs to my partner Stella.

"And what are these other two paintings?" She asked after looking at the photographs for a few minutes.
"Remember what I said that Barry Manson told me only a few things?" Morgan said. Stella nodded. "The painting has what he calls "continuations". That was the word he used, I remember it well. I knew Barry relatively a bit, and before interviewing him, I investigated in the town about him. All concluded that he was good folk, but too reserved and hermit, but also somewhat cretinous in artistic subjects but usually a kind person who has not hurt anyone".

"Very well," Stella said next. "And does Barry know everything you say his painting has caused?"
"Yes, Miss. That was the first thing I said, and that in turn caused the subject to enter the defensive and hide behind his silence. However, it is not as if one could force someone to be interrogated by a painting, which everyone can assume as something that can't hurt you, if we all agree".
"But Barry Manson belongs to a cult or whatever shit they sacrifice innocent people in the name of a fucking god in a fucking lake in a tourist town" Stella pointed out. "Was it at that moment that Barry confessed to being part of the cult?" Morgan took a breath after Stella's question.
"It was soon after that" Morgan served more wine for all three. "It seems he felt guilty".

"And where is he now?"
"Barry is still here in town".
"I meant the painting," corrected Stella.
"Stay in my house. Not on the same wall if not in the basement next to my wine store. I thought about selling it but it would only be sending this misfortune to another family".
"Mr. Morgan, could you tell us what your personal misfortune was?" I asked myself this time. Morgan lit a cigar and offered us but we refused. With this gesture, Morgan opened the window into consideration. It was very cold and breezy outside.

"The house feels very strange. I do not know how to explain it with just words but it is as if you are constantly being watched. Sometimes you can see some human figure through the corner of the eye. My daughter and my wife claim to have seen this, me too, but in the case of the two the issue takes on other nuances because what they have seen has followed them, and has happened to them during the day and during the night. You only need some light to be able to notice it" he exhaled smoke in the direction of the wall avoiding our faces "Misha is my oldest daughter of whom I speak, I also have another younger daughter, Rachel. One night she was playing around the house, running like little children do, she is very restless. Minutes later she arrives with me crying very, very loud and he says: 'Daddy, Daddy. The girls want to harm the boy' "And what child?" I asked her. 'The boy in the painting, daddy. Daddy, those girls have things in their hands. They're like the ones in that movie that you said Misha should not make me watch. Daddy. You know? They are like those long knives with teeth that cut the trees. And the other girl has other things, they are smaller but they are ugly and I do not know what they are called'. After that I went with Rachel to where the painting was and there was nothing different about it. However... Looking at IT seemed increasingly uncomfortable, and in those moments the feeling of being watched grew. The next day I learned that something similar had been said by the girl from the second family. After that I decided to locked the painting where I already mentioned, but the feeling persisted every night. And suddenly, in my house there was only sadness. A sadness like death. It's similar to when they tell you that you have a deadly illness, you or a relative and you feel that... That growing and threatening sadness as if someone had told you that you were going to be executed. And I know what I'm saying because I've had diseases that have brought me to the brink of death. But this is worse.
"That's why you sought to stay here with his friend, the chief of the police," I said.

"Yes, Mr. Jerome. I even thought about burning the painting but they told me it was a bad idea. That's why I decided to call the Shandal. Your group has obtain a lot of fame and prestige lately ending with horrors in other towns and cities. Even with a supposed witch. It is all too fantastic for me, and I will not deny that I find it hard to believe, and that this idea was also supported by the police chief, by the mayor and by other people of money as an advertising method for the people. These things attract tourists later... I guess. But anyway, have they faced something like that? "The tone of Morgan's question denoted his disbelief and even some boredom mixed with despair. It was seen that his biggest concern was not the house but his family.