A Painting by Magdalena Rose

N.P.  Arrowsmith

I

August, 1909

China chattered as Mr. and Mrs. Hayes sipped tea on their balcony. Mrs. Hayes happily watched a summer sun setting behind distant hills, whilst Mr. Hayes’ eyes were upon his wife, whose wavy, blonde hair seemed to glow with the day’s golden hour. Mrs. Hayes’ looked down to an emporium on the street below. A variety of curios was on display of the blackened building and a sign wrought in copper-metal read, ‘Hayes Antique Shoppe’.

“Do you remember how close we came to selling the copper, my darling?” Mrs. Hayes said to her husband, a young, smartly dressed man with a trimmed moustache and mutton chops.

“Most certainly, my dear, Doris.” Mr. Hayes replied.

“For the first time, I feel unburdened by financial worry. You’ve been very shrewd, Richard. I admit I didn’t share your conviction.”

“That’s kind of you to concede. I was sure a valuable sign would attract those with money. No street urchins like those your father had to put up with in this town.”

“Quite. I daresay we owe a good deal of our change in fortunes to the painting by that vulgar artist. You sold it again today, you say?”

“Leased it again, yes, my dear, to a dandy of a chap—Mr. Henry Glover.”

“How long till it’s return, do you suppose?”

“Usually it is a few weeks. Last time was merely a few days. I’m hopeful that it might be up for sale by the end of next week.”

“That is remarkable. Truly. I’m surprised you haven’t sought another of these horrid paintings. That one alone is a firm pillar of your business,” Mrs. Hayes said.

Mr. Hayes laughed. “You hated that painting, now you imply that I should purchase another?”

“I care not what you do in your emporium so long as our finances are secure and our home is free of that ghastly artwork.”

“But you are mistaken, my dear; that painting is a fine piece. The lady is beautiful, the church, majestic, and the way the grassy hills glisten under the moonlight is marvellous, indeed.”

“So, the scene is pleasant, but it was created by that dreadful painter. What’s her name again?”

“Magdalena Rose, my dear.”

“Magdalena? What heathen corner of the continent did she come here from?”

“She is supposedly a daughter of Deaconshire,” Mr. Hayes said.

“No one like that could be born here. She is the Mary Shelley of artists. How I abhor all that she is. She made such vile paintings; one of them traumatised my dear Papa. Such devilry on canvas, all for what, a shock? Was being a woman not enough of a shock? She has singlehanded undermined the Suffragette’s valiant cause. She is no woman but a devil.”

“Those paintings got her notoriety, but no one could stomach to even glimpse them let alone hang one in their homes. And yet, without her former work, her newer paintings would not be so valuable.”

“How can anyone even consider hanging that devil-woman’s artwork in their home or business?”

“Her ‘Rose Petal’ oil paintings capture salvation in art form,” Mr. Hayes said. “She was a frenzied, wicked woman capable of conjuring unspeakable horrors from her mind and graphically depicting them on canvas. No one wanted anything to do with such devilry and she was outcast. Her return came secretly, selling to private sellers under a different name and never once making an appearance. When it was revealed that Magdelena Rose was indeed the artist of the Rose Petals, well… Today’s buyer put it like this: ‘It is as though her old paintings have been exorcised. The devil is gone, and what this Rose Petal shows is the power and the glory of God.’”

“Folly!” Mrs. Hayes said.

“There had been rumours that she’d found God, and what other possible cause could there be for such a drastic change in art style?”

“That woman is devious; she cannot be trusted. By using a pseudonym, it is evident that she tricked good people.”

“Perhaps ‘Magdalena’ was the pseudonym, my dear?”

Mrs. Hayes shrugged then turned to face a red sky, the sun having now set. A new thought came to her, “Is it not suspicious to you that her painting returns so readily?”

Mr. Hayes glanced at his wife and dried a sweaty palm on his suit trousers. “Once my customers have dazzled their esteemed guests with such works of art, they have little use for them. Not unlike how the copper of my signage elevates my status to those who have only time for snap judgements.”

“So, they return them willingly after their event is past?” Mrs. Hayes returned her gaze to her husband. She narrowed her eyes.

“Yes, my dear. You doubted my signage and my purchases, and here we are quaffing the best tea in our new apartment, a veritable penthouse compared to our prior lodgings.”

“My feelings are quite mixed. I shall leave you to sort the business, but dealings in works of a devil will only poison you.”

“A devil come angel, my dear.”

“Pah! Save your sales pitch for your clients. The fruit may seem juicy, but I believe it rotten at the core.”

A moment of silence lay between them. Mr. Hayes wiped his sweaty palm on his trousers once more and regarded his wife’s expression. It was evident to him that her mind was racing with questions. “You should not worry about—”

Mrs. Hayes cut him off, asking, “And how is it that you decided to lease her painting?”

“Quite by accident, my dear. But please do not worry about my work. Have I not made you happy?”

“Very much so.”

“Then please, let us enjoy this fine summer’s evening,” Mr. Hayes said pouring two more cups of tea from a teapot.

Mrs. Hayes smiled once more, lifting the cloud that the mere mention of Magdelena Rose had brought. “We have so much to look forward to now,” she said, turning her gaze back to the red sky. A look of serenity washed over her once more.

Mr. Hayes smiled too, but it belied something different. It was a smile of ambition, a smile of success, a smile of a man who knew more than he let on.

II

A monotonous rattle of a carriage and a rhythmic clop of horse’s hooves continued as the golden hour turned blue. The journey from Lyeminster to Lordale was not a short one, and Mr. Henry Glover had asked the coachman to take his time on the rutted lanes. He had a precious painting to transport. Henry had also opted for a four-wheeled coach for the extra space and comfort, as compared with a hansom cab. The young brown-haired man was alone in the cabin, and his purchase was on the cushioned seat opposite.

Mr. Hayes had been attentive in wrapping the artwork to protect it in transit, yet only a few minutes into the journey, Henry had unfurled much of it to gaze upon the oil painting as he travelled. The setting sun had shone in from behind the carriage illuminating the artwork with its tender touch, and now it shimmered in the soft light of the coach’s oil lanterns. Perhaps it was a little negligent to expose the painting to sunlight, he thought, but this was only a lease. Of course, such a fine piece deserved protecting, but was it not the primary purpose of art to be savoured? That it had instigated an unusual impatience in him demonstrated its magic.

Savour the painting, he surely did. He looked upon the woman in the painting as if she were his very own darling. As a bachelor of modest wealth, dreams of beauty were not wholly unwarranted. The entire scene depicted what he was striving so hard for: an attractive young woman with fire in both her hair and her eyes; an ornate gothic church where faith could flourish; and rolling hills in the background where one could enjoy the peace and serenity of nature. And didn’t the cool tones of the lunar lighting just reinforce a timeless quality? It made him wish for such tranquillity and gave him hope that such a moment may last for eternity.

The title of the painting was simple but curious, ‘Rose Petal VI’. Henry knew of the Rose Petals, but this was the first he’d seen. It implied there were at least six, but how many there were in total was a mystery. Did ‘Rose’ refer to the reddish hair of the lady in the canvas, or might this have been a self-portrait? The artist was said to be from Deaconshire, and Henry spent a moment pondering whether he knew the location depicted. It certainly appeared inspired by the picturesque county, but while both the church and the hills harboured features that seemed familiar, he couldn’t make a specific recollection.

As fascinating as the painting was, what truly inspired Henry was the artist herself. Whenever Henry visited a new town, he liked to frequent local galleries. His interest in art wasn’t particularly strong; it was more a place to go, and he preferred more gentile establishments than rowdy taverns. It was in one of these galleries that he first learnt of a controversial artist from the area. The curator let slip that the artist was female but stressed that this wasn’t his reason for barring her work from his shop. After that, he refused to say anymore.

Other curators in nearby towns were equally reticent to speak of Ms Rose, but this secrecy only intrigued Henry more. Upon learning of her ‘revelation’ from wicked Satanist to devout Christian, his interest was piqued. From that point, he sought out her paintings, being told time and time again that no self-respecting shopkeeper would touch her work. Her Rose Petals were lost to private hands it seemed.

Most curators were sceptical of the rumours surrounding her redemption, deeming such a feat to be impossible—but wasn’t that the miracle that this artwork represented? As a deeply pious man, Henry believed such miracles were indeed possible; thus, the artwork before him now was a miracle of God that he could touch. This artwork was akin to the Grotto of Massabielle in Lourdes or his very own Turin Shroud. In form, it was ordinary; but in terms of art, it was extraordinary.

Henry could not well hope to afford such a Wonder, but this strange means of leasing was an opportunity not the be missed. Mr. Hayes in the shop had not seemed too worried about the length of the loan. It had been easy to push Mr. Hayes to extend the period of the lease from two years to five. He felt he could’ve tried for more, but he did not wish to take advantage of a poor fellow who had very few customers.

As the carriage approached the village of Lordale, there was still brightness in the sky, but the fields, hills and houses were all dark. This settlement was so small there was no church or electricity or gas lamps. There was a small post office, but if you wanted to send a telegram, you had to travel to the nearby town of Ghyll. Several villagers, including Henry, would commute to the town for work in the week and then church on Sunday. It was only a few miles away, and Henry wished to remain in the peaceful home that his parents built. The house seemed to resonate with memories of them, keeping them alive somehow as if their souls were tied to the place.

Horse hooves crunched gravel, signalling their arrival. The dark silhouette of his home came into view. Henry reapplied the wrapping around his new prized possession as best he could. The oak frame was bulky and heavy, but the coachman kindly helped Henry carry it not just inside but up to his master bedroom. Being an only child, he had the luxury of a room as large as his parents, and the seat of power merely shifted across the landing on the tragic day when his last remaining parent passed away.

After thanking and tipping the coachman, Henry set about lighting candles and oil lamps before moving furnishings about. Such was his enthusiasm for this miracle of art, he wanted the canvas on the wall before bedtime. To wake on a holy day to such a piece would be most wonderful indeed.

Henry toiled for hours. There was no church bell to announce each hour, but steadily a bright moon rose outside. With only himself in a large house, Henry had grown used to the quiet. Odd noises, glances from figures in portraits and flickers of candlelight no longer bothered him, but it was nice to have a task to keep his mind occupied.

Lunar light crept into his bedroom and shimmered in the polished stone of the landing as it shone through a window across the way. It would be a couple of days until the moon was full, but such nights always reminded him of his youth. It had been a family tradition to do activities on full moon nights, such as playing games or walking through nearby fields. Even now, on nights like this, he might sense the presence of his parents about the house. These occurrences didn’t spook Henry as he believed it was simply these recollections repeating in his mind. Memories were not unlike ghosts, he reasoned; in some way, his parents would always remain alive in his thoughts. And living in the house that they built, his memories—and thus, his parents—were much closer. It was a source of comfort for him.

Finally, the painting was up, and he’d rearranged furnishings and tidied the room too. Henry sat in his armchair and took a moment to relax and appreciate his labours. He glanced over at a grandfather clock by the door and was surprised to see the hour had passed midnight. Not wanting to cast the canvas in darkness so soon after mounting it, he kept an oil lamp on his bedside table alight and climbed into a four-poster bed. Rose Petal VI was framed, as intended, between the two posters at the foot of his bed. He lay there and regarded the artwork once more.

The painting represented a life that he sought, but he did not want to sell his parent’s home. However, if his recent successes with his fledgling business continued, he may be able to afford a second home in such a location. The attractive young redhead looked upon him; the thought of such a beautiful wife warmed his soul. Sleep caught Henry with a smile etched on his face.

There came a loud, trembling sound not long after attaining sleep, and Henry awoke in a paroxysm of fright. Such a sound was never heard in this isolated country village, and yet it seemed incredibly close as if originating from a room in another corner of his house. Henry sat up and shivered, feeling an icy chill. The oil lamp at his bedside was still alight. With bleary eyes, Henry glanced around the room fearing something had fallen due to his rushed late-night labours. Paintings hung straight, doors were closed, and the grandfather clock stood firm—nothing was out of place. The clockface told of the hour—one o’clock—but it had been years since it announced these milestones in time. No, the grand, old clock was very much mute, and Henry turned his gaze to the new painting beyond the end of his bed, where a church gleamed in painted moonlight. The sound that awoke Henry was unmistakeably a single chime of a church bell.

Henry spent a few moments recovering his composure, before cursing the vividness of his dream. All was silent now, except for the ticking of the clock. He felt foolish but relieved. Accepting that the sound was purely imagined, he snuffed out the oil lamp.

All did not go dark instantaneously as the wick of the oil lamp faded gradually. Henry turned over as the light in the room faded. The painting by Magdalena Rose faded too, yet Henry had the strange notion that it faded more slowly. Momentarily, he felt that same icy chill run down his body towards the painting. There, the lady looked out innocently, but that sweet face… In the last moment before darkness came, it did not seem the same.

III

When Henry awoke in the morning, he regarded the woman in the painting. It was not quite the delight he had hoped. The curious event in the night had dampened the moment. He recalled times, particularly in his youth, when he’d imagined monsters in the shadows of mundane objects. Of course, it was just folded clothes hung over a chair or something similar, but in the middle of the night, the mind conjured such fancies. This, Henry told himself, was also why he saw the expression of the lady in the painting changed. But what of the chime? Every fibre in his body knew that was not dreamt. Could it be the grandfather clock remarkably tolling again? No. The sound emanated not from beside the door but from the wall opposite his bed, where the painting hung.

Henry took the horse-drawn omnibus with his fellow villagers to St Paul’s in Ghyll. He’d planned to extol about his new purchase and invite them to see the miraculous artwork that proved Magdalena Rose’s discovery of God, but now, he neglected to even mention it.

Henry sang the hymns in church with great vigour. God was righteous and glorious and would never fail to protect him. His little party from Lordale always sang the loudest; the townsfolk’s hearts just weren’t quite in it.

Henry’s late parents had gossiped about an event in the year of his birth, 1880. Some terrible event led to fires in the street and wanton destruction within the grounds of the church, yet the cold light of day had sobered the townsfolk, who later feigned ignorance. The rumours were of an act of necromancy or bedevilled magic. It rather cast a shadow over the town and a mistrust in its people—another reason Henry preferred to remain in Lordale—but hadn’t he rather lost his passion for his new purchase in the same way as the townsfolk’s faith had gone adrift?

The thought irked Henry. He was being ridiculous. It was nothing more than a twinge of buyer’s remorse coupled with the fact that some of his fellow villagers knew of Magdalena Rose, and he wasn’t prepared for all the ‘satanist’ comments that would come when he mentioned her name. Besides, this town was no place to approach such subjects.

Henry rallied in his resolve. After a week with the painting, such daft notions would be gone. Yes, he was sure. His passion would be renewed, and he would invite his fellow villagers to his house to view it then.

Returning home, Henry enjoyed a Sunday lunch and a sunny day toiling in his garden. He took special care when tending to the graves of his parents who were buried at the boundary of the property, where the garden met a woodland. His parents had not wanted to be buried at the cemetery in Ghyll due to the rumours of desecration that had taken place.

Henry’s evening was mostly spent reading, but he couldn’t concentrate. There was something he wanted—no, needed—to check. Returning to his master bedroom, he first glanced at the painting, and all was as it should be. He then opened the grandfather clock and inspected the mechanism. He got a swift answer to his enquires, the hammer that once caused the clock to toll was not there, removed years ago by his father no doubt.

A simple answer is always welcome even if it doesn’t resolve a mystery, but he thought a moment on the fiction that he was reading. He enjoyed reading a Penny Dreadful now and then, and hadn’t he read an article in a stiff broadsheet about how such uncouth and roguish publications were warping people’s minds, especially the young and impressionable? Was this his answer? An overactive mind?

Henry moved to the painting and inspected it closely. Here were the brushstrokes guided by God’s healing hand, and he couldn’t resist tracing them with his finger. The woman’s countenance was that of someone relaxed and content; in the night, he thought he’d seen her grin. What Henry felt, unsurprisingly, was paint on canvas, not fire on brimstone. His inspection served to put his mind at ease. There was nothing extraordinary materially, yet he still regarded the artwork as a miracle.

Afterwards, Henry went about his nightly routine and prepared for his work in the morning. He went up to bed much earlier than he had the previous night. Having snuffed out the oil lamp, Henry couldn’t help but glance once more at the canvas. All was dark. There was no ghost light from the frame. All was well and sane.

A deep sleep caught Henry. A disruptive few days had taken a toll on him. He lay as he so often did, on his side facing the window. Being summer, just a single sheet lay across him. Dreams swirled to and fro, caught in the gentle breeze gifted by an open window. Woodland creatures muttered outside and a scent of cut grass and straw wafted in. But the scent filling his nose grew thicker and staler. It muddied his dreams, then the stench became rancid. Deep chimes trembled aloud.

A fit of fright stole the beat of Henry’s heart. With the first peal of the bell, he opened his eyes. There was a glow of moonlight about the room even though lunar rays never entered as the only window was north-facing. A cold breath brushed the nape of his neck and with it came a potent whiff of rotten flesh. An icy touch slipped between the bedsheet and his skin.

Momentarily, all was still, then came the second toll of a bell. Frosty fingers walked along his side and across his torso before pausing over his heart. Hairs on his chest stood on end, frozen rigid.

A new stillness echoed in a silent night. Pressure on Henry’s chest forced him to fight for a breath, then came a third and final chime. An ice-cold body cuddled up to him, and the hand on his chest reached inside—it clasped his heart and squeezed tightly.

Henry was paralysed in terror. His heart did not beat, and his breath would not come. His eyes raced around, but he saw nothing. The metallic peal resounded in his ears, but then as it tailed off so did the vice-like grip of ice. As the echo waned, the cold clutch receded. Warmth came back to his chest and his heart restarted with a kick of adrenaline.

Henry’s muscles jolted as blood flooded through them once more, and he rolled onto his back. Now he saw Magdalena’s artwork aglow, now painted with moonlight that spilt into his bedroom. His eyes focused on the church. A daemonic entity clung to its sounding spire. Lights were on inside the chapel, and shadows passed by the windows. A new terror struck him. The whole scene was alive and scattered with hellish creatures that he could not resolve. Yet there was something worse than that—something was missing. The rose-haired woman was not in the frame.

As the third toll became a faint echo, the air shifted about him. It was maddening like seeing heat haze in the night. And yet it lingered and swirled turbulently above him. Henry lay paralysed once more. The breathless breeze stirred and gently receded towards the painting. This distortion was like waves of refracted light with a will all its own. As it moved further away, Henry just barely resolved a recognisable form. The more it drifted towards the painting, the clearer it became. As the final trace of sound ebbed away, the distortion reached the artwork and dissolved.

There were to be no more chimes at this hour, but the new silence was not to last long. In the moment before, Henry’s eyes locked with a woman who stood at the recently vacated spot in the painting. Wretched wrinkles ran across a face bubbling with boils, and her grubby clothes were torn and tatty and exposed a frail body with veins as stiff as bristles on a broomstick. On her face was etched a grimace only a few stained teeth could grasp onto. The bright canvas slowly faded, as if a cloud were passing across the face of an out-of-frame moon. Original brushstrokes returned and the hag grew younger. When darkness finally came, so too did a scream that startled prey and predator alike in the woodland beyond the window and across the garden.

IV

Henry lay awake for the rest of the night, his sheets drenched in sweat. Even if he could sleep, he daren’t. What if she came back? The worst thing of all was not being able to see the hands of the grandfather clock. The bell tower in Magdalena’s painting did not chime every hour, but if it did, it would chime on the hour. But without knowing the time, every minute felt as though the next hour was just one minute away. At any moment, she may return. But finally, the drapes brightened as they held back the morning light, and the bell hadn’t tolled again.

When Henry finally resolved the hands of the grand, old clock at half past five, he allowed himself a moment to relax his tensed muscles, but daylight brought a new problem—he would be able to see the artwork if he looked over. What would be there? The pleasant disguise or the true madness of Magdalena’s mind?

The painting had paralysed him in the night, and Henry felt that the gaze of the lady may trigger a repeat. He delayed a moment, summoning courage, but then, throwing off the clinging, damp sheet, he rose out of bed.

Henry marched to the canvas. He was unable to avoid a momentary glance, his curiosity was such. He saw what he expected, the cunning disguise. He ripped the painting down and leant it against the wall, turned away. This artwork was truly devilish. Magdalena was unable to get anyone to purchase her daemonic monstrosities, but by giving her wolves sheep’s clothing in her Rose Petals, her daemons could feed.

Henry looked at the back of the heavy frame. He wanted to destroy it, but the frame was too firm for him to simply put a foot through it, he would need to fetch tools. The pressing need, though, was to get it to a place where the woman in the painting could no longer watch him.

The weight of the painting caused him to struggle. Sure, he’d had help bringing it up when he’d arrived, but in his excitement, he’d rather overlooked the weight, he judged. Henry’s first triumph was getting the artwork out of his master bedroom and sealing the door shut behind him. With one bare foot under the frame, he lifted it and took a large stride forward. He wanted it out the way before the next hour came. Heavy stride by heavy stride, he got the painting to the top of his stone stairs.

He didn’t want to destroy the painting, not yet anyway. A thought grew in the back of his mind. Something supernatural or daemonic lay within the object he was carrying. He surely felt the weight of it. But the canvas acted as some kind of seal holding it inside, only to be released on the stroke of an hour and only when the painted church chimed. If the canvas was torn, what would happen? Would the daemon be destroyed or set free?

Another thought crossed his mind although this was more an instinct, but it told him that the church would not toll in daylight. Perhaps it was the moonlight setting or the fact that this creature seemed nocturnal, but he believed he had till dusk to decide upon a course of action. Henry took great pains to carry the painting down his twisting stairs, then he cleared out a storage cupboard, before carrying the painting inside. He stood it to face a dusty wall, then closed the cupboard behind him. Henry collapsed in a heap on a leather sofa and took heavy breaths spliced with both relief and fear.

The day grew brighter, and Henry remained firmly in the comfort of his sofa when he should have taken a carriage to his office in Ghyll. Carriages ran like omnibuses in the small village of Lordale, and if you either missed or hadn’t made a booking, you likely wouldn’t get another opportunity. Attending his office seemed unimportant today—he needed to recover—but he disliked that he had no way to inform his colleagues of his absence. It was a common courtesy, but without a post office in Lordale, he could not send a telegram. Henry then had a thought that made him wish that he hadn’t missed his carriage.

As the artwork was leased, he couldn’t afford to destroy it lest he’d need to pay Mr. Hayes an extortionate sum. However, if he were to return it to Mr. Hayes, he’d need to visit Ghyll to arrange a delivery.

Moments later, Henry saw his neighbour, Mr. Ernest Taylor, walking by. He was an elderly gentleman whose grey hair was peeking out beneath his bowler hat. At church, he’d made mention of a doctor’s appointment in Ghyll today, and seeing an opportunity, Henry rushed to his front door.

“Afternoon, Ernest,” Henry called out.

“I think you’ll find it’s still morning,” he shouted back from the edge of Henry’s front lawn. “What are you doing here and not at your office?”

“I had a dreadful night. I’m still a little out of sorts.”

“I can see that,” Ernest said, now walking down the gravel track towards Henry. “You looked a bit peaky at church yesterday, come to think.”

“I’m on the mend now. Can I ask a favour?”

“You want me to tell your office that you’re ill and not skiving.”

“I’d appreciate that, but I have another request.”

“Fire away, young man.”

“I need to send an item to a Mr. Hayes in Lyeminster,” Henry said. “He’s a charming fellow with some fine artworks.”

“I’d be happy to take your item to the post office in Ghyll,” Ernest offered.

“Hmm. I don’t think that will work. It’s a painting, you see, too cumbersome for a crowded carriage. No, could you ask a cabman to collect and transport it? I hate to be a burden, but I’d really appreciate it if it could be sent later today. Could you ask a cabman to visit me as soon as you arrive in Ghyll?”

“Oh. I’ll do my best. You know how hard it can be to get a carriage without a prior reservation. Cabmen seem to be in such short supply what with so many choosing to be private chauffeurs. And who can blame them when they get twice the rate driving those newfangled motor cars? Nevertheless, I shall endeavour to arrange your cab.”

“Thank you. Let me right down the address of his shop.” As Henry was writing the note, he added, “Mr. Hayes pointed out his home address to me across from his shop. I’ll make a note of that too as I expect it may arrive after hours.” Henry gave his neighbour the note and bid him a good day.

Henry paced to and fro for much of the afternoon. He remained close to his front window as he anxiously waited for a cab, but the hours passed and no carriages came. His wait was exacerbated by the determination of his mind to dwell upon the cursed painting. How could such a thing exist? What witchcraft was Magdalena Rose capable of? Where would the painting end up once he returned it?

The last question had been what troubled him to the point that he penned a letter to Mr. Hayes with a warning of the evil within the canvas. He tried his best to make such absurdities seem plausible enough that his warning would be heeded. Henry’s conscience was clearer having written the note, but he questioned where the painting had been before.

Surely, Mr. Hayes couldn’t already be aware of its bedevilment. Could he? And what of those who leased it prior? Had they experienced the curse and given a warning? Mr. Hayes would have to consider such things if it was reported on multiple, independent occasions. The wrinkles of worry that etched across Henry’s forehead then deepened as he saw Ernest approaching his house.

Meeting him at his door, Ernest confirmed the fear festering within Henry’s gut. There were no carriages available today. Ernest bemoaned the lack of cabmen once more, but he buoyantly recounted how he’d negotiated a cab that was both earlier and cheaper than originally offered by paying in advance. It would arrive tomorrow afternoon. Henry expressed his gratitude and paid him back whilst hiding his anxiety towards having the painting for another night.

“Something troubled me, though,” Ernest said. “If you visit the office tomorrow, you won’t be able to give the cabman the painting.”

“In such a case I will leave a note that it is in the outhouse. As you have already paid, it should be no trouble.”

“Ah, very well. May you feel better soon.” With that, Ernest left.

As troubled as Henry was to not be rid of the artwork, the thought of the outhouse provided some comfort—he could get it out of his house. Henry noted how the sun was already dropping low in the sky, so he wasted no time in moving the painting from the storeroom to the outhouse.

With the cursed artwork out of his home, he finally found relief was able to override his anxiety. Henry’s worrying meant he hadn’t eaten all day. Food gave him a boost of energy, but as the night sky turned red with the setting sun, the fear of hearing church bells returned once more.

It was outside, he told himself. And it was out of sight, but the spectre of eight o’clock loomed over him. Henry visibly tried to shake off the notion, then he picked up a book and opened it at the bookmark. Black text on off-white pages was what he saw, but he didn’t register the words. He may have been staring at the next page in his book, but nothing went in. While his eyes stared, his mind swirled. Glances to a timepiece on the mantel became more and more frequent as the minutes ticked to the hour.

When it finally came to eight o’clock, he kept his head firmly in his book. Dusk was heavy outside; the blood-red sky had drained out leaving only bluish-black. Henry’s book glided in sweaty palms. He stared and stared without hearing a sound, and when he finally looked back to the clock, he breathed an audible sigh. The eight o’clock hour was passed.

A similar circus played out at nine o’clock; again, there were no phantom bells. Now, though, Henry found his head bobbing and his eyes closing. He’d had such little sleep, and he wasn’t getting anything done. He resolved that the only course of action was to get an early night.

Henry was in bed before ten o’clock but waited with his oil lamp alight for the hour to pass; he anticipated needing a full hour to fall asleep despite his tiredness. In the place of Rose Petal VI was a family portrait photograph. He’d never wanted to move it from his parents’ bedroom until now. The monochrome picture was unusual in many ways; his parents were creative and didn’t want a stiff, formal portrait. Instead, this photograph was set in a landscape aspect ratio. His mother had a kind smile, and his father, wearing his distinct circular spectacles, was not looking out of the portrait but rather at a young Henry, whose fingers were playing with his mother’s blonde curls. It was a comfort to sleep under the watch of kind, reliable faces instead of that bewitched woman. Nevertheless, Henry questioned whether he was out of earshot of the phantom tolls.

Ten o’clock passed, but after a brief sleep, he awoke before the eleven o’clock hour. It passed too. Next was midnight. Henry recalled the trembling chimes and the ice-like grip that arrested his heart. The prospect of twelve tolls caused him to toss and turn. One chime stunned him; three had paralysed him; what would twelve bring?

There was no hope for sleep. All there was was fear and trepidation and angst. Henry thought of Magdalena. She was a miracle in the clutch of the devil. He thought of the grinning hag he’d seen fleetingly in the picture. This was her wish, to trick and torment men of God.

The grandfather clock ticked ever louder while Henry’s sheets grew sticky with sweat. The oil lamp had burnt out, so he could not see the clock face. Midnight… Wasn’t that the witching hour? Wasn’t that when Magdalena would enact her truly evil deeds? Henry didn’t know how close the hour was at hand, but there was no point checking if the hour had already passed. He was expecting to hear the chimes now. He grumbled that there was no cabman today, and he bemoaned that he’d not moved the painting further away from his property. How foolish he’d been to act with only a half measure. Still, Henry waited, all the while his grip on his sheets grew tighter.

And there it came—a trembling toll as if from a church bell just outside his window. He thought the whole village should hear it. The dread that it struck held a dead weight that pinned him to the bed. Paralysis once more seized his body. He lay on his back only moving his eyes from the window to the door. There was no extra light in the room, but he knew the artwork in the outhouse was aglow in its own moonlight. And the rose-haired lady was free to leave her boundary.

In the brief pause between chimes, there came a lilting sound from downstairs as if a woman was humming a tune. The next peal drowned it out, and by the time the second toll subsided, Henry heard the same playful tune, now from the top of the stairs. There was no creak or sound of footsteps, but Henry knew the woman had indeed vacated the confines of her painting. Henry’s eyes turned towards the direction of the child-like song. As the next bell came, Henry postulated that the woman had this and nine more tolls till she would be drawn back to her painting.

A figure with matted, red hair covering her face and a grubby, torn gown emerged at the edge of his vision by the door. She was aglow as if in the light of a full moon. She stepped passed where he could see clearly, then he felt someone enter his bed without moving the sheets. In the next pause, he both heard and felt a breath at the nape of his neck. The rancid foetor returned.

An icy hand froze beads of sweat on his chest and came to rest above his heart. The hand pressed firmly. It sunk into him, chilling his blood. Dry, ropey hair floated across Henry’s face. A toothless grinning hag gazed down at him as she clasped her icy hand like a vice on his heart. Henry lay frozen gazing at the hag as the bells struck. Each one stilled a beat of his heart as frost threatened to bite.

Henry’s consciousness was slipping. Now he saw multiple figures above him. It didn’t seem to be blurred vision as one of the new ghostly apparitions was that of a man wearing circular glasses. The other was a young, attractive woman with curly hair. His final glimpse before passing out implied that these two spectres were fighting to pull the hag off him.

V

It was late when there came a knock at the door of Mr. & Mrs. Hayes’ home. Mr. Hayes was attending to some accounts. The numbers that were loose in his head would be lost if got up from the dining room table. There came another impatient wrap of the doorknob. Mr. Hayes finally got up, grumbling.

“I’ll get it, shall I?” Mr. Hayes shouted to his wife, but he got no answer. She was simply out of earshot, he judged. It was not uncommon in this house. Mr. Hayes went down a flight of stairs and met a cabman at his front door.

“Mr. Hayes?” the cabman asked, to which he received affirmation. “I have a delivery for your shop. It’s in the cab.”

“At this hour?” Mr. Hayes checked his pocket watch. It was nearly eight o’clock.

“Took me a while to find you, sir. The instructions were a little vague, and I didn’t collect the package till late afternoon.”

“Oh, very well,” Mr. Hayes said irritably. “Would you mind leaving it the hall and closing the door on your way out? I need to get my work completed for the morning.”

The cabman agreed, and Mr. Hayes walked back up the stairs. He tried to gather the numbers that had been in his head, but as he feared, they were gone. Mr. Hayes sat at the dining table and followed the sound of the cabman’s heavy boots clapping on his stone floor, then there came a loud thud as he set down a heavy item. Mr. Hayes wondered briefly what it might be, but once he heard the front door close, he got back to his accounts.

Bells tolled around Lyeminster at eight o’clock and then nine o’clock. All was quiet in the house. Close to ten o’clock, Mr. Hayes expected his wife would come up to offer him supper. He’d busily worked away in the hope that he may be finished by that time, but it would take a little longer. As expected, he heard Doris closing doors between the kitchen and the lounge, and then the lounge to the hallway. Doris let out an audible gasp, and Mr. Hayes realised that she must’ve been surprised by the package.

Church bells chimed throughout the town. Being in the centre it was always a noisy affair, and Mr. Hayes seldom went to bed before midnight as the chorus would only wake him. Yet this time, the metallic peals startled him. So familiar was Mr. Hayes with the churches and their timings that he could pick out each one. And yet, there now seemed a newer, closer one—so close that each chime vibrated his whole being. Ten booming clangs in amongst all the others.

When they finally stopped, he had to catch his breath. There were old churches that no longer sounded. “Why do they need another bell?” Mr. Hayes grumbled aloud to the fresh silence. He expected a reply from his wife, but none came.

Mr. Hayes quickly finished his sum, then questioned why Doris hadn’t come upstairs. Was she inspecting the item that had been delivered? What could it be? It had sounded heavy, and it evidently surprised her. Might one of his art or antique dealers have sent some strange artefact his way? It wouldn’t be the first time. It was always exciting to receive such strange packages. Mr. Hayes was reminded that this was how the painting by Magdalena Rose had come into his possession.

A thought occurred to Mr. Hayes, and valleys stretched down his forehead. Could it be…? Had he not pointed out his home address to that young man who’d leased that painting? Surely not. “Doris?” he called out. There was no reply. He thought more on the artwork. There was something about it that he knew he hadn’t witnessed. He’d close the shop a few minutes past five o’clock and was always home by six o’clock. It was a new routine, partly implemented due to his unease of being alone with Magdalena’s painting after dark. As such, he’d never had to witness whatever phenomena it was that could cause an artefact with a five-year lease to return in five days. “Doris?” he called out at much higher volume. Silence.

“No!” Mr. Hayes cried. “You fool!” he shouted at himself. His chair scraped as he shot up from his desk. “Doris, darling? Are you all right?” Nothing.

Mr. Hayes hurried to the stairs, papers falling to the floor in his haste. “Doris, darling?” he repeated as he raced down the stairs. Without a response, his cry grew frantic, and shortly after darting into the hallway, he let out a harrowing cry.

Doris Hayes lay lifeless on the hard polished floor. Mr. Hayes, in a wild frenzy, shook her, kissed her, and shouted at her—anything that might bring her back. As he held her, he felt a bite of frost on her skin. Her clothes were unmarked, but her chest was icy cold. It led him to discover a pale blue-grey patch of skin close to her heart.

Mr. Hayes bawled aloud. Tears filling his eyes, he looked up, praying for a miracle. Then he saw it. There, propped against the wall, was a painting by Magdalena Rose. It was number six. Mr. Hayes held his dead wife and sobbed.

As Mr. Hayes cradled Doris’ body, he rocked backwards and forwards, screaming at himself and the artwork. After a while, there came a little tinkle from the lounge. A quaint little clock with small garden birds on chirped happily. Mr. Hayes watched it through the open door. It was always first to mark the hour, purposely a minute fast so the town’s bells didn’t give them a start. As the colourfully painted birds chirped their last before eleven o’clock, the bells all around the town began their hourly argument once more.

Mr. Hayes turned his head slowly towards the artwork. His body prickled as the new bell tolled once more. First, he saw the contented expression of the young, rose-haired woman, before noticing a brightening candlelight glow from inside the church behind her. Then, as if the moon in this painted world emerged from behind cloud, the whole canvas gleamed with lunar light. Some hideous outline seemed to cling to the church’s spire, only now visible. Other hellish creatures emerged from shadowy crevices and soon the whole canvas was infested. And then he saw again the young, contented lady. Except she was neither young nor contented, but an old hag with a gummy smirk. And her eyes locked with his as she stepped out from the painting.

~o~

N. P. Arrowsmith is an author of adult horror fiction and a Chartered Engineer with the Royal Aeronautical Society. He lives in Lancashire, England and can be frequently found hiking in The Lake District, the inspiration behind his fictional county of Deaconshire. His other passion is to explore weird and wonderful places all around the world. You can find out more about the author at nparrowsmith.com

In Judge Clare’s words,  “A Painting by Magdalena Rose was an immersive and creeping tale, atmospheric and insidious.”