The Room of Paintings

Nora stared at the doorknob for what felt like eternity. She couldn’t decide whether to turn it or not. She knew what lie beyond it…terrifying as they were. She knew what they were capable of, though not exactly how it was possible.

Her uncle had succumbed to their power.

They could be harmless, depending on which ones you decided to look at, but look at the wrong one for too long, and your fate was no longer in your own hands. Nora knew that, and still she debated entering the room full of paintings.

No one knew if her uncle knew what he was doing when he made them, they just knew not to look too long at them. He could have been a wizard, or gotten some sort of trinket or potion from a magic user to make his paintings…do that.

It was no wonder why he never told anyone, since using magic was illegal. And it was obvious why magic was illegal—it led to events like this.

Nora’s had found her uncle dead, lying in front of one of his paintings. She had covered the painting before the coroner came to take him, lest they look into the painting and suffer whatever fate Uncle Buck had, not that Nora had even known herself at the time. The autopsy report had said Uncle Buck had had a heart attack, but Nora knew better.

The painting had killed him. That much was obvious.

So why was Nora standing in front of the room that housed the paintings, her hand poised over the knob, ready to turn it and enter the Room of Death and Uncertainty?

She needed to know what those paintings would do. She needed to know how her beloved uncle—the man who helped raise her—had died.

She saw her hand turn the knob without really knowing where it got the signal to do so. She felt herself step into the room of paintings—all now covered, protecting any curious eyes from wandering into their deathly power.

She removed the cover from the closest painting and found a depiction of an apple orchard. She let herself look at this painting and welcomed the sensory shift. The apple trees began to sway, the scent of apples, grass, and fresh air enveloping her like a cool washcloth on a hot day.

“Nora, come look at this!” I yelled to the little girl a few trees away. She looked so cute with her two blond braids practically glowing in the golden evening sunlight. Her big blue eyes looked up at me with joy as I crouched down to scoop her up.

A delighted giggle erupted from the child. “Uncle Buck!” She squealed as I swung her in a quick circle before planting her on my hip.

“Look up,” I whispered in her ear.

She tilted her face up to the apple tree’s boughs we were standing in front of, and gasped. “That one’s huuuuuuuuge!”

The apple in question was indeed one of the biggest ones I’d seen on one of my trees. It was a gorgeous and perfect red, as though lipstick brands had used it as inspiration for their colors to make women just as beautiful.

“Do you want to pick it?” I asked.

Nora glanced back at me and nodded emphatically. “We can’t let that one drop to the ground to rot! It’s too pretty!”

I hefted the child up, surprised at how heavy she was getting for a five-year-old. She reached her little arms up and grabbed the apple with both hands, yanking it down and hugging it to her chest. She smiled at me in triumph as I brought her back down to my chest and held her there.

“What do you want to do with it?” I whispered to her as though conspiring with her to commit some crime. “Eat it by itself, or save it for the pie?”

She scrunched up her face with the same seriousness I’d just whispered in, like this was a life-or-death decision, before looking back up at me with a sparkle in her eyes. “Let’s share it!”

“Are you sure? You got that apple, fair and square. It’s yours.”

Another nod. “I’m sure!”

Nora gasped, blinked, and glanced at her surroundings—covered paintings, creaky wooden floor, musty smell of an old building. She looked back at the orchard painting for just a moment before covering it back up.

She took a deep breath to center herself. She’d never allowed herself to become so immersed in a painting before. She touched her face with both hands, felt her hair, ran her hands down her clothes to remind herself who she was. It was awfully strange to become someone else and look at your own five-year-old self through his eyes.

After a few deep breaths, she steeled herself and moved on. The next painting she uncovered was a portrait of a woman—Nora’s own mother and Uncle Buck’s little sister. As she looked at this one, the first thing she noticed was the scent of the perfume her mother had always worn when she was still alive. Her dark brown curls seemed to shimmer in a light coming from somewhere off canvas. Before Nora knew what was happening, she felt herself fall once more.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Buckley,” Missy was saying. “I’m having this baby, whether that asshole feels like being involved or not.”

I knew better than to push Missy too hard when she was set on something, and it appeared that she was set on this.

“I just don’t want this decision to ruin your life, Marissa,” I said as gently as I could. Using her full first name made her face soften and she looked at me fully for the first time since beginning this conversation.

“It won’t ruin my life,” she said without blinking. “It’ll only enrich it. Yours too, if you want to become Uncle Buck, though there’s no pressure. I don’t need anything from you or anyone else. It’s my situation, my problem, my baby.”

“Hold on.” I raised a hand as though to stop her from advancing on me. “Who said this baby would be anyone’s ‘problem’?”

That brought a smile to her face. “Now you’re catching on.” She looked back to the laundry she was in the middle of folding.

“Look,” I went on, joking aside. “If that no-good-son-of-an-ostrich man never shows up to take responsibility of the kid, you can bet that I damn sure will. If it’s a boy, he’ll need a healthy male role model in his life.”

“Surely you don’t mean you?” She gave me a side eye as she folded a kitchen towel.

“Ouch.” I brought my hand to my heart and feigned chest pain. “That hurts, Missy.” The tone shifted slightly, both of us knowing there was an undertone of seriousness to her words. But we also both knew I wasn’t that person anymore.

She shook her head and thankfully moved on, beyond the brief moment of tension regarding my questionable past. “And if it’s a girl?” Cue eyebrow raise.

“Then she’ll have someone to dance with during any father-daughter dance that happens in her life.” Missy damn near began tearing up at that. “That’s about all I have to offer, though.”

She gave me a shy smile. “Thanks, Buck.”

“Got any name ideas yet?” I asked to take us to a lighter subject.

“Well…” Missy sighed and looked up at the wall in front of her. “I always liked Matthew for a boy, but I’m at a loss for a girl.”

“I’ve got an idea, if you wanna hear it,” I said, looking down at the floor. I didn’t know why giving her a name idea felt embarrassing. Almost like it was too personal or something. I looked back up at her. “What about Nora?”

Nora had never even known her name had come from Uncle Buck. She also had never known that they’d had a conversation like this, discussing her no-good-son-of-an-ostrich father who’d never been in her life. She didn’t even know his name, they just always called him Son-Of-An-Ostrich Guy.

The pain in her chest grew, as though her heart was growing but not from hearing the Who's down in Whoville sing. This pain felt like swelling—like the grief of losing her uncle after she'd lost her mom caused an injury to her heart that was having trouble healing.

She needed to find the painting Uncle Buck had been found in front of without letting herself fall into any more memories. She didn’t know if she could take any more before they officially broke her heart too.

The next painting depicted a white picket fence in front of a small, sky-blue house that Nora didn’t recognize. Before this one could come alive in any way, she moved on to the next.

A cliche bowl of fruit. A fox, mid-hunt in the snow. A misty forest lake. A portrait of Nora’s extended family whom she'd never really met.

On and on Nora went, uncovering paintings as quickly as she could before they could ensnare her. Still, that painting eluded her.

She’d thrown the covers off most of the paintings in the room and had almost made a loop around the whole space, coming closer to the door she’d come through when at last she found it.

The depiction of metal bars stood out the most in this painting, a small bed, toilet, and sink just barely visible in the background.

Nora made herself look.

The first sense that came was auditory. The sound of dripping water seemed to come from off in the distance. Then the smell of mold, urine, and dirt permeated the scent of the real room Nora knew she was in. The metal bars appeared more and more realistic, as though she could reach out and put her hand around one.

All at once, she was no longer inside the room of paintings. She was inside the cell.

The bed under her was hard and barely had any give. The bars made up two of the four walls enclosed around her, locking her inside the tiny prison cell. Some sort of liquid Nora hoped was water covered the concrete floor.

It occurred to Nora as she looked down and saw the same jeans and t-shirt she’d been wearing that she was still herself in this painting—not Uncle Buck. The magic in this painting was somehow different.

There were things about her person that were changed from how they were a moment ago. Her clothes, which had been pristine in the room of paintings, were soiled with sweat, dirt, and…was that blood? Where had it come from?

“Didn’t expect to see you in here again, Bucky.” A low, gruff voice came from somewhere outside the cell, but Nora could see no one. "You were doing so well there for a while."

“H-hello?” she asked with a shaking voice.

“What did you think was gonna happen after you stole that Oxy?” the voice continued as though its owner didn’t hear her.

“What’s going on?” Nora asked with more gumption this time. “How did I get in here?”

The deep voice laughed. “I don’t know what you mean by that, but you’ll be in there for a few minutes if you know what I mean. At least until you pay for what you took.”

“What?” Nora shouted.

“You gotta atone for your sins, or some shit like that.” Footsteps sounded on the concrete and a tall, heavyset man with a ponytail and a dark beard stepped into view. His frame was illuminated by a dim lamp coming from around a corner.

Nora was so intimidated by his appearance, it took her a few moments to realize he was looking right at her and he wasn’t surprised by her appearance at all.

“No, you shithead,” the man spat at her. “You’re not gonna be let out at all. You’re gonna sit there and take what we give you.”

This is still one of Uncle Buck’s memories, Nora thought to herself with growing horror. She was still Nora, but the memory was playing as though she was Uncle Buck.

Before Nora could contemplate that further, a loud bang came from somewhere above them.

The man let out a gruff chuckle. “Looks like your atonement has arrived.” He turned and walked out of sight.

Nora heard a woman’s scream from the same direction of the loud bang and what sounded like a struggle. Grunts from what sounded like more men. Something shattered. The noises were getting closer by the second.

She had to get out of here. She had to wake herself up or whatever was necessary to get back to the room of paintings before she saw whatever the conclusion was.

“Get your hands off me, you bastards!” a voice shrieked through the noise.

Nora knew that voice. She’d just heard it a few minutes ago. But it couldn’t be…

Something hit whatever light was casting that dull glow around the room, and the light began to wobble back and forth. It must have been a light hanging from the ceiling.

In the swinging light, Nora could just make out three men, including the one who had been taunting “Bucky” earlier, manhandling a familiar woman. Nora caught sight of the dark curls she’d been looking at a minute ago and gasped, seldom able to believe her eyes as she realized it was her mom being hauled into the room.

“Buck!” Nora’s mother screamed directly at her face. She’d never heard her mom sound like that. “Buckley, what did you do?”

The men sat the woman in a rickety wooden chair and tied her wrists behind the back of it. She looked several years older than she had in the last painting.

“Buck, what did you do?” she barely screamed before one of the men put a gag in her mouth. She continued to shriek around it, glaring daggers right at Nora.

What was this? Was this really a memory? Did Uncle Buck do something to Nora’s mom, or to these men who then subsequently did something to Nora’s mom? Is that how Nora’s mom had died?

“You get to watch this next part, Bucky,” the original man said through the bars. Nora could feel tears streaming down her cheeks. “And you get to relish in the fact that this is aaallllll your fault.”

Nora shut her eyes as tightly as she could, but she couldn’t keep her mother’s screams from reaching her soul.

Nora gasped, barely able to get air into her lungs. She was on her back, looking at the ceiling of the room of paintings and gulping in as much oxygen as she could but it didn’t seem to be enough.

What had just happened? What was that? Was it real? Was that how her mother had died?

Nora had been told her mom was killed in a car accident when Nora was thirteen. She’d moved in with Uncle Buck and he was as doting as ever. He’d brought her presents and let her play hooky from school to get ice cream cones. He’d listened to her cry about missing her mom and had told her how her mom was in a better place and Nora would see her again one day. She’d always assumed it was because she had lost her mom and he was the only parental figure she had left, but had his affection really been guilt?

That painting had to have been a window for him to remember what he had done. Nora wondered if he’d ever really used it before it killed him. Maybe he’d gone back for the first time for a reminder and his heart literally couldn’t take it. Maybe he couldn't put himself all the way into it and that's why she was still herself within the painting.

Nora sat up and looked around her at all the paintings she’d uncovered. She’d been so determined earlier to figure out what had killed her favorite uncle and father figure. Uncle Buck was her rock after her mom died. Guess now she knew why.

Nora’s icy surprise turned to a burning fury. The room of paintings was suddenly tinged red, like that warm glow from the apple orchard but more sinister. The apples in that memory shriveled and died along with any affection she’d held for Dear Old Uncle Buck.

All these canvases held Uncle Buck’s memories. He was alive inside them, even if he wasn’t in reality. Why did he deserve that after whatever he’d done to cause her mom her life? He deserved no one to remember him, especially not so vividly.

Nora stood up slowly and walked out of the room. When she came back, she held an ax from the back shed that Uncle Buck had used to chop firewood.

Before she could become engulfed in another painting, Nora swung.