The Man In The Portrait

Ronald Davis started out as a humble carpenter back in Glasgow. He worked hard, got one or two lucky breaks along the way, and within a few short years he ran a successful furniture business. He spent his time making bespoke pieces for the rich, as well as fitting out shops for every important retailer in the city. But with the increase of wealth and success one often sees a good man turn into an arrogant fool. And that was exactly what happened to Ronald Davis. As his riches grew and grew, so did his selfishness. He was cruel to his workers, and he did not share any of his good fortune with his family members. By the time Ronald turned forty, he had bought himself a large mansion on the outskirts of the city and built a high wall around it. The message was clear: Stay away.

So, when Ronald Davis disappeared one day, no-one really noticed at first. It was only after a while that passersby would glance in through the gates and comment on the overgrown state of the garden and the dusty look of the window panes. No-one could recall when last they had seen Ronald's shiny car drive down the street.

Finally, after numerous failed attempts to make contact, the police forced the gates open and entered the property. Inside they found everything intact, but covered in dust and cobwebs. There was no sign of the owner. It looked as if he had just upped and left, although his car was still in the garage. There were traces of food, rotten and stale with age. The clothes inside the neatly crafted wardrobes were moth-eaten and damp. It appeared that no-one had been in the house for quite some time.

Ronald Davis was officially announced missing. Newspapers spread the word. For a while, the whole country was looking for him, without any success. He seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth. And so, after two years, his remaining family members had Ronald Davis declared dead, and the property was put up for sale. Time went by without any serious buyers and when all interest eventually faded, the mansion was locked up and deserted. That was, until a young fellow from London walked into the estate agent’s office one day, announcing that he was interested in the Davis property.

Marcus White was a banker who wanted to move some of his business to Glasgow, and noticed the mansion during a weekend trip up North. The property suited his purpose perfectly, and so he was shown the house one sunny morning in June. In spite of the gloomy interior, the neglected garden, and the mystery surrounding its previous owner, the young man eagerly put in an offer. He signed for it that very same day. It was a very good price. He couldn't be happier. The house was neglected, but not damaged. A layer of new paint and a bit of renovation would fix it up in time before he brought his fiancée up from London.

Marcus immediately moved into the house and started cleaning it from the inside out. During the day the neighbours watched with delight as workers carried the heavy outdated furniture out and loaded it onto a truck. Then new furniture would arrive, bright and modern and cheerful. And during the evenings Marcus would light a fire in the fireplace, and start sorting through the previous owner’s belongings that were left there by the family. Some were letters and personal papers. And then there were old clothes, dusty crockery and old books.

Systematically all these things were thrown out and replaced with Marcus’ things. The house started to take on a completely different look, and the neighbours were pleased. But there was one item in particular that Marcus White could not throw out. It was a portrait of the previous owner he had found under the staircase - a large black and white photograph set in a gilded frame. There was something intriguing about the look in the older man’s eyes that stopped Marcus every time he wanted to throw it away. Finally he made up his mind to keep the portrait as a homage to the previous owner, and he hung it against the wall by the stairs. Every time he passed it and looked at it, the man in the portrait seemed to be looking back at him.

Whatever had become of old Ronald Davis? Marcus wondered. No-one knew.

“I don’t like it,” his fiancée said when she came over and saw the life-sized picture. “It gives me the creeps. Get rid of it.”

But for some reason Marcus did not.

One night he woke up from a rainstorm outside. His fiancée had gone back to London and he was alone in the old mansion again. He was not scared at all, being on his own. By now the house was already neatly refurnished and repainted. It was warm and friendly and inviting. Not spooky or ominous at all. 

Marcus got up to go and close the windows downstairs, worried that it might rain in during the night. He didn't bother to switch on any lights, for he knew his way around in the dark. Down the stairs he went, without looking at the portrait. He closed the windows in the lounge and, satisfied that all was dry, he turned to go upstairs again. But then he stopped.

Was it his imagination, Marcus thought, or did he just see a movement on the stairs?

He stood still, trying to peer through the darkness. Then a flash of lightning lit up the room, all the way to the wall on the other side, and Marcus could see clearly for a few seconds. He drew in his breath, for there, on the stairs, stood the figure of a man, looking at him.

Then all was dark again.

Marcus stumbled through the darkness to the wall where the light switch was and flicked it on. In the electric light the room was empty and friendly again. No shadows or movements or figures on the stairs. He stood frozen for a minute. What was he to do now? Did he imagine the figure? He must have. Probably just a shadow.

Then Marcus shook his head, switched off the light again, and went back up the stairs. He did not think about it, nor did he glance at the portrait on the wall, but where he passed it on the stairs the air was icy cold for a second, as if there was an open window. And then it was gone.

The whole thing unnerved Marcus slightly. The next day he took the portrait off the wall and decided to heed his fiancé's warning and throw it out. But since it was still raining outside he put it against the wall next to the fireplace to take out later. For a brief moment he made eye-contact with Ronald Davis, and a shiver went down Marcus's spine. There was something ominous about those dark eyes, he could see that now. The portrait had to go. But still … he struggled to tear his eyes away from it. It seemed to draw him closer. He was attracted to it by some kind of magnetism.

Marcus squatted down to study the picture close-up.

It was almost freaky how alive it looked. The shadows on the man’s face, the fine hairs of his moustache, the darkness in his eyes - all had an air of movement about them. As if he wasn't looking at a portrait, but at a real person on the other side of the glass.

Just then the doorbell rang and broke the spell. Relieved, Marcus straightened and went over to the mantel to collect his briefcase. It was the taxi, waiting for him in the wet street.

It was a busy day at the bank, and Marcus soon forgot about the portrait and his scare of the previous night. In a world of money and interest and accounting, a shadow on the stairs seemed rather silly. After work he had dinner with some colleagues, and it was not until late that evening that Marcus unlocked the door of his house again. It was not raining anymore, and the moon threw enough light through the windows for him to make his way through the dark foyer to the switch.

But as he put his things down and straightened up again to turn on the light, Marcus froze. The hair in his neck stood up and he went cold from head to toe. There, beside the fireplace, he could now clearly see the figure of a man – the same man he had seen on the stairs the night before. The man stood there, looking at Marcus with deep, dark eyes.

Instinctively Marcus reached for the light switch, but the figure made a sudden movement with his hand, stopping him.

“Who are you?’’ Marcus asked, his voice unsteady. “What do you want?”

The dark figure didn't answer but lifted his hand again, beckoning Marcus to come closer. Almost against his will, Marcus felt himself being drawn to where the dark figure stood next to the fireplace. He could not tear his gaze away from those dark eyes.

Stop, his good sense ordered him. You have to stop!

With all his strength Marcus reached for the light switch again and this time he flicked it on.

The electric light filled the room, and the figure was gone. But the air was freezing. With trembling hands Marcus went over to the fireplace. He was shaking like a leaf, dropping the matches a few times, but he finally managed to get the flames going. As the warmth of the fire spread throughout the room, he finally started to relax. 

It must be the isolation, he thought. His mind was playing tricks on him.

But when Marcus turned and his eyes fell on the portrait again there next to the fireplace, his heart jumped and he gasped! The face of old Ronald Davis was now grinning at him, where before it had been stoic, stern.

Marcus took a step backwards, stumbling, but the eyes of the man in the were now locked in on him. The portrait seemed to have come alive in the light of the dancing flames. As Marcus stood there and stared at it in horror, Ronald Davis lifted a hand and beckoned him closer in the same way the dark figure had done earlier. Only this time it was the image in the photograph!

Again, Marcus felt captive, drawn to the picture, as if it was sucking him in. Against his will he moved closer and closer to it. When he was right in front of the frame, the subject's hand shot out through the glass pane and grabbed hold of Marcus's ankle! Marcus cried out and yanked back, but the hand was locked around his leg. It was pulling him into the picture with such force that Marcus fell down. The hand kept pulling. It was like an iron grip on his limb, and there was no way to free himself. To his horror Marcus saw the old man’s grin growing, and he saw the shape of his own foot changing ... turning flat and two-dimensional ... and black and white … like a picture.

With his very last strength Marcus grabbed the portrait by the gilded frame and threw it into the fire. There was a crack of glass and a puff of black smoke, and then a strange, stifling smell. With his hand in front of his nose Marcus watched in horror as the flames started to melt the grinning face of Ronald Davis.

It was only then that Marcus realised that his shoe had also caught fire. He jumped up and stamped it out. Then he poured himself a big glass of brandy, spilling liquid all over the tray. Teeth rattling and heart pounding, he swallowed the drink down, then poured himself another. Marcus stood there and watched until all that remained of the man in the portrait was a heap of ash amongst shards of black glass in his fireplace.