by Lee Patton
“Annalise! Dinner’s getting cold!” her mother’s voice shot upstairs, breaking through the faint, droning hum of the lamp nearby. Unresponsive, Annalise sat motionless, comatose, in front of the easel, her blank stare rivaled only by the canvas languishing in front of her. Her dark green eyes glazed over, listless in the dull yellow effusions of the lamp.
How she ever dared to dream that she could be an artist was beyond her. Sure, she could produce an odd sketch or two. Some were even considered to be good by her instructors at school. Yet, to produce a work of substance, elegant and refined, that reflected the deeper nature of the world, or the human condition, remained elusive. Like a dry well, any attempt to plumb the depths of her imagination came up the same way. Empty.
“Lise!” her mother called again, irritated. Lise sighed, leaning back in the chair, pulling a few curled locks of long blonde hair from her face. “I heard you, mom! I’ll be down in a minute!” Chewing on the end of the brush, she continued her vigil over the canvas. She needed to come up with something, somehow. Prayer. Perhaps magic. Maybe just a little luck. Anything. Her midterm project for school was due the next day. Lise was out of time.
A soft knock sounded from the door. “Lise, what’s the matter? It’s been over an hour.”
Lise looked over, letting the brush fall to the floor, eyes red, cheeks stained with tears. “I can’t do it, mom,” she said, burying her face in her hands.
“Sweetie,” her mother began, moving beside her, taking her hands. She pulled Annalise to her feet, hugging her for a moment. “I know you can do this. You’re so talented. Maybe you just need a little inspiration. It’s not too late. Why don’t you take a little walk? Get some air. I’m sure by the time you get back, you’ll have something to paint.”
Lise nodded, wiping her eyes. “Okay. I’ll be back soon,” she said, throwing on her jacket. “Thanks, mom.”
*
It was still early in March, and the chilled night air nipped at her fingers. As Annalise made her way down the moonlit avenue, her eyes wandered above, lost amidst the congregations of stars glittering in the clear spring sky. Withered houses and old trees rose all around her, floating by in the periphery of her sight. Of her consciousness. Nothing seemed to take hold. Flaked paint and dirty windows adorned the homes. Bent bicycles and lost toys littered lawns of dry, dead grass. “How inspiring,” Lise muttered. The sarcasm oozed from the pores of her skin. “The picture of beauty…”
Despair, the apparent theme of her life, began to take hold. She was on the verge of turning around when a faint orange glow from the dingy window of a nearby house caught her eye. Strange. Annalise had lived in this town, on this block, for years, and yet, this house was unfamiliar. Yes, she was certain she had never seen it before. How she could have missed it was no small wonder, either. The house was a disaster. It barely stood, two crooked floors of gray, rotting wood, cracked windows, and a roof that sagged in the middle. “There’s no way anyone lives here,” she thought, eyes fixed on that dull orange glow, flickering, dancing with the shadows. She bit her lip, staring for a moment, before moving to the door.
Annalise winced as the door squealed on its hinges, closing behind her. Pulling out her phone, she toggled the flashlight. Dust hung in the air amidst barren rooms abandoned to time and decay. The house creaked and popped as the wind began to howl, stalking around the house as if searching for a way inside. Lise shivered. “This is a bad idea,” she thought as she peered into the darkness at the top of the stairs. It seemed to drink the light. She turned back towards the door, her hand on the knob. A soft humming, some distant song, drifted down the stairs. Lise turned back. It was beautiful.
The boards of the steps groaned as she climbed. The song grew louder. She could hear faint laughter flitting throughout the hall above, like little girls playing tag, or maybe hide-and-seek. Stepping into the hall, she spotted the flickering orange light spilling out from under a twisted door to the left. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door. The singing and the laughter ceased.
Inside, two large candles sat on a small table in the corner of the room. Beside it, resting on the floor, was a large dollhouse. Lise bit her lip, trembling. Whether from fear or excitement, she could not be sure.
The floor creaked under cautious steps as she made her way to the dollhouse. It was gorgeous, pristine, apparently modeled after the very house in which it lingered. The dollhouse was splayed open with little figures, rendered in remarkable detail, set about various tasks around the house; a man busy in the garage, a woman at work in the kitchen, two little girls in the upstairs hall. Their features were incredible. Almost lifelike.
“Whoever painted these was a genius,” Lise thought, awestruck. As she inspected each figure, images, like scenes from a play, flooded her mind. It was as if she was absorbing the experiences and feelings of the people they portrayed. Her heart was beating wildly.
Suddenly, she noticed another figure in a replica of the same room in which Lise was now standing. It was a tall girl, maybe a teen, placed in front of a tiny canvas. The canvas even featured a painting. Although, it appeared unfinished. There were a pair of hands gripping black, vertical bars. “What were you painting?” she wondered. “Who are you?” Lise whispered, taking the figure of the girl. The girl had long, raven black hair and blue eyes. The flush of her cheeks bloomed like a winter rose, her soft lips ruby red. Dressed in a yellow blouse and long red skirt, the girl was gorgeous.
Vivid scenes flooded Annalise’s mind as she held the figure, another life flowing by on a timeless river of boundless inspiration. A smile crept over her lips. She felt like she knew the girl, could feel her filling in the blank spaces of her imagination. She finally knew what to paint. Lise would paint her. “Camellia,” she whispered. “You’ll be my lucky charm.” Placing the figure in her pocket, she flew down the stairs and raced back home under the obscured light of the moon. Dark clouds had ridden in on the wind.
*
Annalise tore through the house, leaping two steps at a time, flying upstairs into her room. Her mother was already asleep. Lise tossed her jacket on the bed, took her brush from the floor, and sat before the canvas. She placed the figure on the easel. Grinning, jittery with excitement, she took a deep breath. Then, with calm, deliberate strokes of the brush, she began to work.
*
Grace woke early the following morning. She heard Lise storm inside late the night before, clearly excited. She smiled. “Guess it worked,” she thought. Not wanting to bother her daughter, she had gone back to sleep, but now it was time to see the masterpiece.
Lise’s door was open. Even as she approached, she could hear the soft humming of an unfamiliar but lovely song. “Lise must be really happy,” she thought. At the door, Grace could see a beautifully dark, detailed image. A girl with dark green eyes and long, curly blonde hair, stood in a dark cell gripping the bars with pale hands. The girl was crying, desperate to escape.
“Sweetie, this is amazing,” she said, stepping into the room. The song ceased. “Lise?” Grace looked over, frozen, gasping. “Who are you? Where is my daughter?”
Standing back from the painting, a tall girl with raven black hair, in a yellow blouse and red skirt, turned towards Grace. Her blue eyes glistened in the cold light of the morning sun as a smile crept over her ruby lips. “Look, it’s finally finished. Isn’t she beautiful?”