Painted

By Matt Di Spirito

Jack Mallory has been working the beat for a while now, but his mundane duties of shaking down prostitutes and contending with teenage thugs are no comparison to the horrors he is about to face.

When he is called to break up a party at an abandoned house, Jack walks into a nightmare. Two of the kids are missing, one is dead, and the other is too terrified to move. Jack follows a trail of blood to a painting, but something isn't right with the picture--it's alive. He feels heat from oil-brushed candles and hears the murmured conversations of people in the painting.

Something wants him. Jack is snatched from the world, leaving behind his job, a pregnant wife, and his sanity. Staring out of the painting, Jack confronts the surreal imaginings of a madman captured in gilded frames. The only way out is through another canvas.

* * * * *

"Painted" is a novella of 119 pages in print form.

Warning: This work contains content suitable only for adults.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matt Di Spirito
• Release date: May 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458083531

Matt Di Spirito

Well, I'm just an average joe. I don't have a great career or do anything that contributes to society in a meaningful way. I go to work, pay my bills, and raise my family.Life is an interesting journey. I've spent time in the military; it wasn't my cup of tea, but it was a worthwhile experience. I went to college for a few years, acquiring the credits for an Associates' degree in General Studies. There weren't too many subjects I didn't take. That's my life story: experience. I'm interested in so many things, it can be hard to focus on one thing for too long.My myriad hobbies include writing stories, reading books and e-books, surfing the web, watching blu-ray movies, drawing, discussing philosophy or religion or politics, playing xbox games, dungeons and dragons, and probably a few more. If only I could figure out how to make money off of hobbies!Writing is a hobby I've enjoyed since I became literate. Notebooks went hand-in-hand with computers. I used to write down little stories about my action figures, scenarios about school mates, and anything else to cross my mind. I used to make up games for my friends to play, and roll dice to find out who would win. Creativity, imagination, and technology are intertwined--at least to me.Smashwords, Amazon's createspace, and kindle publishing opened the door for self-publishing, especially for authors--like myself--with little or no start-up capital. For all the woes of technology, there are some wonders to be had.

Book preview

PAINTED

By

Matt Di Spirito

© 2011 Matt Di Spirito

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced without the consent of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, places, or events is coincidental.

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1: Party Crasher

Chapter 2: The Hallway

Chapter 3: Dungeon Master

Chapter 4: Music

Chapter 5: The Tank

Chapter 6: Bones

Chapter 7: Pail of Water

Chapter 8: Dinner

Author's Note

CHAPTER 1

Party Crasher

Jack reclined in the seat, watching the town nightlife. Across the street, a banged-up, rusted sedan pulled alongside a pair of street ladies and rolled down the passenger window. They bent over, putting their cleavage on display, and smiled at the driver. After a minute or two, a blonde with bright red lipstick hopped in the car.

Another minute or two passed and a group of teenagers strolled down the sidewalk, passing by the front of Jack's cruiser; one of them—a young kid with pants dangling around his knees—raised a middle finger at Jack and grabbed his crotch. The others thought it was funny, but they kept walking.

Jack scarfed the rest of his hot dog with the works, washing it down with a long pull of iced tea. He was in no hurry to shake down prostitutes or chase off a group of punks. Eight years on the south-side watch was enough to teach Jack the basic rule of police survival: if they aren't shooting or beating someone, it was best to leave the natives alone.

His phone buzzed; Jack scooped it off the seat and answered, Hey, baby. How are my girls doing?

You don't know if it's a girl, Jack, his wife replied.

Yes, I do. I told you the day after you confirmed it at the doctor's office, didn't I? I said 'Honey, I can't wait to meet my princess', remember?

I remember. She sighed. When you are coming home?

Cindy, it's the same time every night. I heard somewhere that brain damage is a side effect of pregnancy, so I'm not surprised you keep forgetting.

Oh, now you're a comedian? Well, Mr. Funny-man, maybe I'll forget how to get up at two in the morning to feed your princess.

Ouch! Take it easy! That would be neglect, and I'd have to arrest you.

You promise? She giggled. When are you going to bring home a set of handcuffs?

Jack shook his head. I'm working, Cindy. Don't put stuff like that in my head.

He heard the sound of water running and splashing. Are you in the bathroom?

Duh. I pee every two minutes, remember?

Jack heard the toilet flush. That's… weird, Cindy. I guess it comes with the territory, but I never imagined talking to a woman while she's on the toilet.

Girls do poop, Jack.

Then how come you never went to the bathroom in my apartment while we were dating? He clearly remembered wondering if Cindy had regular bowel movements during their two-year courtship.

How come you never burped or farted or scratched your balls in front of me when we were dating? Cindy laughed; it was a high-pitched, squirrelly sound. It's the same thing.

It's not the—

Unit sixteen, what's your location? The radio squawked.

I know, you have to go, Cindy said. I love you and I'll see you later. Be careful!

I will and I love you, too.

Jack clicked off the phone and pulled the mic from his shoulder strap: This is sixteen. I'm on watch at the corner of Fourth and Chestnut, over.

Unit sixteen, we have a group of kids seen entering a house at twenty-eight Tanglewood Lane. There were reports of flashlights and loud music coming from the house, over.

Ten-four, dispatch. I'm en route. Jack started the car, turned on the lights, and pulled out of the alley. He turned down Chestnut and headed north.

The address rang in bell in Jack's mind; he knew something about twenty-eight Tanglewood, but the memories were just out of reach. It was a dead-end road, he knew that, but he also thought twenty-eight was the last house on the road, a gray Victorian-style building with a creek around back.

Jack clicked the radio on, Dispatch, do we know who the owner of twenty-eight Tanglewood Lane is?

No, sixteen. The previous owner abandoned the property six years ago and there's no record of current residency and no contact information.

Jack frowned. Dispatch, who was the previous owner?

If it was the house he thought, Jack couldn't imagine anyone up and leaving; the building was gorgeous, spacious, and the land was at least three or four acres in size.

Sixteen, the listed name is Robin Erasmus Montiban. Nothing on file with us, over.

Dispatch, copy that. I'll be there in five minutes, over and out.

Jack hung a right onto Masonry Street and followed the winding road to a fork; he took the left, passing several side streets until Tanglewood Lane appeared on the right.

Robin Erasmus Montiban… why does that sound familiar? Jack chewed on his lip, struggling to connect the name to a memory. It's an unusual name, but there's something else. He saw the house on the left; an overgrown yard surrounded the property, and a broad expanse of trees blocked off the building from neighboring lots.

He shut the car off and stepped out. No other vehicles were parked nearby and aside from trashcans, there were no cars parked on Tanglewood Lane at all.

Jack donned the police cap and pulled a Maglite from his belt. Sweeping the beam across the front of the house, Jack checked for any signs of forced entry or other mischief: there were no broken windows and the door was intact.

Standing on the front stoop, Jack turned and looked at the street. The nearest neighbor was at least a hundred yards away; trees, bushes, and utility poles obstructed any clear line of sight.

There's no way a neighbor spotted a group of kids sneaking in on foot, he mumbled. Jack inspected the front door closely; it was locked, and there were no indications on the lock, or around the frame, that someone had pried it open.

An idea hit him: Maybe Mr. Montiban and some of his friends came home.

Would he still have a key? Jack wondered. It seemed a reasonable guess, given the circumstances, but it didn't explain who called it in to the police.

Dispatch, Jack leaned his head to one side and gripped the microphone; I'm at the Tanglewood house. There are no signs of entry, no lights inside the house, and no vehicles parked near the residence. I'm going to sweep the property and then call it a night, over.

Sixteen, copy that.

Jack walked around the corner of the house, shining the Maglite in windows and checking the ground for footprints. He came to the back porch; it was in disrepair with patches missing